"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
