he took off when he began to sing. Old France and New France, and the
loves and hates and joys and sorrows of all lands, met that night in the
soul of this dwarf with the divine voice, who did not give them his name,
so that they called him, for want of a better title, the Provencal. And
again two nights afterwards it was the same, and yet again a third night
and a fourth, and the simple folk, and wise folk also, went mad after
Parpon the dwarf.

Then, suddenly, he disappeared from Quebec City, and the next Sunday
morning, while the Cure was saying the last words of the Mass, he entered
the Church of St. Saviour's at Pontiac. Going up to the chancel steps he
waited. The murmuring of the people drew the Cure's attention, and then,
seeing Parpon, he came forward.

Parpon drew from his breast a bag, and put it in his hands, and beckoning
down the Cure's head, he whispered.

The Cure turned to the altar and raised the bag towards it in ascription
and thanksgiving, then he turned to Parpon again, but the dwarf was
trotting away down the aisle and from the church.

"Dear children," said the Cure, "we are saved, and we are not shamed."
He held up the bag. "Parpon has brought us two thousand dollars: we
shall have food to eat, and there shall be more money against seed-time.
The giver of this good gift demands that his name be not known. Such is
all true charity. Let us pray."

So hard times passed from Pontiac as the months went on; but none save
the Cure and the Avocat knew who had helped her in her hour of need.