Bing! bing!
“After all,” thought Phil, “there is nothing strange in Poufaille being here. Artists belong to all sorts of provincial and Parisian societies, as if they were really children of the soil, so as to get orders. He might as well grind out a tune at an indignation meeting as Suzanne do the Muse of the South at the Pig’s-Rump Dinner.”
Phil also knew that the “Poets of the Landes” or the “Broom-flower” were only too happy to make themselves heard by a Parisian public, and would not miss an occasion for avenging genius despoiled by cowards, and for declaiming in its honor to the accompaniment of a hurdy-gurdy or bagpipes.
So it was a very simple thing that Poufaille should have offered his services. Meanwhile Vieillecloche had sat down after many a handshake with the notabilities of the committee. It was now the turn of the poet.
The singer on the platform gesticulated to his Norman patois, more monotonous than the fall of rain, while the air of the hurdy-gurdy, piercing and thrilling, filled the hall like a continued wailing from a herd of kids.
“Enough!” cried the public; “be done, fouchtri!”
“To the door!”
“Enough! enough!”
“Silence, François!”
“Ta bouche, bébé!”