ir 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 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