“Parbleu,” answered the puzzled Hippolyte, “that I do not know, Monsieur.”

Everybody looked at Nick, including Suzanne.

“Very well,” said he, “I will make a bid.  And if they turn out to be gamecocks, I will fight them with Monsieur Leon behind the cabaret.  Two livres!”

There was a laugh, as of relief.

“Three!” cried Gaspard, and his voice broke.

Hippolyte looked insulted.

“M’ssieurs,” he shouted, “they are from the Canaries.  Diable, un berger doit etre genereux.”

Another laugh, and Gaspard wiped the perspiration from his face.

“Five!” said he.

“Six!” said Nick, and the villagers turned to him in wonderment.  What could such a fine Monsieur want with two yellow birds?

“En avant, Gaspard,” said Hippolyte, and Suzanne shot another barbed glance in our direction.

“Seven,” muttered Gaspard.

“Eight!” said Nick, immediately.

“Nine,” said Gaspard.

“Ten,” said Nick.

“Ten,” cried Hippolyte, “I am offered ten livres for the yellow birds. 
Une bagatelle!  Onze, Gaspard!  Onze! onze livres, pour l’amour de
Suzanne!”

But Gaspard was silent.  No appeals, entreaties, or taunts could persuade him to bid more.  And at length Hippolyte, with a gesture of disdain, handed Nick the cage, as though he were giving it away.

“Monsieur,” he said, “the birds are yours, since there are no more lovers who are worthy of the name.  They do not exist.”

“Monsieur,” answered Nick, “it is to disprove that statement that I have bought the birds.  Mademoiselle,” he added, turning to the flushing Suzanne, “I pray that you will accept this present with every assurance of my humble regard.”

Mademoiselle took the cage, and amidst the laughter of the village at the discomfiture of poor Gaspard, swept Nick a frightened courtesy,—­one that nevertheless was full of coquetry.  And at that instant, to cap the situation, a rotund little man with a round face under a linen biretta grasped Nick by the hand, and cried in painful but sincere English:—­

“Monsieur, you mek my daughter ver’ happy.  She want those bird ever sence Captain Lopez he die.  Monsieur, I am Jean Baptiste Lenoir, Colonel Chouteau’s miller, and we ver’ happy to see you at the pon’.”

“If Monsieur will lead the way,” said Nick, instantly, taking the little man by the arm.

“But you are to dine at Madame Chouteau’s,” I expostulated.

“To be sure,” said he.  “Au revoir, Monsieur.  Au revoir, Mademoiselle.  Plus tard, Mademoiselle; nous danserons plus tard.”

“What devil inhabits you?” I said, when I had got him started on the way to Madame Chouteau’s.

“Your own, at present, Davy,” he answered, laying a hand on my shoulder, “else I should be on the way to the pon’ with Lenoir.  But the ball is to come,” and he executed several steps in anticipation.  “Davy, I am sorry for you.”