"Out with it, Parpon!" called the blacksmith hoarsely, for the daughter's voice had followed herself into those farthest corners of his rugged nature.
"I will teach her to sing first; then she shall go to Quebec, and afterwards to Paris, my friend," he answered.
The girl's eyes were dilating with a great joy.

"Ah, Parpon--good Parpon!" she whispered.
"But Paris! Paris! There's gossip for you, thick as mortar," cried the charcoalman, and the mealman's fingers beat a tattoo on his stomach.
Parpon waved his hand.

"'Look to the weevil in your meal, Duclosse; and you, smutty-face, leave true things to your betters.

See, blacksmith," he added, "she shall go to Quebec, and after that to Paris." Here he got off the wheels, and stepped out into the centre of the shop.
"Our master will do that for you.

I swear for him, and who can say that Parpon was ever a liar ?" The blacksmith's hand tightened on his daughter's shoulder.