This strong and energetic old man understood that his son had taken the wrong turning and ought to be led back, but he did not know how to do it.
Late at night Ferdinand returned home in an excellent temper. He looked for his father in all the rooms, left the doors open, and beat a tattoo on tables and chairs with his walking-stick, singing in a loud and false baritone:
"Allons, enfants de la patrie...."
He reached the study and stood before his father, with his Scotch cap perched on the back of his head, his waistcoat unbuttoned, and smelling of wine; sparks of mirth, untempered by reason, were burning in his eyes. When he came to the line
"Aux armes, citoyens!"
his enthusiasm was such that he flourished his cane over his father's head.
The old man was not accustomed to people who waved sticks over him. He sprang up from his chair, and looking fiercely at his son, cried: "You are drunk, you scoundrel!"
Ferdinand stepped back and said coolly: "Please don't call me a scoundrel, father; if I get accustomed to being called such names at home, it might not make the slightest difference to me if anyone else called me or my father these names. One can get accustomed to anything."
The moderate tone and clear exposition did not fail to impress the cotton-spinner.
"You are without honour," he said after a while; "you wanted to seduce old Boehme's daughter."