“My children,” he said, “my name is--Valmond! We have begun well; let us be better friends. I have come from far off to be one of you, to stay with you for awhile--who knows how long--how long?” He placed a finger meditatively on his lips, sending a sort of mystery into his look and bearing. “You are French, and so am I. You are playing on the shores of life, and so am I. You are beginning to think and dream, and so am I. We are only children till we begin to make our dreams our life. So I am one with you, for only now do I step from dream to action. My children, you shall be my brothers, and together we will sow the seed of action and reap the grain; we will make a happy garden of flowers, and violets shall bloom everywhere out of our dream--everywhere. Violets, my children, pluck the wild violets, and bring them to me, and I will give you silver for them, and I will love you. Never forget,” he added, with a swelling voice, “that you owe your first duty to your mothers, and afterwards to your country, and to the spirit of France. I see afar”--he looked towards the setting sun, and stretched out his arm dramatically, yet such was the eloquence of his voice and person that not even the young Seigneur or Medallion smiled--“I see afar,” he repeated, “the glory of our dreams fulfilled; after toil and struggle and loss: and I call upon you now to unfurl the white banner of justice and liberty and the restoration.” The women who listened guessed little of what he meant by the fantastic sermon; but they wiped their eyes in sympathy, and gathered their children to them, and said, “Poor gentleman, poor gentleman!” and took him instantly to their hearts. The men were mystified, but wine and rhetoric had fired them, and they cheered him--no one knew why. The Cure, as he turned to leave, with Monsieur Garon, shook his head in bewilderment; but even he did not smile, for the man’s eloquence had impressed him; and more than once he looked back at the dispersing crowd and the quaint figure posing on the veranda. The avocat was thinking deeply, and as, in the dusk, he left the Cure at his own door, all that he ventured was: “Singular--a most singular person!” “We shall see, we shall see,” said the Cure abstractedly, and they said good-night. Medallion joined the Little Chemist in his shop door and watched the habitants scatter, till only Parpon and the stranger were left, and these two faced each other, and, without a word, passed into the hotel together. “H’m, h’m!” said Medallion into space, drumming the door-jamb with his fingers; “which is it, my Parpon--a dauphin, or a fool?” He and the Little Chemist talked long, their eyes upon the window opposite, inside which Monsieur Valmond and Parpon were in conference. Up the dusty street wandered fitfully the refrain: “To a gentleman of the king, Vive Napoleon!”