"Well, but you are not giving me the game at all. There, it's all up with my play--I was used to that cue," and M. Bourjot gave vent to his feelings in an oath. "These rascals of workmen--they haven't any conscience at all. There's no getting anything well made in these days. Well, you _are_ scoring: three, I'll mark it. The fact is we are at their service. The other day, now, I wanted some chandeliers put up. Well, would you believe it, M. Mauperin, I couldn't get a man? It was a holiday--I forget what holiday it was--and they would not come--they are the lords of creation, nowadays. Do you imagine that they ever bring us anything of what they shoot or fish? Oh, no, when they get anything dainty they eat it themselves. I know what it is in Paris--four? Oh, come now! Every penny they earn is spent at the wine-shop. On Sundays they spend at least a sovereign. The locksmith here has a Lefaucheux gun and takes out a shooting license. Ah, two for me at last! And the money they ask now for their work! Why, they want four shillings a day for mowing! I have vineyards in Burgundy, and they proposed to see to them for me for three years, and then the third year they would be their own. This is what we are coming to! Luckily for me I'm an old man, so that it won't be in my time; but in a hundred years from now there will be no such thing as being waited on--there'll be no servants. I often say to my wife and daughter: 'You'll see--the day will come when you will have to make your own beds. Five?--six?--- you _do_ know how to play. The Revolution has done for us, you know." And M. Bourjot began to hum: "'Et zonzon, zonzon, zonzon, Zonzon, zonzon---- '" "These were not exactly your ideas some thirty years ago, when we met for the first time; do you remember?" said M. Mauperin with a smile. "That's true. I had some fine ideas in those days--too fine!" replied M. Bourjot, resting his left hand on his cue. "Ah, we were young--I should just think I do remember. It was at Lallemand's funeral.--By Jove! that was the best blow I ever gave in my life--a regular knock-you-down. I can see the nails in that police inspector's boots now, when I had landed him on the ground so that I could cross the boulevards. At the corner of the Rue Poissonniere I came upon a patrol--they set about me with a vengeance. I was with Caminade--you knew Caminade, didn't you? He was a lively one. He was the man who used to go and smoke his pipe at the mission service belonging to the Church of the Petits-Peres. He went with his meerschaum pipe that cost nearly sixty pounds, and he took a girl from the Palais-Royal. He was lucky, for he managed to escape, but they took me to the police station, belabouring me with the butt-end of their guns. Fortunately Dulaurens caught sight of me----" "Ah--Dulaurens!" said M. Mauperin. "We were in the same Carbonari society. He had a shawl shop, it seems to me." "Yes, and do you know what became of him?" "No. I lost sight of him."