Jacques walked on a few minutes or two in silence, cutting off the heads of the blue-bells with his little cane.  “I am not different to you then from any one else, eh, Annot?” said he.

“How different, M. Chapeau?”

“You will think as much of young Boullin, the baker?”

“I don’t like young Boullin, the baker, and I don’t thank you for mentioning his name one bit.”

“Well! people say you are very partial to young Boullin.”

“People lie—­they always do; everybody tries to tease and plague me now.  You and Jean, and father, and that old fool, Rouel, are all alike,” and Annot gave symptoms of hysterical tears.

Jacques was again silent for awhile, but he had commenced walking very near to his companion, and she did not appear to resent it.  After a while he said:  “You are not glad that I’m going, Annot?”

“You would not have me sorry that you are going to fight with all the other brave men, would you?”

“Is that all I am to get from you, after all? is that all the regard you have for me? very well, Annot—­it is well at any rate we should understand each other.  They were right, I find, when they told me that you were such a coquette, you would have a dozen lovers at the same time.”

“And they were right, I find, when they told me you were too fond of yourself ever to love any girl truly.”

“Oh, Annot! and is it come to this?  I’m sorry I ever came to Echanbroignes.  I’m sorry I ever saw you.”

“And if you are, M. Chapeau, I’m sure I’m sorry enough I ever saw you;” and Annot again increased the distance between her and her lover.

They walked on from hence in silence till they came to the little mill, and each stood gazing on the stream, which ran gurgling down beneath the ash and willow-trees, which dipped their boughs in its waters.

“How kind you were, the last time we were here together,” said Jacques; “how kind and generous you were then; you are very different now.”

“And you are very different, too, M. Chapeau; much more different than I am; it’s all your own fault; you choose to give yourself airs, and I won’t put up with it, and I believe we may as well part.”

“Give myself airs!  No; but it’s you give yourself airs, and say things which cut me to the heart—­things which I can’t bear; and, therefore, perhaps, we may as well part :”  and Jacques assumed a most melancholy aspect, as he added, “So, good bye, Annot; there’s my hand.  I wouldn’t, at any rate, part anything but friends after all.”

“Good bye,” said poor Annot, putting out her hand to her lover, and sobbing violently.  “Good bye; I’m sure I never thought it would come to this.  I’m sure I gave up everybody and everything for your sake.”

“Well; and didn’t I give up everybody, too.  Haven’t I come all the way over here week after week, when people wondered what made me leave Durbelliere so much; and wasn’t it all for love of you?  Oh, Annot!  Annot!” and even the manly dignity of M. Chapeau succumbed to tears.