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"Ay, thank the Lord, we've done well that way!" said the blacksmith, drawing himself up for he loved nothing better than to be called the giant, though he was known to many as petit enfant, in irony of his size. Lagroin was now impatient. He could not see the drift of this, and he was about to whisper to Parpon, when the little man sent him a look, commanding silence, and he fretted on dumbly.
At the mention of her father's name a change passed over Elise; for this same Parpon, when all men else were afraid, had saved Jean Malboir's life at a log chute in the hills. When he died, Parpon was nearer to him than the priest, and he loved to hear the dwarf chant his wild rhythms of the Little Good Folk of the Scarlet Hills, more than to listen to holy prayers.
Lord!" he cried, with feigned awe, getting to his feet at sight of the two. Then, to his comrades, "Children, children, off with your hats! Here is Monsieur Talleyrand, if I'm not mistaken. On to your feet, mealman, and dust your stomach. Lajeunesse, wipe your face with your leather. Duck your heads, stupids!" With mock solemnity the three greeted Parpon and Lagroin.
Parpon was a poor little dwarf with a big head, but he had one thing which made up for all, though no one knew it or, at least, he thought so. The Cure himself did not know. He had a beautiful voice. Even in speaking it was pleasant to hear, though he roughened it in a way. It pleased him that he had something of which the finest man or woman would be glad.
The speaker was Parpon the dwarf, the oddest, in some ways the most foolish, in others the wisest man in Pontiac. "That is no excuse," said the Cure. "It is the only one he has, eh?" answered Parpon. His eyes were fixed meaningly on those of Pomfrette. "It is no excuse," repeated the Cure sternly. "The blasphemy is horrible, a shame and stigma upon Pontiac for ever."
Parpon and the Little Chemist raised him to his feet, and held him, his shaking hands resting on their shoulders, his lank body tottering above and between them. Looking at the congregation, he said slowly: "I'll suffer till I die for cursing my baptism, and God will twist my neck in purgatory for " "Luc," the Cure interrupted, "say that you repent."
"But there, la, la! many a time my wife, my good Florienne, said to me, 'Jose Jose Lajeunesse, with a chest like yours, you ought to be a corporal at least." Parpon beckoned to Lagroin, and nodded. "Corporal! corporal!" cried Lagroin; "in a week you shall be a lieutenant and a month shall make you a captain, and maybe better than that!"
If he would but teach her those songs of his, give her that sound of an organ in her throat! Parpon guessed what she thought. Well, he would see what could be done, if the blacksmith joined Valmond's standard. He stopped singing. "That's as good as dear Caron, the vivandiere of the Third Corps. Blood o' my body, I believe it's better almost!" said Lagroin, nodding his head patronisingly.
Parpon laughed again. "Like Madame Chalice from New York fudge!" Yet he eyed her as if he admired her penetration. "How?" he urged. "I don't know quite," she answered, a little pettishly. "But I used to see Madame go off in the woods, and she would sit hour by hour, and listen to the waterfall, and talk to the birds, and at herself too; and more than once I saw her shut her hands like that!
"I know my enemy, madame," he said. "Your enemy is not here," she rejoined kindly. He stooped over her hand, and bowed Lagroin and Parpon to the door. "Madame," he said, "I thank you. Will you accept a souvenir of him whom we both love, martyr and friend of France?" He drew from his breast a small painting of Napoleon, on ivory, and handed it to her. "It was the work of David," he continued.
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