Every one recognized the vinous voice of old Fourchon, to whom the verse must have been peculiarly agreeable; Mouche accompanied in his treble tones.
“Ha! they’re full!” cried old Mother Tonsard to her daughter-in-law; “your father is as red as a grid-iron, and that chip o’ the block as pink as vine-shoot.”
“Your healths!” cried the old man, “and a fine lot of scoundrels you are! All hail!” he said to his granddaughter, whom he spied kissing Bonnebault, “hail, Marie, full of vice! Satan is with three; cursed art thou among women, etcetera. All hail, the company present! you are done for, every one of you! you may just say good-bye to your sheaves. I being news. I always told you the rich would crush us; well now, the Shopman is going to have the law of you! Ha! see what it is to struggle against those bourgeois fellows, who have made so many laws since they got into power that they’ve a law to enforce every trick they play—”
A violent hiccough gave a sudden turn to the ideas of the distinguished orator.
“If Vermichel were only here I’d blow in his gullet, and he’d get an idea of sherry wine. Hey! what a wine it is! If I wasn’t a Burgundian I’d be a Spaniard! It’s God’s own wine! the pope says mass with it—Hey! I’m young again! Say, Courtecuisse! if your wife were only here we’d be young together. Don’t tell me! Spanish wine is worth a dozen of boiled wine. Let’s have a revolution if it’s only to empty the cellars!”
“But what’s your news, papa?” said Tonsard.
“There’ll be no harvest for you; the Shopman has given orders to stop the gleaning.”
“Stop the gleaning!” cried the whole tavern, with one voice, in which the shrill tones of the four women predominated.
“Yes,” said Mouche, “he is going to issue an order, and Groison is to take it round, and post it up all over the canton. No one is to glean except those who have pauper certificates.”
“And what’s more,” said Fourchon, “the folks from the other districts won’t be allowed here at all.”