Lagroin was now impatient. He could not see the drift of this, and he was about to whisper to Parpon, when the little man sent him a look, commanding silence, and he fretted on dumbly. “See, my blacksmith,” said Parpon, “your bird shall be taught to sing, and to Paris she shall go by and by.” “Such foolery!” said Duclosse. “What’s in your noddle, Parpon?” cried the charcoalman. 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. Presently Lajeunesse scratched his head. “Nobody does nothing for nothing,” said he. “What horse do I shoe for this?” “La, la!” said the charcoalman, sticking a thumb in the blacksmith’s side; “you only give him the happy hand--like that!” Duclosse was more serious. “It is the will of God that you become a marshal or a duke,” he said wheezingly to the blacksmith. “You can’t say no; it is the will of God, and you must bear it like a man.” The child saw further; perhaps the artistic strain in her gave her keener reasoning. “Father,” she said, “Monsieur Valmond wants you for a soldier.” “Wants me?” he roared in astonishment. “Who’s to shoe the horses a week days, and throw the weight o’ Sundays after mass? Who’s to handle a stick for the Cure when there’s fighting among the river-men?