“Come, mocking-bird,” answered he; “come peck me on the cheek.”
She tossed her head and struck straight home. “It isn’t a game of pass it on from gentleman to beetle.”
“You think he’s a gentleman?” he asked.
“As sure as I think you’re a beetle.”
He laughed, took off his cap, and patted himself on the head. “Parpon, Parpon!” said he, “if Jean Malboir could see you now, he’d put his foot on you and crush you—dirty beetle!”
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. Elise, who had a warm, impulsive nature, in keeping with her black eyes and tossing hair, who was all fire and sun and heart and temper, ran over and caught the dwarf round the neck, and kissed him on the cheek, dashing the tears out of her eyes, as she said:
“I’m a cat, I’m a bad-tempered thing, Parpon; I hate myself.”
He laughed, shook his shaggy head, and pushed her away the length of his long, strong arms. “Bosh!” said he; “you’re a puss and no cat, and I like you better for the claws. If you hate yourself, you’ll get a big penance. Hate the ugly like Parpon, not the pretty like you. The one’s no sin, the other is.”
She was beside the open door of the oven; and it would be hard to tell whether her face was suffering from heat or from blushes. However that might chance, her mouth was soft and sweet, and her eyes were still wet.
“Who is he, Parpon?” she asked, not looking at him.