"Three bucks we come to a pretty inn,
'Hostess,' say we, 'have you red wine?'
Brave! Brave!
'Hostess,' say we, 'have you red wine?'
Bravement!
Our feet are sore and our crops are dry,
Bravement!"

This he hummed to the avocat in a tone all silver, for he had that one
gift of Heaven as recompense for his deformity, his long arms, big head,
and short stature, a voice which gave you a shiver of delight and pain
all at once. It had in it mystery and the incomprehensible. This
drinking-song, hummed just above his breath, touched some antique memory
in Monsieur Garen the avocat, and he nodded kindly at the dwarf, though
he refused the wine.

"Ah, M'sieu' le Cure," said Parpon, ducking his head to avoid the hand
that Medallion would have laid on it, "we're going to be somebody now
in Pontiac, bless the Lord! We're simple folk, but we're not neglected.
He wears a ribbon on his breast, M'sieu' le Cure!"

This was true. Fastened by a gold bar to the stranger's breast was the
ribbon of an order.

The Cure smiled at Parpon's words, and looked curiously and gravely at
the stranger. Tall Medallion the auctioneer took a glass of the wine,
and, lifting it, said: "Who shall I drink to, Parpon, my dear? What is
he?"

"Ten to one, a dauphin or a fool," answered Parpon, with a laugh like the