"The devil dead?" cried Muroc; "then I'll go marry his daughter."

Parpon climbed up on a pile of untired wheels, and with an elfish grin
began singing. Instantly the three humorists became silent and listened,
the blacksmith pumping his bellows mechanically the while.

"O mealman white, give me your daughter,
Oh, give her to me, your sweet Suzon!
O mealman dear, you can do no better
For I have a chateau at Malmaison.

Black charcoalman, you shall not have her
She shall not marry you, my Suzon--
A bag of meal--and a sack of carbon!
Non, non, non, non, non, non, non, non!

Go look at your face, my fanfaron,
For my daughter and you would be night and day,
Non, non, non, non, non, non, non, non,
Not for your chateau at Malmaison,
Non, non, non, non, non, non, non, non,
You shall not marry her, my Suzon."

A better weapon than his waspish tongue was Parpon's voice, for it,
before all, was persuasive. A few years before, none of them had ever
heard him sing. An accident discovered it to them, and afterwards he
sang for them but little, and never when it was expected of him. He
might be the minister of a dauphin or a fool, but he was now only the
mysterious Parpon who thrilled them. All the soul cramped in the small
body was showing in his eyes, as on that day when he had sung before the