It was no jest of Valmond’s that he would, or could, have five hundred followers in two weeks.  Lagroin and Parpon were busy, each in his own way ­Lagroin, open, bluff, imperative; Parpon, silent, acute, shrewd.  Two days before the feast of St. John the Baptist, the two made a special tour through the parish for certain recruits.  If these could be enlisted, a great many men of this and other parishes would follow.  They were, by name, Muroc the charcoalman, Duclosse the mealman, Lajeunesse the blacksmith, and Garotte the limeburner, all men of note, after their kind, with influence and individuality.

Lagroin chafed that he must play recruiting-sergeant and general also.  But it gave him comfort to remember that the Great Emperor had not at times disdained to be his own recruiting-sergeant; that, after Friedland, he himself had been taken into the Old Guard by the Emperor; that Davoust had called him brother; that Ney had shared his supper and slept with him under the same blanket.  Parpon would gladly have done this work alone, but he knew that Lagroin in his regimentals would be useful.

The sought-for comrades were often to be found together about the noon hour in the shop of Jose Lajeunesse.  They formed the coterie of the humble, even as the Cure’s coterie represented the aristocracy of Pontiac ­with Medallion as a connecting link.

Arches and poles were being put up, to be decorated against the feast-day, and piles of wood for bonfires were arranged at points on the hills round the village.  Cheer and goodwill were everywhere, for a fine harvest was in view, and this feast-day always brought gladness and simple revelling.  Parish interchanged with parish; but, because it was so remote, Pontiac was its own goal of pleasure, and few fared forth, though others came from Ville Bambord and elsewhere to join the fête.  As Lagroin and the dwarf came to the door of the smithy, they heard the loud laugh of Lajeunesse.

“Good!” said Parpon.  “Hear how he tears his throat!”

“If he has sense, I’ll make a captain of him,” remarked Lagroin consequentially.

“You shall beat him into a captain on his own anvil,” rejoined the little man.

They entered the shop.  Lajeunesse was leaning on his bellows, laughing, and holding an iron in the spitting fire; Muroc was seated on the edge of the cooling tub; and Duclosse was resting on a bag of his excellent meal.  Garotte was the only missing member of the quartette.

Muroc was a wag, a grim sort of fellow, black from his trade, with big rollicking eyes.  At times he was not easy to please, but if he took a liking, he was for joking at once.  He approved of Parpon, and never lost a chance of sharpening his humour on the dwarf’s impish whetstone of a tongue.

“Lord!  Lord!” he cried, with feigned awe, getting to his feet at sight of the two.  Then, to his comrades, “Children, children, off with your hats!  Here is Monsieur Talleyrand, if I’m not mistaken.  On to your feet, mealman, and dust your stomach.  Lajeunesse, wipe your face with your leather.  Duck your heads, stupids!”

With mock solemnity the three greeted Parpon and Lagroin.  The old sergeant’s face flushed, and his hand dropped to his sword; but he had promised Parpon to say nothing till he got his cue, and he would keep his word.  So he disposed himself in an attitude of martial attention.  The dwarf bowed to the others with a face of as great gravity as the charcoalman’s, and waving his hand, said: 

“Keep your seats, my children, and God be with you.  You are right, smutty-face; I am Monsieur Talleyrand, Minister of the Crown.”

“The devil, you say!” cried the mealman.

“Tut, tut!” said Lajeunesse, chaffing; “haven’t you heard the news?  The devil is dead!”

The dwarf’s hand went into his pocket.  “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 Suzón! 
        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 Suzón ­
        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 Suzón.”

A better weapon than his waspish tongue was Parpon’s voice, for it, before all, was persuasive.  A few years before, none of them had ever heard him sing.  An accident discovered it to them, and afterwards he sang for them but little, and never when it was expected of him.  He might be the minister of a dauphin or a fool, but he was now only the mysterious Parpon who thrilled them.  All the soul cramped in the small body was showing in his eyes, as on that day when he had sung before the Louis Quinze.

