"I think," said my mother-in-law, "that it would be better for the walls and for the piano if you passed it directly into the street by the window."
"Hold your tongue," answered the kind officer, "you know nothing about it. The piano will go through the passage."
It went through, and took with it much of the wainscot. The Hussars made a great deal of bustle, sweating blood and water. "Peuh!" Yvonne whispered in my ear, "those fellows have no muscles, they are but fat. Two years ago, when we moved to Passy, the same piano was carried in by a single, small, hunchbacked man. But look at that!"
Bouillot acted the busybody, moved to and fro, jested with his men, and by way of encouragement gave them sound slaps in the small of the back. It was easy to see that these people, or at least their forefathers, had tended the swine in the forests of old Germany. At last by dint of effort the instrument was taken out of the house, carried along the pavement, and hoisted into the cart. The Hussars served as horses. Gee-ho! They rushed forward, but in the courtyard the carriage gave a start, and the piano—with intent to commit suicide—bounded out and fell to the ground. After a few convulsions, and one last writhe of agony, it lay quiet.
"Oh! my beautiful Pleyel," cried Yvonne.
Some fragments of wood had been knocked off; Bouillot picked them up:
"It will be easy to mend." They gave the piano a lift, and made for the farm. All along the street we saw it skip along in its jolting car; the ravishers scoffingly waved their hands, and mocked at us until they were lost sight of behind a screen of snow.
Two days after a new joke of the same kind. Bouillot and his whole gang broke in noisily:
"I want two chairs."
"All right," my mother-in-law answered, "I will give orders for them to be brought down."