Vieillecloche in his haranguing embroidered his theme with violent gestures which sent the skirts of his coat flying around his thin body.
The Punch d’Indignation
Phil was not sorry to have come. The inventions of this crank amused him, most of all when the orator, rising to higher flights, brought out personal facts so as “to enter into the domain of practical things.” Vieillecloche calmed down. The storm-tossed skirts of his coat fell. He was no longer the roaring tribune of the people: he was the statesman, speaking calmly and coolly. He held one hand between the buttons of his waistcoat, and the other behind his back, like Napoleon. To begin with, according to him, these facts would never have taken place if they had only listened to him.
A quarter of an hour of counsels followed, in which there were insurrections and barricades, blood and glory, and à bas! and vive!
“But if the sword remains in the scabbard,” Vieillecloche concluded, “let the people, at least, console despoiled genius with their songs; let the old Gaulish gaiety inflict its avenging laugh on the robber of its glory!”
As Vieillecloche retired amid ironic applause, a long-haired poet came out on the platform and a hurdy-gurdy ground out despairingly such an air as goats dance to. Phil looked at the furious grinder and gave a cry of astonishment: “Poufaille!”
“What is Poufaille doing here? And why does he look so furious?” Phil asked himself, as he saw the sculptor’s wrathful head leaning over the hurdy-gurdy whose crank he turned with rage.