A face suddenly appeared at a little door just opposite him.  No one but Parpon saw it.  It belonged to Madelinette, the daughter of Lajeunesse, who had a voice of merit.  More than once the dwarf had stopped to hear her singing as he passed the smithy.  She sang only the old chansons and the songs of the voyageurs, with a far greater sweetness and richness, however, than any in the parish; and the Cure could detect her among all others at mass.  She had been taught her notes, but that had only opened up possibilities, and fretted her till she was unhappy.  What she felt she could not put into her singing, for the machinery, unknown and tyrannical, was not hers.  Twice before she had heard Parpon sing ­at mass when the miller’s wife was buried, and he, forgetting the world, had poured forth all his beautiful voice; and on that notable night before the Louis Quinze.  If he would but teach her those songs of his, give her that sound of an organ in her throat!  Parpon guessed what she thought.  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 vivandière 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.  “You’ll not forget the indulgences folks give you more than the pay for setting the dropped shoe ­true gifts of God, bought with good butter and eggs at the holy auction, blacksmith.  I gave you two myself.  You have your blessings, Lajeunesse.”

“So; and no one to use the indulgences but you and Madelinette, giant,” said the fat mealman.

“Ay, thank the Lord, we’ve done well that way!” said the blacksmith, drawing himself up ­for he loved nothing better than to be called the giant, though he was known to many as petit enfant, in irony of his size.

Lagroin was now impatient.  He could not see the drift of this, and he was about to whisper to Parpon, when the little man sent him a look, commanding silence, and he fretted on dumbly.

“See, my blacksmith,” said Parpon, “your bird shall be taught to sing, and to Paris she shall go by and by.”

“Such foolery!” said Duclosse.

“What’s in your noddle, Parpon?” cried the charcoalman.

The blacksmith looked at Parpon, his face all puzzled eagerness.  But another face at the door grew pale with suspense.  Parpon quickly turned towards it.  “See here, Madelinette,” he said, in a low voice.  The girl stepped inside and came to her father.  Lajeunesse’s arm ran round her shoulder.  There was no corner of his heart into which she had not crept.  “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.  He was trembling with excitement.

“Is it true? is it true?” he asked, and the sweat stood out on his forehead.

“He sends this for Madelinette,” answered the dwarf, handing over a little bag of gold to the girl, who drew back.  But Parpon went close to her, and gently forced it into her hands.

“Open it,” he said.  She did so, and the blacksmith’s eyes gloated on the gold.  Muroc and Duclosse drew near, and peered in also.  And so they stood there for a little while, all looking and exclaiming.

Presently Lajeunesse scratched his head.  “Nobody does nothing for nothing,” said he.  “What horse do I shoe for this?”

“La, la!” said the charcoalman, sticking a thumb in the blacksmith’s side; “you only give him the happy hand ­like that!”

Duclosse was more serious.  “It is the will of God that you become a marshal or a duke,” he said wheezingly to the blacksmith.  “You can’t say no; it is the will of God, and you must bear it like a man.”

The child saw further; perhaps the artistic strain in her gave her keener reasoning.

“Father,” she said, “Monsieur Valmond wants you for a soldier.”

“Wants me?” he roared in astonishment.  “Who’s to shoe the horses a week days, and throw the weight o’ Sundays after mass?  Who’s to handle a stick for the Cure when there’s fighting among the river-men?

“But there, la, la! many a time my wife, my good Florienne, said to me, ’Jose ­Jose Lajeunesse, with a chest like yours, you ought to be a corporal at least.’”

Parpon beckoned to Lagroin, and nodded.  “Corporal! corporal!” cried Lagroin; “in a week you shall be a lieutenant and a month shall make you a captain, and maybe better than that!”

“Better than that ­bagosh!” cried the charcoalman in surprise, proudly using the innocuous English oath.  “Better than that ­sutler, maybe?” said the mealman, smacking his lips.

“Better than that,” replied Lagroin, swelling with importance.  “Ay, ay, my dears, great things are for you.  I command the army, and I have free hand from my master.  Ah, what joy to serve a Napoleon once again!  What joy!  Lord, how I remember ­”

“Better than that-eh?” persisted Duclosse, perspiring, the meal on his face making a sort of paste.

“A general or a governor, my children,” said Lagroin.  “First in, first served.  Best men, best pickings.  But every man must love his chief, and serve him with blood and bayonet; and march o’ nights if need, and limber up the guns if need, and shoe a horse if need, and draw a cork if need, and cook a potato if need; and be a hussar, or a tirailleur, or a trencher, or a general, if need.  But yes, that’s it; no pride but the love of France and the cause, and ­”

“And Monsieur Valmond,” said the charcoalman slyly.

“And Monsieur the Emperor!” cried Lagroin almost savagely.

He caught Parpon’s eye, and instantly his hand went to his pocket.

