The jest caught the fancy of his idle companions.
“Give place here at the table,” they cried, clearing a space in the dishes; “let the marquis sit!”
Before the child realized their intention, the gay musketeer had picked him up in his arms and set him down in the center of the table.
“Place for the pièce de résistance!” he cried, laughing; “room for M. le Marquis de Rissole!”
Amazed, angry, half frightened, little Péron sat amid the dishes gazing defiantly at his tormentors, too proud to cry, too surprised to attempt an escape, remembering only to hold tightly to Madame Michel’s precious livre. Around him the three musketeers gathered, jesting, laughing, making him fanciful obeisances as they offered every dish in turn, as if serving a prince. Their boisterous merriment drew a group of idle spectators, and the child was soon the center of a noisy circle, which constantly widened.
“M. le Marquis, permit me,” said his first tormentor, “here are some bouchées à la reine—or here are tartelettes aux confitures.”
“And here, your excellency,” cried another, “are macarons aux amandes!”
“Coquilles de volaille,” said a third, “œufs farcis!”
“Croquettes de ris de veau,” said one of the new-comers, “and a roast of hobgoblins, with a sauce aux champignons!”
Amidst this hubbub the child remained silent, his courage was wavering a little, and his small mouth closed tighter as did his clenched fists, but he kept his dark eyes fastened defiantly on the ring of laughing faces. The jest was no jest to him, and it required all his force of will to bear it; but he was too proud to waver, too shy to understand or retort to their rough pleasantry. The table on which he sat was being crowded at the edge with dishes, and the light fell full on his golden brown head and shabby, blue taffety jacket. The color which had come to his face with his first anger had faded with his increasing alarm, and his eyes looked unnaturally large and bright.