Simon was confused by the truth of this reasoning; nevertheless, he retorted: 

“He is my papa, all the same.”

“That can very well be,” exclaimed the urchin with a sneer, “but that is not being your papa altogether.”

La Blanchotte’s little one bowed his head and went off dreaming in the direction of the forge belonging to old Loizon, where Philip worked.  This forge was as though buried beneath trees.  It was very dark there; the red glare of a formidable furnace alone lit up with great flashes five blacksmiths; who hammered upon their anvils with a terrible din.  They were standing enveloped in flame, like demons, their eyes fixed on the red-hot iron they were pounding; and their dull ideas rose and fell with their hammers.

Simon entered without being noticed, and went quietly to pluck his friend by the sleeve.  The latter turned round.  All at once the work came to a standstill, and all the men looked on, very attentive.  Then, in the midst of this unaccustomed silence, rose the slender pipe of Simon: 

“Say, Philip, the Michaude boy told me just now that you were not altogether my papa.”

“Why not?” asked the blacksmith,

The child replied with all innocence: 

“Because you are not my mamma’s husband.”

No one laughed.  Philip remained standing, leaning his forehead upon the back of his great hands, which supported the handle of his hammer standing upright upon the anvil.  He mused.  His four companions watched him, and Simon, a tiny mite among these giants, anxiously waited.  Suddenly, one of the smiths, answering to the sentiment of all, said to Philip: 

“La Blanchotte is a good, honest girl, and upright and steady in spite of her misfortune, and would make a worthy wife for an honest man.”

“That is true,” remarked the three others.

The smith continued: 

“Is it the girl’s fault if she went wrong?  She had been promised marriage; and I know more than one who is much respected to-day, and who sinned every bit as much.”

“That is true,” responded the three men in chorus.

He resumed: 

“How hard she has toiled, poor thing, to bring up her child all alone, and how she has wept all these years she has never gone out except to church, God only knows.”

“This is also true,” said the others.

Then nothing was heard but the bellows which fanned the fire of the furnace.  Philip hastily bent himself down to Simon: 

“Go and tell your mother that I am coming to speak to her this evening.”  Then he pushed the child out by the shoulders.  He returned to his work, and with a single blow the five hammers again fell upon their anvils.  Thus they wrought the iron until nightfall, strong, powerful, happy, like contented hammers.  But just as the great bell of a cathedral resounds upon feast days above the jingling of the other bells, so Philip’s hammer, sounding above the rest, clanged second after second with a deafening uproar.  And he stood amid the flying sparks plying his trade vigorously.