Labassandre described his former life as a blacksmith at the village forge. “You know, my friends,” he said, “whether I have been successful. You know that I have had plenty of applause, and of medals. You may believe me or not, as you please, but I assure you I would part with all sooner than with this;” and the man rolled up his shirt-sleeve and displayed an enormous arm tattooed in red and blue. Two blacksmith’s hammers were crossed within a circle of oak-leaves; an inscription was above these emblems in small letters: _Work and Liberty_. Labassandre proceeded to deplore the unhappy hour when the manager of the opera at Nantes had heard him sing. Had he been let alone, he would by this time have been the proprietor of a large machine shop, with a provision laid up for his old age. “Yes,” said Charlotte, “but you were very strong, and I have heard you say that the life was a hard one.” “Precisely; but I am inclined to believe that the individual in question is sufficiently robust.” “I will answer for that,” said Dr. Hirsch. Charlotte made other objections. She hinted that some natures were more refined than others—“that certain aristocratic instincts—” Here D’Argenton interrupted her in a rage. “What nonsense! My friends occupy themselves in your behalf, and then you find fault, and utter absurdities.” Charlotte burst into tears. Jack ran away, for he felt a strong desire to fly at the throat of the tyrant who had spoken so roughly to his pretty mother. Nothing more was said for some days; but the child noticed a change in his mother’s manner toward him: she kissed him often, and kissed him with that lingering tenderness we show to those we love and from whom we are about to part. Jack was the more troubled as he heard D’Argenton say to Dr. Rivals, with a satirical smile, “We are all busy, sir, in your pupil’s interest. You will hear some news in a few days that will astonish you.” The old man was delighted, and said to his wife, “You see, my dear, that I did well to make them open their eyes.” “Who knows? I distrust that man, and do not believe he intends any good to the child. It is better sometimes that your enemy should sit with folded arms than trouble himself about you.” CHAPTER XII. LIFE IS NOT A ROMANCE. One Sunday morning, just after the arrival of the train that had brought Labassandre and a noisy band of friends, Jack, who was in the garden busy with his squirrel-net, heard his mother call him. Her voice came from the window of the poet’s room. Something in its tone, or a certain instinct so marked in some persons, told the child that the crisis had come, and he tremblingly ascended the stairs. On the Henri Deux chair D’Argenton sat, throned as it were, while Labassandre and Dr. Hirsch stood on either side. Jack saw at once that there were the tribunal, the judge, and the witnesses, while his mother sat a little apart at an open window.