“They are always little enough,” said M. David, still very indistinct.
“And I throw the word in your teeth!” cried the paper-maker hotly in his turn.
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!”