The image of the young woman, in deep mourning, walking sorrowfully about the woods, was evoked in Marcel’s imagination. Very pretty to be inconsolate at the loss of an old husband! How old could she be? Twenty-five years, perhaps, at the most, and no knowledge of life except grief and sadness. Cesare arose, and took his leave. Marcel accompanied him across the garden to the gate, and there said, with a cordial smile— “Till to-morrow, then, sir, my respectful homage to your sister.” When he had gone, Marcel made his way towards the works, when he saw M. Cardez coming in his direction, even redder than usual, and with a dark frown on his brow. “Ah, M. Marcel, I was calling to see you! I have a great deal of worry, and am indeed very pleased that you are here, so that you may understand yourself, and inform Messieurs Baradier and Graff.” “What is the matter?” “The fact is, the dyers are not pleased with their working hours, and threaten to come out on strike.” “Ah! That is something fresh.” “Fresh? No, it has been coming on for more than three weeks; the plot has only been developing. I was in hopes that, summer coming on, and the hours of daylight being more numerous, some arrangement might be reached. Now there is another cause of grievance. Instead of working more, they want to work less and earn more!” “Ah! Are their claims justified?” The manager, standing upright, cast a look of indignation on the son of his master. “Are workmen’s claims ever justified? This class of people have only one programme: the minimum of work and the maximum of wages.” “After all,” said Marcel, calmly, “they are only like other men.” “Ah, sir, let their ringleaders talk in that way; do not speak so yourself.” “Why not?” “Because, with philanthropic theories, and _laisser-aller_ tendencies, we should soon be no longer masters of our own works; they would put us out of doors.” Marcel looked gravely at the manager, and replied— “My opinion is entirely opposed to yours. I think that if workmen were treated as partners they would work better and keep better discipline. There is a huge misunderstanding between Capital and Labour. They treat one another as enemies, when they ought to proceed in concerted action, like allies.” “Eh? That is downright Socialism.” “No! It is simply co-operation.” “And do you know,” said Cardez, looking slily at Marcel, “what is the principal reason of the discontent of the dyers?” “The principal reason? Then the grievances they have manifested are only a pretext?” “Nothing more. These workmen, in whose lot you are so interested, are full of deceit and treachery; they never show their real motives. Well, the dyers, in their secret meetings, rail at your inventions—they are displeased with your new dyeing processes!” “Ah! The fools!” An expression of triumph appeared on Cardez’s ill-tempered face.