"
The charcoalman spoke up. "You'll not forget the indulgences folks give
you more than the pay for setting the dropped shoe--true gifts of God,
bought with good butter and eggs at the holy auction, blacksmith. I gave
you two myself. You have your blessings, Lajeunesse."
"So; and no one to use the indulgences but you and Madelinette, giant,"
said the fat mealman.
"Ay, thank the Lord, we've done well that way!" said the blacksmith,
drawing himself up--for he loved nothing better than to be called the
giant, though he was known to many as petit enfant, in irony of his size.
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.
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