“Wait for the end of the song.  At twelve years of age I was an apprentice at the factory of M. Tripeaud; two years afterwards, my father died of an accident, leaving me the furniture of our garret—­a mattress, a chair, and a table—­and, moreover, in an old Eau de Cologne box, some papers (written, it seems, in English), and a bronze medal, worth about ten sous, chain and all.  He had never spoken to me of these papers, so, not knowing if they were good for anything, I left them at the bottom of an old trunk, instead of burning them—­which was well for me, since it is upon these papers that I have had money advanced.”

“What a godsend!” said Dumoulin.  “But somebody must have known that you had them?”

“Yes; one of those people that are always looking out for old debts came to Cephyse, who told me all about it; and, after he had read the papers, he said that the affair was doubtful, but that he would lend me ten thousand francs on it, if I liked.  Ten thousand francs was a large sum, so I snapped him up!”

“But you must have supposed that these old papers were of great value.”

“Faith, no! since my father, who ought to have known their value, had never realized on them—­and then, you see, ten thousand francs in good, bright coin, falling as it were from the clouds, are not to be sneezed at—­so I took them—­only the man made me do a bit of stiff as guarantee, or something of that kind.”

“Did you sign it?”

“Of course—­what did I care about it?  The man told me it was only a matter of form.  He spoke the truth, for the bill fell due a fortnight ago, and I have heard nothing of it.  I have still about a thousand francs in his hands, for I have taken him for my banker.  And that’s the way, old pal, that I’m able to flourish and be jolly all day long, as pleased as Punch to have left my old grinder of a master, M. Tripeaud.”

As he pronounced this name, the joyous countenance of Jacques became suddenly overcast.  Cephyse, no longer under the influence of the painful impression she had felt for a moment, looked uneasily at Jacques, for she knew the irritation which the name of M. Tripeaud produced within him.

“M.  Tripeaud,” resumed Sleepinbuff, “is one that would make the good bad, and the bad worse.  They say that a good rider makes a good horse; they ought to say that a good master makes a good workman.  Zounds! when I think of that fellow!” cried Sleepinbuff, striking his hand violently on the table.

“Come, Jacques—­think of something else!” said the Bacchanal Queen.  “Make him laugh, Rose-Pompon.”

“I am not in a humor to laugh,” replied Jacques, abruptly, for he was getting excited from the effects of the wine; “it is more than I can bear to think of that man.  It exasperates me! it drives me mad!  You should have heard him saying:  ’Beggarly workmen! rascally workmen! they grumble that they have no food in their bellies; well, then, we’ll give them bayonets to stop their hunger.’[11] And there’s the children in his factory—­you should see them, poor little creatures!—­working as long as the men—­wasting away, and dying by the dozen—­what odds? as soon as they were dead plenty of others came to take their places—­not like horses, which can only be replaced with money.”