hem, 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 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
themselv