“But,” said Jeannet, much embarrassed, “I can't, because....”
“Because what?” she replied. “Don't think you are going to be master here! No, no, not more now than before, when, you remember, my mother said, ‘Jeannette is the boy....’ ”
“Really,” answered Jean-Louis, “you have a good memory. Well, then, since Jeannette is the boy, and I am the girl, I must submit to her wishes.”
And as, in spite of all this talk, he made no attempt to show her the medal, another idea entered her head.
“You are wounded,” said she, “and you don't wish me to see it.”
“That is not the reason,” he replied, unbuttoning his vest. “I don't wish you to believe any such thing.”
On opening his shirt, he showed the medal on his breast, and then the curious Jeannette understood his resistance; for, near the blessed image of our dear Mother, she recognized the long tress of blonde hair which had been cut off during her illness.
“It has never left me,” said he; “but I dared not let you see it. Do you forgive me? Your poor hair! I said to myself, While it rests upon my heart, it is as though my little sister were watching over me. And in the fight, I thought that, as the medal of the Blessed Virgin and your precious souvenir were also exposed to the fire, I could not be killed; and you see I was not mistaken.”
“Oh!” cried Jeannette, with tears in her eyes, “my dear Jeannet, I do not deserve such love.”
They reached Muiceron, arm-in-arm. Oh! how refreshing was the shaded court-yard and the fragrant hedges! And then, the dear house looked so gay in its new white coat, its green shutters, the fresh young vines that hung from the trellis, and its slate roof newly repaired, all shining in the soft rays of the sinking sun. The songs of the bullfinch and robin were more joyous than the trumpets and horns on a patronal feast; and it seemed as though the good God in heaven were well pleased, so beautiful was the blue sky, flecked with golden-edged clouds! Was it really the house we saw six months ago? Jeannet, who had long loved it, scarcely recognized it; he was mute with admiration, and, although he had left it in despair, he accused himself of having neglected to look at it until now; for surely his memory did not recall anything as joyous and beautiful as he now beheld in his beloved Muiceron.