Hullin could not get over his stupefaction. "But, Louise," he exclaimed, "thou canst not think of such a thing. Consider: we must pass nights abroad, and march and run; consider the cold, the snow, the musketry! It cannot be."
"Come," said the young girl, in a tearful voice, throwing herself into his arms, "do not pain me! You are only making fun of your little Louise. You cannot forsake her!"
"But thou wilt be much safer here—thou wilt be warm—thou wilt hear from us every day."
"No, no. I will not—I must go too. The cold does not harm me. Only too long have I been shut up. I, too, must breathe a little. Are not the birds out of doors? The robins are out all the winter. Have I not known what cold was when I was quite tiny? and hunger also?"
She stamped, and, for the third time, putting her arms round Jean-Claude's neck,—"Come then, Papa Hullin," said she softly, "Mamma Lefèvre said yes. Would you be more naughty than she was? Ah, if you only knew how much I love you!"
The good man had sat down and turned away his head, so as not to yield, and did not allow himself to be embraced.
"Oh, how naughty you are to-day, Papa Jean-Claude!"
"It is for thy sake, my child."
"Well, all the worse. I will run away after you. Cold—what is cold? And if you are wounded—if you ask to see your little Louise for the last time, and she is not there—near you, to take care of you, and love you to the end—oh, you must think me very cold-hearted."
She sobbed, and Hullin could not stand it any longer.