This all happened on a Tuesday, and on Wednesday, and for several days, Valmond went about making friends.  His pockets were always full of pennies and silver pieces, and he gave them liberally to the children and to the poor, though, indeed, there were few suffering poor in Pontiac.  All had food enough to keep them from misery, though often it got no further than sour milk and bread, with a dash of sugar in it of Sundays, and now and then a little pork and molasses.  As for homes, every man and woman had a house of a kind, with its low, projecting roof and dormer windows, according to the ability and prosperity of the owner.  These houses were whitewashed, or painted white and red, and had double glass in winter, after the same measure.  There was no question of warmth, for in snow-time every house was banked up with earth above the foundations, the cracks and intersections of windows and doors filled with cloth from the village looms; and wood was for the chopping far and near.  Within these air-tight cubes these simple folk baked and were happy, content if now and then the housewife opened the one pane of glass which hung on a hinge, or the slit in the sash, to let in the cold air.  As a rule, the occasional opening of the outer door to admit some one sufficed, for out rushed the hot blast, and in came the dry, frosty air to brace to their tasks the cheerful story-teller and singer.

In summer the little fields were broken with wooden ploughs, followed by the limb of a tree for harrow, and the sickle, the scythe, and the flail to do their office in due course; and if the man were well-to-do, he swung the cradle in his rye and wheat, rejoicing in the sweep of the knife and the fulness of the swathe.  Then, too, there was the driving of the rivers, when the young men ran the logs from the backwoods to the great mills near and far:  red-shirted, sashed, knee-booted, with rings in their ears, and wide hats on their heads, and a song in their mouths, breaking a jamb, or steering a crib, or raft, down the rapids.  And the voyageur also, who brought furs out of the North down the great lakes, came home again to Pontiac, singing in his patois: 

          “Nous avons passe lé bois,
          Nous somm’s a la rive!”

Or, as he went forth: 

          “Le dieu du jour s’avance;
          Amis, les vents sont doux;
          Berces par l’esperance,
          Partons, embarquons-noun. 
          A-a-a-a-a-a-a-a!”

And, as we know, it was summer when Valmond came to Pontiac.  The river-drivers were just beginning to return, and by and by the flax swingeing would begin in the little secluded valley by the river; and one would see, near and far, the bright sickle flashing across the gold and green area; and all the pleasant furniture of summer set forth in pride, by the Mother of the House whom we call Nature.

Valmond was alive to it all, almost too alive, for at first the flamboyancy of his spirit touched him off with melodrama.  Yet, on the whole, he seemed at first more natural than involved or obscure.  His love for children was real, his politeness to women spontaneous.  He was seen to carry the load of old Madame Degardy up the hill, and place it at her own door.  He also had offered her a pinch of snuff, which she acknowledged by gravely offering a pinch of her own from a dirty twist of brown paper.

One day he sprang over a fence, took from the hands of coquettish Elise Malboir an axe, and split the knot which she in vain had tried to break.  Not satisfied with this, he piled full of wood the stone oven outside the house, and carried water for her from the spring.  This came from natural kindness, for he did not see the tempting look she gave him, nor the invitation in her eye, as he turned to leave her.  He merely asked her name.  But after he had gone, as though he had forgotten, or remembered, something, he leaped the fence again, came up to her with an air of half-abstraction, half-courtesy, took both her hands in his, and, before she could recover herself, kissed her on the cheeks in a paternal sort of way, saying, “Adieu, adieu, my child!” and left her.

The act had condescension in it; yet, too, something unconsciously simple and primitive.  Parpon the dwarf, who that moment perched himself on the fence, could not decide which Valmond was just then ­dauphin or fool.  Valmond did not see the little man, but swung away down the dusty road, reciting to himself couplets from ‘Le Vieux Drapeau’: 

       “Oh, come, my flag, come, hope of mine,
        And thou shalt dry these fruitless tears;”

and apparently, without any connection, he passed complacently to an entirely different song: 

       “She loved to laugh, she loved to drink,
        I bought her jewels fine.”

Then he added, with a suddenness which seemed to astound himself, ­for afterwards he looked round quickly, as if to see if he had been heard, ­“Elise Malboir ­h’m! a pretty name, Elise; but Malboir ­tush! it should be Malbarre; the difference between Lombardy cider and wine of the Empire.”

Parpon, left behind, sat on the fence with his legs drawn up to his chin, looking at Elise, till she turned and caught the provoking light of his eye.  She flushed, then was cool again, for she was put upon her mettle by the suggestion of his glance.

“Come, lazy-bones,” she said; “come fetch me currants from the garden.”

“Come, mocking-bird,” answered he; “come peck me on the cheek.”

She tossed her head and struck straight home.  “It isn’t a game of pass it on from gentleman to beetle.”

“You think he’s a gentleman?” he asked.

“As sure as I think you’re a beetle.”

He laughed, took off his cap, and patted himself on the head.  “Parpon, Parpon!” said he, “if Jean Malboir could see you now, he’d put his foot on you and crush you ­dirty beetle!”

