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
Louis Quinze.

A face suddenly appeared at a little door just opposite him. No one but
Parpon saw it. It belonged to Madelinette, the daughter of Lajeunesse,
who had a voice of merit. More than once the dwarf had stopped to hear
her singing as he passed the smithy. She sang only the old chansons and
the songs of the voyageurs, with a far greater sweetness and richness,
however, than any in the parish; and the Cure could detect her among all
others at mass. She had been taught her notes, but that had only opened
up possibilities, and fretted her till she was unhappy. What she felt
she could not put into her singing, for the machinery, unknown and
tyrannical, was not hers. Twice before she had heard Parpon sing--at
mass when the miller's wife was buried, and he, forgetting the world,
had poured forth all his beautiful voice; and on that notable night
before the Louis Quinze. If he would but teach her those songs of his,
give her that sound of an organ in her throat! Parpon guessed what she
thought. Well, he would see what could be done, if the blacksmith joined
Valmond's standard.

He stopped singing.

"That's as good as dear Caron, the vivandiere of the Third Corps. Blood
o' my body, I believe it's better--almost!" said Lagroin, nodding his
head patronisingly. "She dragged me from under the mare of a damned
Russian that cut me down, before he got my bayonet in his liver. Caron!
Caron! ah yes, brave Caron! my dear Caron!" said the old man, smiling
through the alluring light that the song had made for him, as he looked
behind the curtain of the years.

Parpon's pleasant ridicule was not lost on the charcoalman and the
mealman; but neither was the singing wasted; and their faces were
touched with admiration, while the blacksmith, with a sigh, turned to
his fire and blew the bellows softly.

"Blacksmith," said Parpon, "you have a bird that sings."

"I've no bird that sings like that, though she has pretty notes, my
bird." He sighed again.