Puffs of hot air, a smell of oil and of iron, accompanied by an impalpable black dust, a dust that was as sharp as needles and sparkled like diamonds,—all this Jack felt; but the peculiar characteristic of the place was a certain jarring, something like the effort of an enormous beast to shake off the chains that bound him in some subterranean dungeon. They had now reached an old château of the time of the League. “Here we are,” said Rondic; and addressing his brother, “Will you go up with us?” “Indeed I will; I am, besides, by no means unwilling to see ‘the monkey’ once more, and to show him that I have become somebody and something.” He pulled down his velvet vest, and glanced at his yellow boots and knapsack. Rondic made no remark, but seemed somewhat annoyed. They passed through the low postern; on either side of the hall were small and badly lighted rooms, where clerks were very busy writing. In the inner room, a man with a stern and haughty face sat writing under a high window. “Ah, it is you, Père Rondic!” “Yes, sir; I come to present the new apprentice, and to thank you for—” “This is the prodigy, then, is it? It seems, young man, that you have an absolute talent for mechanics. But, Rondic, he does not look very strong. Is he delicate?” “No, sir; on the contrary, I have been assured that he is remarkably robust.” “Remarkably,” repeated Labassandre, coming forward, and, in reply to the astonished glance of the Director, proceeded to say that he left the manufactory six years before to join the opera in Paris. “Ah, yes, I remember,” answered the Director, coldly enough, rising at the same time as if to indicate that the conversation was at an end. “Take away your apprentice, Rondic, and try and make a good workman of him. Under you he must turn out well.” The opera-singer, vexed at having produced no effect, went away somewhat crestfallen. Rondic lingered and said a few words to his master, and then the two men and the child descended the stairs together, each with a different impression. Jack thought of the words “he does not look very strong,” while Labassandre digested his own mortification as he best might. “Has anything gone wrong?” he suddenly asked his brother,—“the Director seems even more surly now than in my day.” “No; he spoke to me of Chariot, our poor sister’s son, who is giving us a great deal of trouble.” “In what way?” asked the artist.