“But I tell you that I’m tired of it,” rejoined Baptiste, shouting louder than ever. “Oh, yes! you hire a black man and you don’t pay me any more’n you do the baker and butcher and fruit woman and grocer, whose abuse I have to listen to every morning! Well! I want my money, and if you don’t like it, I don’t care a hang; with all the airs you put on, I know what’s what.”
“Hush, for heaven’s sake, Baptiste! What’s the meaning of all this foolish talk? Come, my boy, eat another biscuit, and then go to bed.”
Baptiste’s shouting had attracted several persons from the salon.
“What is it? what’s the matter?” they asked one another; and Destival made haste to reply:
“It’s nothing; my valet is drunk and doesn’t know what he’s saying.”
“No, I ain’t drunk either,” cried Baptiste, walking toward the door; “pay me my wages instead of calling me ‘thief.’”
Destival hastily closed the door on Baptiste’s heels and locked it.
“The poor fellow,” he said, “talks like a fool when he’s drunk; but I overlook it, because he’s very much attached to me.”
The people who had come thither pretended to believe what Monsieur Destival said, because it would have been discourteous to do otherwise; but they exchanged stealthy glances, laughed and whispered together, and made comments under their breath, while Baptiste, unable to return to the room, beat a devil’s tattoo on the door, shouting in a hoarse voice:
“My wages! pay me and discharge me; that’s just what I’d like! I get tired of hearing the row your creditors make every day.”