"Certes, friend Brotaer, I rejoice greatly at the thought of a big and honest pig—provided his profitable body is intended for the salt-tub. But, Lord, when I think of a huge boar, wicked and unprofitable, who fattens, pastures and wallows upon and in my own meager pittance, in return for which the gormandizer grunts, steps upon my feet, turns me black and blue butting against me, and bites me—is it at all astonishing if then my long face should grow still longer and look sad? But that is not the cause of my grief."
"What may be the cause of your grief? Speak! Let me know it, friend Baz-valan," demanded the Brotaer.
Instead of answering the Brotaer's question, Paskou the Long replied: "I had in my dovecote a beautiful pigeon—its plumage turned to all imaginable colors. I also had a little white dove, the constant love of my handsome pigeon. But, alas! my dove flew away—she flew away from my dovecote. Did you, perhaps, see her around here?"
"No, my friend; I have not seen your dove. I do not care for such small birds. A fine hen suits me better."
"But some neighbors informed me that she alighted in your yard. I entreat you, friend, go in and inquire after my little dove. If I do not find her, I assure you my poor pigeon will die of sadness in my dovecote."
"In order to satisfy you, friend, I shall inquire after your dove."
Saying these words, the Brotaer went back into the bride's house, closed the door after him, and reopened it after a short interval holding in his hand and leading out a little girl of about five years. He presented her to the Baz-valan and said:
"I went into my yard. I did not see your dove there, but I saw a large number of fresh buds of eglantine. Here," pointing to the child, "is one of them. She will gladden the eyes of your pigeon, and he will feel consoled for his loss. I make you a present of the little bud, in the place of your dove."
The Baz-valan embraced the child and answered: "Fresh and charming is the little bud—but my pigeon is too sad—too sad is he over the loss of his dove—too sad to forget her at the sight of a little flower, however pretty it be. Go in again, my friend, and look and see if perhaps my dove did not fly into your garret."
"Be satisfied—but as true as every time that he sets out—the good old mother of the ferocious Marquis of Guerrand—rings, with tears and shudderings—the alarm bell of the castle—to warn the vassals of the Marquis to be on their guard against her merciless son—just so stubborn are you in the search of your dove—as stubborn as the taxcollectors in pursuit of the poor folks."