"There, Blanchette, my dear, no one is asking you to marry anybody. What have I done? I have merely asked the young man to dine with us, to eat of our roast chicken and _croquignoles_, to see what a fine housekeeper you are, to perceive how happy one can be in a home of one’s own--that is all. Do not trouble yourself. You shall marry or not, just as you please. Yes, you shall stay with your old father, little one, until the very end. But after that it will be lonely for you, will it not?" "My good father," said Blanchette, gently caressing his grizzled hair, "do not talk like that. You are still a young man, as any one can see, and I shall be with you for many years. Let us not consider a future so remote. But in the worst case there is always the convent for old maids like me." "The convent? Holy Virgin! What would you do in a convent, Blanchette, with your beauty, your accomplishments? Cut off your long hair, hide your lovely face behind a black veil, pray at midnight on the cold stones? No, no, Mignonne. Leave that to the old, the ugly, the disappointed. For you the fireside, a loving husband, beautiful children, the management of the house--all that makes life worth while. Besides, you are not pious enough for the religious life. You have no vocation. No, it is not for you." "My father," said Blanchette, "have you finished at last? Monsieur Giroux wishes to go, I think. _Au revoir_, Monsieur Jean. It has been a great pleasure to have seen you. Come again soon. Good neighbours should meet often, should they not?" "Yes, Jean," assented the old man, "Come often--every day if you like. I shall be glad to see you. As for Blanchette, never mind what she says. Women are changeable, as you know. But if not, if not, Jean Baptiste Giroux, take care; keep out of my way; for I will crush you like a snake." Jean laughed. "Do not trouble yourself, Monsieur Laroche; I shall be safe enough, never fear. But I thank you for your hospitality; and you, Mademoiselle Blanchette, for all that and for your good wishes as well." As Jean took the road toward his own home the night was dark, with lowering clouds on the hills, and a chill April wind blew from patches of unmelted snow. He was stumbling along, uncertain of the way, when a beam of light shone out from a lamp set in the window of the Maison Laroche. "It is Blanchette," said Jean to himself, "and the light which she throws on the path will guide me for some distance yet. One can take a good many steps on a dark night, if one sees a friendly gleam in a window here and there." *CHAPTER XI* *LA FOLIE*