The blacksmith looked at Parpon, his face all puzzled eagerness. But another face at the door grew pale with suspense. Parpon quickly turned towards it. "See here, Madelinette," he said, in a low voice. The girl stepped inside and came to her father. Lajeunesse's arm ran round her shoulder. There was no corner of his heart into which she had not crept. "Out with it, Parpon!" called the blacksmith hoarsely, for the daughter's voice had followed herself into those farthest corners of his rugged nature.
"I will teach her to sing first; then she shall go to Quebec, and afterwards to Paris, my friend," he answered.
The girl's eyes were dilating with a great joy. "Ah, Parpon—good
Parpon!" she whispered.
"But Paris! Paris! There's gossip for you, thick as mortar," cried the charcoalman, and the mealman's fingers beat a tattoo on his stomach.
Parpon waved his hand. "'Look to the weevil in your meal, Duclosse; and you, smutty-face, leave true things to your betters. See, blacksmith," he added, "she shall go to Quebec, and after that to Paris."
Here he got off the wheels, and stepped out into the centre of the shop.
"Our master will do that for you. I swear for him, and who can say that
Parpon was ever a liar?"
The blacksmith's hand tightened on his daughter's shoulder. He was trembling with excitement.
"Is it true? is it true?" he asked, and the sweat stood out on his forehead.
"He sends this for Madelinette," answered the dwarf, handing over a little bag of gold to the girl, who drew back. But Parpon went close to her, and gently forced it into her hands.
"Open it," he said. She did so, and the blacksmith's eyes gloated on the gold. Muroc and Duclosse drew near, and peered in also. And so they stood there for a little while, all looking and exclaiming.