"My mother promised it, O gai, rive le roi! My mother promised it, O gai, vive le roi! To a gentleman of the king, Vive le roi, la reine! To a gentleman of the king, Vive Napoleon!" This was chanted lightly, airily, with a sweetness almost absurd, coming as it did from so uncouth a musician. The last verses had a touch of pathos, droll yet searching: "Oh, say, where goes your love? O gai, rive le roi! Oh, say, where goes your love? O gai, vive le roi! He rides on a white horse, Vive le roi, la reine! He wears a silver sword, Vive Napoleon! "Oh, grand to the war he goes, O gai, vive le roi! Oh, grand to the war he goes, O gai, vive le roi! Gold and silver he will bring, Vive le roi, la reine; And eke the daughter of a king Vive Napoleon!" The crowd--women and men, youths and maidens--enthusiastically repeated again and again the last lines and the refrain, "Vive le roi, la reine! Vive Napoleon!" Meanwhile the stranger stood, now looking at the singer with eager eyes, now searching the faces of the people, keen to see the effect upon them. His glance found the faces of the Cure, the avocat, and the auctioneer; and his eyes steadied to Medallion's humorous look, to the Cure's puzzled questioning, to the avocat's bird-like curiosity. It was plain they were not antagonistic (why should they be?); and he--was there any reason why he should care whether or no they were for him or against him? True, he had entered the village in the dead of night, with many packages and much luggage, had roused the people at the Louis Quinze, the driver who had brought him departing before daybreak gaily, because of the gifts of gold given him above his wage. True, this singular gentleman had taken three rooms in the Louis Quinze, had paid the landlord in advance, and had then gone to bed, leaving word that he was not to be waked till three o'clock the next afternoon. True, the landlord could not by any hint or indirection discover from whence his midnight visitor came. But if a gentleman paid his way, and was generous and polite, and minded his own business, wherefore should people busy themselves about him? When he appeared on the veranda of the inn with the hot pennies, not a half-dozen people in the village had known aught of his presence in Pontiac. The children came first, to scorch their fingers and fill their pockets, and after them the idle young men, and the habitants in general.