Madame looked at him in amazement, her eyes very round.
“Ciel! the boy is mad,” she said to herself softly, and then aloud, “You are dreaming, mon enfant, what do you mean? There are no hobgoblins in this house.”
“Mais oui, madame!” exclaimed the child wisely, “there are, here under the roof; they said so;” and he pointed downward.
“They?” repeated the good woman, bewildered; “who are ‘they’?”
“Jehan and Pierre, the apprentices, and Manchette, too,” he replied; “it must be true!”
“Ah!” ejaculated madame sharply; “so they gossip about this place, do they?”
Gossip was a long word for little Péron; he wrinkled his brows.
“They told me of the hobgoblins,” he repeated stoutly.
Madame Michel’s face cleared a little.
“Ah, only nonsense to frighten the child!” she exclaimed, with a sigh of relief. “Sainte Geneviève! I thought—” But she did not finish the sentence; she laid a heavy hand on Péron’s shoulder.