“Ah, he is a comrade, that!  Nothing is too good for his friends, for his soldiers.  See!” he added.

He took from his pocket ten gold pieces. “‘These are bagatelles,’ said His Excellency to me; ’but tell my friends, Monsieur Muroc and Monsieur Duclosse and Monsieur Garotte, that they are buttons for the coats of my sergeants, and that my captains’ coats have ten times as many buttons.  Tell them,’ said he, ’that my friends shall share my fortunes; that France needs us; that Pontiac shall be called the nest of heroes.  Tell them that I will come to them at nine o’clock tonight, and we will swear fidelity.’”

“And a damned good speech too ­bagosh!” cried the mealman, his fingers hungering for the gold pieces.  “We’re to be captains pretty soon ­eh?” asked Muroc.

“As quick as I’ve taught you to handle a company,” answered Lagroin, with importance.

“I was a patriot in ’37,” said Muroc.  “I went against the English; I held abridge for two hours.  I have my musket yet.”

“I am a patriot now,” urged Duclosse.  “Why the devil not the English first, then go to France, and lick the Orleans!”

“They’re a skittish lot, the Orleans; they might take it in their heads to fight,” suggested Muroc, with a little grin.

“What the devil do you expect?” roared the blacksmith, blowing the bellows hard in his excitement, one arm still round his daughter’s shoulder.  “D’you think we’re going to play leap-frog into the Tuileries?  There’s blood to let, and we’re to let it!”

“Good, my leeches!” said Parpon; “you shall have blood to suck.  But we’ll leave the English be.  France first, then our dogs will take a snap at the flag on the citadel yonder.”  He nodded in the direction of Quebec.

Lagroin then put five gold pieces each into the hands of Muroc and Duclosse, and said: 

“I take you into the service of Prince Valmond Napoleon, and you do hereby swear to serve him loyally, even to the shedding of your blood, for his honour and the honour of France; and you do also vow to require a like loyalty and obedience of all men under your command.  Swear.”

There was a slight pause, for the old man’s voice had the ring of a fatal earnestness.  It was no farce, but a real thing.

“Swear,” he said again.  “Raise your right hand.”

“Done!” said Muroc.  “To the devil with the charcoal!  I’ll go wash my face.”

“There’s my hand on it,” added Duclosse; “but that rascal Petrie will get my trade, and I’d rather be strung by the Orleans than that.”

“Till I’ve no more wind in my bellows!” responded Lajeunesse, raising his hand, “if he keeps faith with my Madelinette.”

“On the honour of a soldier,” said Lagroin, and he crossed himself.

“God save us all!” said Parpon.  Obeying a motion of the dwarf’s hand, Lagroin drew from his pocket a flask of cognac, with four little tin cups fitting into each other.  Handing one to each, he poured them brimming full.  Then, filling his own, he spilled a little in the steely dust of the smithy floor.  All did the same, though they knew not why.

“What’s that for?” asked the mealman.

“To show the Little Corporal, dear Corporal Violet, and my comrades of the Old Guard, that we don’t forget them,” cried Lagroin.

He drank slowly, holding his head far back, and as he brought it straight again, he swung on his heel, for two tears were racing down his cheeks.

The mealman wiped his eyes in sympathy; the charcoalman shook his head at the blacksmith, as though to say, “Poor devil!” and Parpon straightway filled their glasses again.  Madelinette took the flask to the old sergeant.  He looked at her kindly, and patted her shoulder.  Then he raised his glass.

“Ah, the brave Caron, the dear Lucette Caron!  Ah, the time she dragged me from under the Russian’s mare!” He smiled into the distance.  “Who can tell?  Perhaps, perhaps ­again!” he added.

Then, all at once, as if conscious of the pitiful humour of his meditations, he came to his feet, straightened his shoulders, and cried: 

“To her we love best!”

The charcoalman drank, and smacked his lips.  “Yes, yes,” he said, looking into the cup admiringly; “like mother’s milk that.  White of my eye, but I do love her!”

The mealman cocked his glance towards the open door.  “Elise!” he said sentimentally, and drank.  The blacksmith kissed his daughter, and his hand rested on her head as he lifted the cup, but he said never a word.

Parpon took one sip, then poured his liquor upon the ground, as though down there was what he loved best; but his eyes were turned to Dalgrothe Mountain, which he could see through the open door.

“France!” cried the old soldier stoutly, and tossed off the liquor.