“These people insulted you; Rosine and you agreed to have nothing more to do with them, and now, your daughter is making advances to this man who has refused her, and you say it is ‘good enough.’  I can’t understand you any longer, you must be out of your mind.”

Clerambault tried to show her that his daughter’s happiness did not consist in agreement with his ideas, and that Rosine was quite right to get rid of the consequences of his foolishness where they affected herself.

“Your foolishness ... that is the first word of sense that you have said in years.”

“You see yourself that I am right,” said he, and made her promise to let Rosine arrange her romance as she pleased.

The girl was radiant when she came in, but she said nothing of what had passed.  Madame Clerambault held her tongue with great difficulty, and the father saw with tender amusement the happiness that shone once more on the face of his child.  He did not know exactly what had happened, but he guessed that Rosine had thrown him and his ideas overboard—­sweetly of course, but still,—­the lovers had made it up at their parents’ expense, and both had blamed with admirable justice the old people’s exaggerations on either side.  The years in the trenches had emancipated Daniel from the narrow fanaticism of his family, without impairing his patriotism, and Rosine in exchange had gently admitted that her father had been mistaken.  They agreed with little difficulty, for she was naturally calm and fatalistic, which suited perfectly with Daniel’s stoical acceptance of things as they were.  They had decided, therefore, to go through life together, without paying any more attention to the disagreements of those who had come before them, as the saying is—­though it would be more exact to say, those whom they were leaving behind them.  The future also troubled them little; like millions of other human beings they only asked their share of happiness at the moment and shut their eyes to everything else.

Madame Clerambault was annoyed that her daughter said nothing of the events of the morning, and soon went out again; Rosine and her father sat dreamily, he by the window, smoking, and she with an unread magazine before her.  She looked absently about the room, with happy eyes, trying to recall the details of the scene between her and Daniel; her glance fell on her father’s weary face, and its melancholy expression struck her sharply.  She got up, and standing behind him, laid her hand on his shoulder and said, with a little sigh of compassion that tried to conceal her inward joy: 

“Poor little Papa!”

Clerambault looked at Rosine, whose eyes, in spite of herself, shone with happiness: 

“And my little girl is not ‘poor’ any longer, is she?”

Rosine blushed:  “Why do you say that?” she asked.

Clerambault only shook his head at her, and she leaned forward laying her cheek against his: