But Forgier stood there, waiting and unhappy. “Your Majesty,” he burst out, “you do not know this Picrochole and his bakers. Once get them aroused, and there will have to be fighting before it is done. Picrochole will not give up Rock Clermond for all the cakes in the kingdom.”
Grangousier’s great face, which had been as jolly and round as a dinner plate, grew as solemn and long as a platter. “Can it be?” he asked sadly. “Can it be?” and sank into patient gloom.
Queen Gargamelle rustled anxiously in her chair. “Why not send for Gargantua?” she suggested timidly.
Grangousier beamed again. “The very thing!” he cried. “With all the reading and the fighting he’s been taught in Paris he’ll know in a minute what’s best to be done. Forgier, mount the fastest little horse in our stables. Post to Paris, and say to Gargantua that his old father needs him.”
Forgier dashed out of the banquet hall; and Grangousier, turning his chair again, sat all night, marking with his stick among the ashes and quite forgetting about his chestnuts.
At the very first gleam of dawn he raised his head, and his great nostrils puffed out like balloons. Up from the kitchen came wave on wave of warm, delicious baking. “The clever rascals!” muttered Grangousier. “The cakes are done!”
The oldest and trustiest cook of all rushed respectfully in. “Your Majesty,” he said, “the cakes are being piled on the carts. Who shall go with them to Rock Clermond?”
“You, Ulrich Gallet!” cried Grangousier happily. “Drive, yourself, the cart of cakes for Marquet; and say to him that he shall have not only the cakes, but these seven hundred thousand gold crowns besides, and one of our best apple orchards for him and his family forever.
“Say to Picrochole that we are full of grief at this trouble between his subjects and ours; give him the cakes, and tell him that we will make any other return he wishes. Only ask him to leave our town in peace. And to show him that you come as a friend, deck your carts with willow boughs.”