"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.

"I will teach her to sing first; then she shall go to Quebec, and
afterwards to Paris, my friend," he answered.

The girl's eyes were dilating with a great joy. "Ah, Parpon--good
Parpon!" she whispered.

"But Paris! Paris! There's gossip for you, thick as mortar," cried the
charcoalman, and the mealman's fingers beat a tattoo on his stomach.

Parpon waved his hand. "'Look to the weevil in your meal, Duclosse; and
you, smutty-face, leave true things to your betters. See, blacksmith,"
he added, "she shall go to Quebec, and after that to Paris."

Here he got off the wheels, and stepped out into the centre of the shop.