At
first she was very angry, and kicked up the dust with her Sunday shoes
in fine style; but before long her heart softened, and she watched
anxiously for some word or look from Jacques on which she might base an
attempt at a reconciliation. Jacques knew what she was about, and would
not even look at her: he went on talking with Jean and Peter and the
others, about the wars, and republicans and royalists, as though poor
Annot Stein had not been there at all. From the chapel of St. Laud to
the village of Echanbroignes, he did not speak a word to her, and when
the four entered the old smith's house, poor Annot was bursting with
anger, and melting with love; she could not settle with herself whether
he hated Chapeau or loved him most; she felt that she would have liked
to poison him, only she knew that she could not live without him.
She hurried into her little sleeping place, and had a long debate with
herself whether she should instantly go to bed and pray that Jacques
might be killed at Saumur, or whether she should array herself in all
her charms, and literally dazzle her lover into fondness and obedience
by her beauty and graces--after many tears the latter alternative was
decided on.
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