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.

"'Come, blacksmith,' said the Count Lassone, when he came here a-fishing, 'that's a voice for a palace,' said he.
'Take it out of the woods and teach it,' said he, 'and it will have all Paris following it.' That to me, a poor blacksmith, with only my bread and sour milk, and a hundred dollars a year or so, and a sup of brandy when I can get it." The charcoalman spoke up.