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Updated: June 3, 2025
One's voice is all to one's self there, as you know. Well, sing us the song of the little brown diver." Parpon's hands twitched in his beard. He looked fixedly at Medallion. Presently he turned towards the Cure, and shrank so that he looked smaller still. "It's all right, little son," said the Cure kindly. Turning sharply on Medallion, Parpon said: "When was it you heard?" Medallion told him.
At the words, "Vive Napoleon!" a hand touched him on the shoulder. He turned and saw the stranger looking at him intently, his eyes alight. "Sing it," he said softly, yet with an air of command. Parpon hesitated, shrank back. "Sing it," he insisted, and the request was taken up by others, till Parpon's face flushed with a sort of pleasurable defiance.
At first, all were so impressed by the strange power of Parpon's voice, that they were hardly conscious of the story he was telling. But when he sang of the Seigneur they began to read his parable. Their hearts throbbed painfully. As the last notes died away Armand got up, and standing by the table, said: "Parpon, you saved my father's life once?" Parpon did not answer.
Parpon's hands alone cared for the house; he did all that was to be done; no woman had entered the place since Pomfrette's cousin, old Mme. Burgoyne, left it on the day of his shame. When at last Pomfrette opened his eyes, and saw the Cure standing beside him, he turned his face to the wall, and to the exhortation addressed to him he answered nothing.
He wears a ribbon on his breast, M'sieu' le Cure!" This was true. Fastened by a gold bar to the stranger's breast was the ribbon of an order. The Cure smiled at Parpon's words, and looked curiously and gravely at the stranger. Tall Medallion the auctioneer took a glass of the wine, and, lifting it, said: "Who shall I drink to, Parpon, my dear? What is he?"
Go look at your face, my fanfaron, For my daughter and you would be night and day, Non, non, non, non, non, non, non, non, Not for your chateau at Malmaison, Non, non, non, non, non, non, non, non, You shall not marry her, my Suzon." A better weapon than his waspish tongue was Parpon's voice, for it, before all, was persuasive. A few years before, none of them had ever heard him sing.
For many a year, winter and summer, she had come and gone in the parish, all rags and tatters, wearing men's kneeboots and cap, her grey hair hanging down in straggling curls, her lower lip thrust out fiercely, her quick eyes wandering to and fro, and her sharp tongue, like Parpon's, clearing a path before her whichever way she turned.
"What's a few pounds of meal to the wife of Farette? I will get it for you. Come in, Annette." She turned towards the door, then stopped all at once. There was the oatmeal which she had thrown at Parpon, the basin, and the poker. She wished she had not asked Annette in. But in some things she had a quick wit, and she hurried to say: "It was that yellow cat of Parpon's.
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