When Valmond Came To Pontiac | Page 7

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