At the mention of her father’s name a change passed over Elise; for this same Parpon, when all men else were afraid, had saved Jean Malboir’s life at a log chute in the hills.  When he died, Parpon was nearer to him than the priest, and he loved to hear the dwarf chant his wild rhythms of the Little Good Folk of the Scarlet Hills, more than to listen to holy prayers.  Elise, who had a warm, impulsive nature, in keeping with her black eyes and tossing hair, who was all fire and sun and heart and temper, ran over and caught the dwarf round the neck, and kissed him on the cheek, dashing the tears out of her eyes, as she said: 

“I’m a cat, I’m a bad-tempered thing, Parpon; I hate myself.”

He laughed, shook his shaggy head, and pushed her away the length of his long, strong arms.  “Bosh!” said he; “you’re a puss and no cat, and I like you better for the claws.  If you hate yourself, you’ll get a big penance.  Hate the ugly like Parpon, not the pretty like you.  The one’s no sin, the other is.”

She was beside the open door of the oven; and it would be hard to tell whether her face was suffering from heat or from blushes.  However that might chance, her mouth was soft and sweet, and her eyes were still wet.

“Who is he, Parpon?” she asked, not looking at him.

“Is he like Duclosse the mealman, or Lajeunesse the blacksmith, or Garotte the lime-burner-and the rest?”

“Of course not,” she answered.

“Is he like the Cure, or Monsieur De la Riviere, or Monsieur Garon, or Monsieur Medallion?”

“He’s different,” she said hesitatingly.

“Better or worse?”

“More ­more” ­she did not know what to say ­“more interesting.”

“Is he like the Judge Honourable that comes from Montreal, or the grand Governor, or the General that travels with the Governor?”

“Yes, but different ­more ­more like us in some things, like them in others, and more ­splendid.  He speaks such fine things!  You mind the other night at the Louis Quinze.  He is like ­”

She paused.  “What is he like?” Parpon asked slyly, enjoying her difficulty.

“Ah, I know,” she answered; “he is a little like Madame the American who came two years ago.  There is something ­something!”

Parpon laughed again.  “Like Madame Chalice from New York ­fudge!” Yet he eyed her as if he admired her penetration.  “How?” he urged.

“I don’t know ­quite,” she answered, a little pettishly.  “But I used to see Madame go off in the woods, and she would sit hour by hour, and listen to the waterfall, and talk to the birds, and at herself too; and more than once I saw her shut her hands ­like that!  You remember what tiny hands she had?” (She glanced at her own brown ones unconsciously.) “And she spoke out, her eyes running with tears ­and she all in pretty silks, and a colour like a rose.  She spoke out like this:  ’Oh, if I could only do something, something, some big thing!  What is all this silly coming and going to me, when I know, I know I might do it, if I had the chance!  O Harry, Harry, can’t you see!’”

“Harry was her husband.  Ah, what a fisherman was he!” said Parpon, nodding.  “What did she mean by doing ’big things’?” he added.

“How do I know?” she asked fretfully.  “But Monsieur Valmond seems to me like her, just the same.”

“Monsieur Valmond is a great man,” said Parpon slowly.

“You know!” she cried; “you know!  Oh, tell me, what is he?  Who is he?  Where does he come from?  Why is he here?  How long will he stay?  Tell me, how long will he stay?” She caught flutteringly at Parpon’s shoulder.  “You remember what I sang the other night?” he asked.

“Yes, yes,” she answered quickly.  “Oh, how beautiful it was!  Ah, Parpon, why don’t you sing for us oftener, and all the world would love you, and ­”

“I don’t love the world,” he retorted gruffly; “and I’ll sing for the devil” (she crossed herself) “as soon as for silly gossips in Pontiac.”

“Well, well!” she asked; “what had your song to do with him, with Monsieur Valmond?”

“Think hard, my dear,” he said, with mystery in his look.  Then, breaking off:  “Madame Chalice is coming back to-day; the Manor House is open, and you should see how they fly round up there.”  He nodded towards the hill beyond.

“Pontiac’ll be a fine place by and by,” she said, for she had village patriotism deep in her veins.  Had not her people lived there long before the conquest by the English?

“But tell me, tell me what your song had to do with Monsieur,” she urged again.  “It’s a pretty song, but ­”

“Think about it,” he answered provokingly.  “Adieu, my child!” he went on mockingly, using Valmond’s words, and catching both her hands as he had done; then, springing upon a bench by the oven, he kissed her on both cheeks.  “Adieu, my child!” he said again, and, jumping down, trotted away out into the road.  Back to her, from the dust he made as he shuffled away, there came the words: 

          “Gold and silver he will bring,
          Vive lé roi, la reine! 
          And eke the daughter of a king
          Vive Napoleon!”

She went about her work, the song in her ears, and the words of the refrain beat in and out, out and in: 

“Vive Napoleon.”  Her brow was troubled, and she perched her head on this side and on that, as she tried to guess what the dwarf had meant.  At last she sat down on a bench at the door of her home, and the summer afternoon spent its glories on her; for the sunflowers and the hollyhocks were round her, and the warmth gave her face a shining health and joyousness.  There she brooded till she heard the voice of her mother calling across the meadow; then she got up with a sigh, and softly repeated Parpon’s words:  “He is a great man!”

In the middle of that night she started up from a sound sleep, and, with a little cry, whispered into the silence:  “Napoleon ­Napoleon!”

She was thinking of Valmond.  A revelation had come to her out of her dreams.  But she laughed at it, and buried her face in her pillow and went to sleep, hoping to dream again.