“Is he then?” said Michael.  “No, truly, I did not hear a word of such a matter; to some grand lady of the court, I suppose?”

“No, but to his own beautiful young cousin, Mademoiselle de Lescure, the sister of our other General, you know.”

“Well, may they be happy, both of them; I mind their fathers well; the old Marquis is still alive, but greatly ailing they tell me.  I have much to be thankful for, and I do thank the Lord!” and as he spoke, Michael Stein crossed himself.  “Now, I’m as old in a manner as the Marquis himself and yet you see I can still make the big hammer clink on the anvil.”

“Indeed you can, Michael, and better too than many a young fellow.  But, as we were saying, here is M. Henri going to be married, and his lady will surely be wanting some nice, tidy, handy, good-looking, smart young woman to be about her, more as a sort of a companion, you know, than a servant; in the same way, you mind, as I am now to M. Henri:  now, wouldn’t that be a nice berth for your daughter, Annot Stein?”

As Chapeau described the nice, tidy, smart, pretty young woman, that the future Madame de Larochejaquelin would be sure to require, Annot smoothed down her little apron with both her hands, gave a complaisant glance at her own neat little feet, and her bright holiday shoes, and then listened eagerly for her father’s answer.

“I am sure, M. Chapeau, that Annot Stein is very thankful for your good wishes,” said he, “and so is her father, very thankful; but she has not court-breeding enough for that sort of work; she has never learnt to speak smooth, and say pretty little flattering sayings, such as ladies like to hear.  Nor when Madame would be out of sorts and ruffled, as great. ladies will be sometimes, would she know how to say the right word just at the right time; and then Annot has too much of her father’s rough blood, and if Madame scolded at all, it’s ten chances to one, but she would scold again, and that, you know, wouldn’t do.  No, M. Chapeau, Annot had better remain as she is, and keep her father’s house, till she marries some honest tradesman, like myself, when these deadly wars be over.”

“Well, but my dear friend,” said Chapeau, “I had another little proposition I wanted to make, which would fit in so well with what I suggested; and I can assure you Madame Henri, that is Mademoiselle de Lescure as she is now, you know, is the softest, sweetest-tempered creature living—­she wouldn’t quarrel with any one, much less with such a little angel as your daughter.”

“I’m sure,” said Michael, making a low bow to his guest, and pressing the handle of his pipe to his breast.  “I’m sure my daughter will be very thankful for the great interest you take respecting her.”

“But as I was saying, you know, about this other little proposition of mine?”

“Well, M. Chapeau, I’m listening with all my ears, and very thankful for your kind friendship.”