It had in it mystery and the incomprehensible. This
drinking-song, hummed just above his breath, touched some antique memory
in Monsieur Garen the avocat, and he nodded kindly at the dwarf, though
he refused the wine.
"Ah, M'sieu' le Cure," said Parpon, ducking his head to avoid the hand
that Medallion would have laid on it, "we're going to be somebody now in
Pontiac, bless the Lord! We're simple folk, but we're not neglected. He
wears a ribbon on his breast, M'sieu' le Cure!"
This was true. Fastened by a gold bar to the stranger's breast was the
ribbon of an order.
The Cure smiled at Parpon's words, and looked curiously and gravely at
the stranger. Tall Medallion the auctioneer took a glass of the wine,
and, lifting it, said: "Who shall I drink to, Parpon, my dear? What is
he?"
"Ten to one, a dauphin or a fool," answered Parpon, with a laugh like the
note of an organ. "Drink to both, Long-legs." Then he trotted away to the
Little Chemist.
"Hush, my friend!" said he, and he drew the other's ear down to his
mouth. "Now there'll be plenty of work for you. We're going to be gay in
Pontiac. We'll come to you with our spoiled stomachs.
Pages:
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25