“Well, it is clear, that you do not like your old master,” said Dumoulin, more and more surprised at his Amphitryon’s gloomy and thoughtful air, and, regretting that the conversation had taken this serious turn, he whispered a few words in the ear of the Bacchanal Queen, who answered by a sign of intelligence.

“I don’t like M. Tripeaud!” exclaimed Jacques.  “I hate him—­and shall I tell you why?  Because it is as much his fault as mine, that I have become a good-for-nothing loafer.  I don’t say it to screen myself; but it is the truth.  When I was ’prenticed to him as a lad, I was all heart and ardor, and so bent upon work, that I used to take my shirt off to my task, which, by the way, was the reason that I was first called Sleepinbuff.  Well!  I might have toiled myself to death; not one word of encouragement did I receive.  I came first to my work, and was the last to leave off; what matter? it was not even noticed.  One day, I was injured by the machinery.  I was taken to the hospital.  When I came out, weak as I was, I went straight to my work; I was not to be frightened; the others, who knew their master well, would often say to me:  ’What a muff you must be, little one!  What good will you get by working so hard?’—­still I went on.  But, one day, a worthy old man, called Father Arsene, who had worked in the house many years, and was a model of good conduct, was suddenly turned away, because he was getting too feeble.  It was a death-blow to him; his wife was infirm, and, at his age, he could not get another place.  When the foreman told him he was dismissed, he could not believe it, and he began to cry for grief.  At that moment, M. Tripeaud passes; Father Arsene begs him with clasped hands to keep him at half-wages.  ‘What!’ says M. Tripeaud, shrugging his shoulders; ’do you think that I will turn my factory into a house of invalids?  You are no longer able to work—­so be off!’ ’But I have worked forty years of my life; what is to become of me?’ cried poor Father Arsene.  ‘That is not my business,’ answered M. Tripeaud; and, addressing his clerk, he added:  ’Pay what is due for the week, and let him cut his stick.’  Father Arsene did cut his stick; that evening, he and his old wife suffocated themselves with charcoal.  Now, you see, I was then a lad; but that story of Father Arsene taught me, that, however hard you might work, it would only profit your master, who would not even thank you for it, and leave you to die on the flags in your old age.  So all my fire was damped, and I said to myself:  ’What’s the use of doing more than I just need?  If I gain heaps of gold for M. Tripeaud, shall I get an atom of it?’ Therefore, finding neither pride nor profit in my work, I took a disgust for it—­just did barely enough to earn my wages—­became an idler and a rake—­and said to myself:  ’When I get too tired of labor, I can always follow the example of Father Arsene and his wife."’

Whilst Jacques resigned himself to the current of these bitter thoughts, the other guests, incited by the expressive pantomime of Dumoulin and the Bacchanal Queen, had tacitly agreed together; and, on a signal from the Queen, who leaped upon the table, and threw down the bottles and glasses with her foot, all rose and shouted, with the accompaniment of Ninny Moulin’s rattle “The storm blown Tulip! the quadrille of the Storm-blown Tulip!”