“Since his mother’s death he drinks and gambles, and has contracted debts. He is a wonderful draughtsman, and has high wages, but spends them before he has them. He has promised us all to reform, but he breaks his promises as fast as he makes them. I have paid his debts for him several times, but I can never do it again. I have my own family, you see, and Zénaïde is growing up, and she must be established. Poor girl! Women have more sense than we. I wanted her to marry her cousin, but she would not consent. Now we are trying to separate him from his bad acquaintances here, and the Director has found a situation at Nantes; but I dare say the obstinate fellow will object. You will reason with him to-night, can’t you? He will, perhaps, listen to you.” “I will see what I can do,” answered Labassandre, pompously. As they talked they reached the main street, crowded at this hour with all classes of people, some in mechanics’ blouses, others wearing coats. Jack was struck with the contrast presented by a crowd like this to one in Paris, composed of similar classes. Labassandre was greeted with enthusiasm. The whisper went about that he received a hundred thousand francs per year for merely singing. His theatrical costume won universal admiration, and his bland smile shone first on one side and then on the other, as he nodded patronizingly to first one and then another of his old friends. At the door of Rondic’s house stood a young woman talking to a youth two or three steps below. Jack thought she must be the old man’s daughter, and then remembered that he had married a second time. She was tall and slender, young and pretty, with a gentle face, white throat, and a graceful head which bent slightly forward as if bowed by its rich weight of hair. Unlike the Breton peasants, she wore no cap; her light dress and black apron were totally unlike the costume of a working woman. “Is she not pretty?” asked Rondic of his brother. “She has been giving a lecture to her nephew.” Madame Rondic turned at that moment, and greeted them warmly. “I hope,” she said to the child, “that you will be happy with us.” They entered the house, and as they took their seats at the table, Labassandre said with a theatrical start, “And where is Zénaïde?” “We will not wait for her,” answered Rondic; “she will be here presently. She is at work now at the château, for she has become a famous seamstress.” “Indeed! Then she must have learned also to keep her temper well under control, if she can work at the Director’s,” said Labassandre, “for he is such an arrogant, haughty person—” “You are very much mistaken,” interrupted Rondic; “he is, on the contrary, a most excellent man; strict, perhaps, but when a master has to manage two thousand operatives, he must be somewhat of a disciplinarian. Is not that so, Clarisse?” and the old man turned to his wife, who, seemingly occupied with her dinner, paid no attention to him. A certain preoccupation was very evident.