“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.”

“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