Clopin, unfortunately, was trapped in the same situation. Some time ago, the Parisian gypsies had been discovered, and he had been sold into slavery. He had no way of finding out what had happened to his people, and after over a year, he doubted he ever would. Nothing killed a gypsy's spirit like being owned and trapped.
Yet, even with no hope, Clopin was often obstinate, leading to plenty of whippings. He had earned such a whipping already that day from mocking their master whilst performing (at the master's order, of course).
He staggered into the slave quarters, sitting down on the ground and peeling off his tunic. His back was a mess, new lash marks crisscrossing old, and he was chuckling softly despite the obvious pain he was in.