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.
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