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The picture was so ludicrous that Pomfrette laughed with a devilish humour, and flinging the pitcher at the bag, he walked away towards his own house. Duclosse, pale and frightened, stepped from among the fragments of crockery, and with backward glances towards Pomfrette joined his comrade.
"Tell her the highest bidder on earth could not buy one of the kisses she gave me when she was five and I was twenty." Then he shook hands with them all and went into the next room. "Why did he drop his glass?" asked Gingras the shoemaker. "That's the way of the aristocrats when it's the damnedest toast that ever was," said Duclosse the mealman. "Eh, Lajeunesse, that's so, isn't it?"
There was a slight pause, for the old man's voice had the ring of a fatal earnestness. It was no farce, but a real thing. "Swear," he said again. "Raise your right hand." "Done!" said Muroc. "To the devil with the charcoal! I'll go wash my face." "There's my hand on it," added Duclosse; "but that rascal Petrie will get my trade, and I'd rather be strung by the Orleans than that."
He felt instantly that he had made a mistake, had been cruel, though he had not intended it. "Ruin to me," he said at once. "Duclosse is a stupid fellow: he would not understand; he would desert me; and that would be disastrous at this moment. Go down," he said. "I will wait here, Elise." Her brows knitted painfully.
"See, my blacksmith," said Parpon, "your bird shall be taught to sing, and to Paris she shall go by and by." "Such foolery!" said Duclosse. "What's in your noddle, Parpon?" cried the charcoalman. The blacksmith looked at Parpon, his face all puzzled eagerness. But another face at the door grew pale with suspense. Parpon quickly turned towards it. "See here, Madelinette," he said, in a low voice.
"If he has sense, I'll make a captain of him," remarked Lagroin consequentially. "You shall beat him into a captain on his own anvil," rejoined the little man. They entered the shop. Lajeunesse was leaning on his bellows, laughing, and holding an iron in the spitting fire; Muroc was seated on the edge of the cooling tub; and Duclosse was resting on a bag of his excellent meal.
"I went against the English; I held abridge for two hours. I have my musket yet." "I am a patriot now," urged Duclosse. "Why the devil not the English first, then go to France, and lick the Orleans!" "They're a skittish lot, the Orleans; they might take it in their heads to fight," suggested Muroc, with a little grin.
He heard the sound of a drum in the distance. The gloom and suspense of the night just passed went from him, and into the sunshine he sang: "Oh, grand to the war he goes, O gai, vive le roi!" Not long afterwards he entered the encampment. Around one fire, cooking their breakfasts, were Muroc the charcoalman, Duclosse the mealman, and Garotte the lime-burner. They all were in good spirits.
The fall it will be his; and though I strive and strain, One blow will close my eyes, and I shall never waken." "Good enough for Ba'tiste," said Duclosse the mealman. The wave of feeling was now altogether with Francois, and presently he walked away with Jeanne Marchand and her mother, and the crowd dispersed.
"Lime-burner," he said, sitting down on the bag of meal, and mechanically twisting tight the loose, leaking corner, "the devil's in that leper." "He was a good enough fellow once," answered Garotte, watching Pomfrette. "I drank with him at five o'clock yesterday," said Duclosse philosophically. "He was fit for any company then; now he's fit for none." Garotte looked wise.
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