Presently he beckoned, and from the hotel were brought out four great
pitchers of wine and a dozen tin cups, and, sending the garcon around
with one, the landlord with another, he motioned Parpon the dwarf to bear
a hand. Parpon shot out a quick, half-resentful look at him, but meeting
a warm, friendly eye, he took the pitcher and went round among the
elders, while the stranger himself courteously drank with the young men
of the village, who, like many wiser folk, thus yielded to the charm of
mystery. To every one he said a hearty thing, and sometimes touched his
greeting off with a bit of poetry or a rhetorical phrase. These dramatic
extravagances served him well, for he was among a race of story-tellers
and crude poets.
Parpon, uncouth and furtive, moved through the crowd, dispensing as much
irony as wine:
"Three bucks we come to a pretty inn,
'Hostess,' say we, 'have you red wine?'
Brave! Brave!
'Hostess,' say we, 'have you red wine?'
Bravement!
Our feet are sore and our crops are dry,
Bravement!"
This he hummed to the avocat in a tone all silver, for he had that one
gift of Heaven as recompense for his deformity, his long arms, big head,
and short stature, a voice which gave you a shiver of delight and pain
all at once.
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