Instead of listening further to the conversation of Mowbray and Hoffland, let us follow Jacques, who, mounted as we have seen on a beautiful horse, is gaily passing down the street.
Jacques is clad as usual like a lily of the field, with something of the tulip; he hums a melancholy love song of his own composition, not having yet come into possession of Hoffland's legacy; he smiles and sighs, and after some hesitation, draws rein before the domicile of our friend Sir Asinus, and dismounting, ascends to the apartment of that great political martyr.
Sir Asinus was sitting in an easy chair tuning a violin; his pointed features wearing their usual expression of cynical humor, and his dress wofully negligent.
He had been making a light repast upon crackers and wine, and on the floor lay a tobacco pipe with an exceedingly dirty reed stem, which Jacques, with his usual bad fortune, trod upon and reduced to a bundle of splinters.
"There!" cried Sir Asinus, "there, you have broken my pipe, you awkward cub!"
"Ah," sighed Jacques, gazing upon the splinters with melancholy curiosity; "what you say is very just."
And sitting down, he gazed round him, smiling sadly.
"Nothing better could be expected from you, however, you careless fop!"
And giving one of the violin pegs a wrench, Sir Asinus snapped a string.
"There!" he cried, "you bring bad fortune! whenever you come, I have the devil's own luck."