But he shrugged his shoulders. What would be the good? It was always the same. When he ventured to complain things went worse than ever. “You know the Bobbin fellows have got their club now,” said Mignot, all at once. “Yes, my boy, the 'Bobbin Club.' It's held at a tavern in the Rue Saint-Honoré, where they hire a room on Saturdays.” He was speaking of the mercery salesmen. The whole table began to joke. Between two mouthfuls, with his voice still thick, each one made some remark, added a detail; the obstinate readers alone remained mute, absorbed, their noses buried in some newspapers. It could not be denied; shopmen were gradually assuming a better style; nearly half of them now spoke English or German. It was no longer good form to go and kick up a row at Bullier, to prowl about the music-halls for the pleasure of hissing ugly singers. No; a score of them got together and formed a club. “Have they a piano like the linen-drapers?” asked Liénard. “I should rather think they have a piano!” exclaimed Mignot. “And they play, my boy, and sing! There's even one of them, little Bavoux, who recites verses.” The gaiety redoubled, they chaffed little Bavoux, but still beneath this laughter there lay a great respect. They then spoke of a piece at the Vaudeville, in which a counter-jumper played a nasty part, which annoyed several of them, whilst others were anxiously wondering what time they would get away, having invitations to pass the evening at friends' houses; and from all points were heard similar conversations amidst the increasing noise of the crockery. To drive out the odour of the food--the warm steam which rose from the five hundred plates--the windows had been opened, while the lowered blinds were scorching in the heavy August sun. An ardent breath came in from the street, golden reflections yellowed the ceiling, bathing in a reddish light the perspiring eaters. “A nice thing to shut people up such a fine Sunday as this!” repeated Favier. This reflection brought them back to the stock-taking. It was a splendid year. And they went on to speak of the salaries--the rises--the eternal subject, the stirring question which occupied them all. It was always thus on chicken days, a wonderful excitement declared itself, the noise at last became insupportable. When the waiters brought the artichokes one could not hear one's self speak. The inspector on duty had orders to be indulgent. “By the way,” cried out Favier, “you've heard the news?” But his voice was drowned. Mignot was asking: “Who doesn't like artichoke; I'll sell my dessert for an artichoke.” No one replied. Everybody liked artichoke. This lunch would be counted amongst the good ones, for peaches were to be given for dessert. “He has invited her to dinner, my dear fellow,” said Favier to his right-hand neighbour, finishing his story. “What! you didn't know it?”