e landlord of a village inn, Paragot a _patron_!

"I meant no harm. I have too much respect for him," said Blanquette,
humbly.

Again reinstated in my position of superiority I explained the Master to
her feminine intelligence.

"He has been to every place in the world and knows everything that is to
be known, and speaks every language that is spoken under the sun, and
has read every book that ever was written, and I have seen him break a
violin over a man's head."

"_Tiens!_" said Blanquette.

"In the Forum at Rome last winter he had an argument with the most
learned professor in Europe who is making the excavations, and proved
him to be wrong."

"_Tiens!_" repeated Blanquette, much impressed, though of Forum or
excavations she had no more notion than Narcisse.

"If he wanted to be a king tomorrow, he would only have to go up to a
throne and sit upon it."

"But no," said Blanquette. "To be a king one must be a king's son."

"How do you know that he isn't?" I asked with a could-and if-I-would
expression of mystery.

"King's sons don't go about the high roads with little _gamins_ like
you," replied the practical Blanquette.

"How do you know that I am not a king's son too?" I asked, less with the
idea of self-aggrandisement than that of vindication of Paragot.

"Because you yourself said that your mother sold you as my mother sold
me to Pere Paragot."

Whereupon it suddenly occurred to me that as far as retentiveness of
memory was concerned, Blanquette was not such a fool as in my arrogance
I had set her down to be. I was going to retort that his magnificence
in purchasing me proved him a personage of high order, but as I quickly
reflected that the same argument might apply to the rank of the
contemned Pere Paragot, I refrained. A silence ensuing, I uncomfortably
resolved to study my master with a view to acquiring his skill in
repartee.

"But what does he do, the Master?" enquired Blanquette.

"Do? What do you mean?"

"How does he earn his living?"

"That shows you know nothing about him," I cried triumphantly. "King's
sons do not earn their living. They have got it already. Haven't you
ever read that in books?"

"I can read and write, but I don't read books," sighed Blanquette. "I am
not clever. You will have to teach me."

"This is the book I am reading," said I, taking the "Recits des Temps
Merovingiens" from my pocket.

Again Blanquette sighed. "You must be very clever, Asticot."

"Not a