“Come, come,” he said, “no need of shyness; I do not want it, my boy, I have had one bite—and one of my bites is equal to three of yours.”
He pressed it upon the child, who retreated still more toward the counter, his little face flushing scarlet. The other two soldiers had now become interested and each held out a sweetmeat laughing, much diverted at the boy’s discomfiture.
“Here is a citron,” said one.
“And here a tart,” cried another, while the first offender still flourished his rissole.
“I do not want them!” exclaimed Péron, now backed against the counter, and looking at them in angry bewilderment.
But they were not to be put off so easily.
“You will miss it, Master Bluecoat,” said the soldier with the rissole; “’tis an opportunity not often found at Archambault’s, sweetmeats free of charge! Try my cake, monsieur.”
“I do not want what you have tasted!” cried Péron, with disgust.
This sally was greeted with laughter as the astonished guardsman looked blankly at the child. He recovered, however, in an instant, and made the boy a mocking bow.
“I beg your pardon, M. le Marquis!” he said. “Can I not order for your excellency? Archambault does not know who is without.”