He made his way towards the office. Through the closed shutters a ray of light announced the presence of M. Cardez in his study. Marcel entered. The manager was seated before his desk writing. On seeing the son of his master he rose at once, and, without waiting to be questioned, began— “Well! what did I tell you, M. Baradier? Here they are in open revolt! And that without the slightest plausible reason! Simply to do as their comrades! Their heads have been turned by the leaders of the strike. I have reasoned and talked gently to them, but all in vain; they are nothing but machines! Ah! you are interested in the workers, now you will learn to know them!” “What measures have you taken?” “I have closed the doors, so that no one may enter without our permission, or without incurring a penal responsibility. Now I am expecting a delegation of the workmen.” “Under what pretext have they ceased work?” “They demand the suppression of sweeping and lighting, the supply of needles at a lower price.” “Is the demand a just one?” “It is something quite new.” “But is it just?” “_Mon Dieu_! Concessions might, doubtless, be granted, but then others would immediately be made. Their grievances would never come to an end. We are only at the beginning. Is it wise to yield all at once?” “Why not give them the impression that we wish them well?” “They would look upon it as a sign of weakness.” Marcel remained pensive. “So the weavers of Troyes are on strike, and are inciting our workmen to follow their example?” “They were at Sainte-Savine yesterday, and to-day they are at Ars. They made sufficient noise; you must have been very busy not to have heard them.” “I was away from home,” said Marcel, embarrassed. “All the same had you been here; that would have made no difference; their plan of action is fixed. They would have insulted you, as they did me, that is all.” “Insulted?” exclaimed Marcel. “Listen.” A vague sound was heard breaking the silence of the night. The harsh untrained voices of the mob were heard singing a kind of workmen’s Marseillaise— “Les patrons, les damnés patrons, Un beau matin, nous les verrons Accrochés au bout d’une branche! En se sentant morts a moitié, C’est alors qu’ils crieront pitié! Mais nous leur repondrons: Dimanche! Retroussez vos manches, luron! Bientôt va commencer la danse. Ayons la victoire, ou mourons Pour notre indépendance! Ayons la victoire, ou mourons Pour notre indépendance!” A shrill clamour, mingled with the shrieks of women and children, followed this threatening refrain; then came a formidable hooting— “Down with Cardez! Down with the manager! To the gallows with him!”