"My poor orphan," said he,
trotting over and thrusting some silver into the blacksmith's pocket, "I
see he hasn't left you well off. Accept my humble gift."
"The devil dead?" cried Muroc; "then I'll go marry his daughter."
Parpon climbed up on a pile of untired wheels, and with an elfish grin
began singing. Instantly the three humorists became silent and listened,
the blacksmith pumping his bellows mechanically the while.
"O mealman white, give me your daughter,
Oh, give her to me, your sweet Suzon!
O mealman dear, you can do no better
For I have a chateau at Malmaison.
Black charcoalman, you shall not have her
She shall not marry you, my Suzon--
A bag of meal--and a sack of carbon!
Non, non, non, non, non, non, non, non!
Go look at your face, my fanfaron,
For my daughter and you would be night and day,
Non, non, non, non, non, non, non, non,
Not for your chateau at Malmaison,
Non, non, non, non, non, non, non, non,
You shall not marry her, my Suzon."
A better weapon than his waspish tongue was Parpon's voice, for it,
before all, was persuasive.
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