The dispute aroused small interest amongst the near bystanders, whose attention was otherwise engaged. One or two, however, gave a pricked ear to it. “I am a kind master,” continued the angry manufacturer. “I dare any one to refute it. How many hands do I employ, monsieur, do you think? Not a few, monsieur, not a few; and of them all, two-thirds are here this afternoon--here in these gardens, with permission, though I suffer by it, to attend the _fête_ of the balloon.” He spoke the last words uncommonly loudly. The painter burst into a louder laugh, that distorted his face horribly. “My exquisite Reveillon,” he said, advancing and endeavouring to take the other’s arm, only to be peevishly repulsed. “My dear soul, you are admirable! I see crystallised in you every chief characteristic of the latter-day Parisian.” “Very well,” said the Sieur Reveillon, sullen and glowering: “see what you like; I do not care.” “To lay down one’s work a moment to applaud the emancipation of a people: to make a national _fête_ of a balloon ascent!” He tried to affect an air of humorous dilemma; but the part was beyond him. “Oh!” he cried savagely, paraphrasing La Fontaine, and stamping his foot on the ground: “_On fit parler les morts; personne ne s’émut_!” By a strong effort he controlled himself. “Good M. Reveillon,” he said, “understand that my wits are _my_ employés. If, following your edifying example, I give them an outing, I must accompany them like a schoolmaster. Thus your penetration may divine the reason why I do not lie abed on this rare occasion of a holiday, which, as your plutocratship suggests, should be an excuse for rest to all poor devils of workmen.” A young mechanic, in his squalor and hungering leanness, simply typical of his class, hurried by at the moment, eagerly seeking a place to view. His roving eyes, catching those of the paper manufacturer, took a hostile, half-anxious expression as he went on his way with a louting salutation. “One of the two-thirds?” asked David. “A testimony, indeed, to the fostering kindness of the Sieur _Papetier_.” “Bah!” cried Reveillon. “It is the cant. The successful must always be held responsible for the ineptitude of the improvident. He that passed was a journeyman; and a journeyman may live very handsomely on fifteen sous a-day, if he is sober and prudent. I have been through it and I know. I have no false pride, monsieur _le peintre du Roi_. I was apprentice--journeyman myself--before I was master.”