es 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!"

At these joyous cries, which burst suddenly, like shell, Jacques
started; then gazing with astonishment at his guests, he drew his hand
across his brow, as if to chase away the painful ideas that oppressed
him, and exclaimed: "You are right. Forward the first couple! Let us be
merry!"

In a moment, the table, lifted by vigorous arms, was removed to the
extremity of the banqueting-room; the spectators, mounted upon chairs,
benches, and window-ledges, began to sing in chorus the well-known air
of les Etudiants, so as to serve instead of orchestra, and accompany
the quadrille formed by Sleepinbuff, the Queen, Ninny Moulin, and Rose
Pompon.

Dumoulin, having entrusted his rattle to one of the guests, resumed his
extravagant Roman helmet and plume; he had taken off his great-coat
at the commencement of the feast, so that he now appeared in all the
splendor of his costume. His cuirass of bright scales ended in a tunic
of feathers, not unlike those worn by the savages, who form the oxen's
escort on Mardi Gras. Ninny Moulin had a huge paunch and thin legs,
so that the latter moved about at pleasure in the gaping mouths of his
large top boots.

Little Rose-Pompon, with her pinched-up cocked-hat stuck on one side,
her hands in the pockets of her trousers, her bust a little inclined
forward, and undulating from right to