“You see,” said Jacques, “M.  Henri is going to change his condition; we’ve both been young fellows together; we’ve had our amusements and our pleasures like other young men, and, maybe, been as fortunate as most.  Well, my friend, M. Henri is going to settle down, and marry the girl of his heart, whom he loves better than all the world; and what can I do better than follow his example?  The truth is, I mean to settle down too, Michael Stein.”

“Well,” said Michael, scratching his head, and listening for the remainder of Chapeau’s little proposition.

“And I want to marry the girl of my heart, whom I love better than all the world, and her name is Annot Stein, and there’s an end of it; and now you know all about it.”

Annot’s heart beat quickly as she heard him make the last important declaration; and beautifully she thought he made it.  When Chapeau called her a little angel, she swore to herself that he was the dearest fellow that ever lived and when he finished by protesting that she was the girl of his heart, and that he loved her better than all the world, she longed to run out and throw her arms about his neck.

Michael Stein took a long pull at his pipe, and blew out a huge cloud of tobacco before he made any answer, and then he said: 

“M.  Chapeau, I am sensible how great an honour you propose to do me and my poor daughter; but I am not a proud man, no one can say that Michael Stein was ever proud or ambitious; my only wish is to see my little girl married to a decent hard-working fellow, like her father.”

“Well, ain’t I a hard-working fellow?”

“Let me look at your hands, M. Chapeau; the inside of your hands.  No, you are not a hard-working fellow; your hand is as soft as a lady’s.”

“What signifies my hand?  I shan’t make a worse husband, shall I, because my hand is not as horny as your own.”

“No, but a hard-fisted fellow is the only man that will suit my daughter.”

“But, Michael Stein, she herself thinks—­”

“Who ever heard of asking a girl what she thinks herself?  Of course she’d sooner be a fine lady, and spend her time walking about a big chateau than be milking cows and minding goats.”

“But won’t she be earning her living and her wages honestly?”

“Wages!  I don’t like those sort of wages, M. Chapeau.  I don’t mean to say auything uncivil, and I hope you won’t take it amiss, but there are two trades I don’t fancy for my children:  the one is that of a soldier, the other that of a great man’s servant.”

“Gracious me, Michael Stein! why I’m both,” said Chapeau, rather offended.

“I beg your pardon again and again, and I really mean no offence:  clown as I am, I hope I know better than to say anything to hurt my own guest in my own house.”

Chapeau assured him he was not offended, and begged to know why the old man objected to see his children become soldiers or servants.