But before I could reply there was a great noise, outside on the gallery, of shuffling feet and smothered whispers, and mademoiselle clapped her hands and cried:
"La Guignolée!" And at the same moment there arose, to the quaintest air, a chorus of men's voices:
"Bon soir, le maître et la maîtresse,
Et tout le monde du logis!
Pour le premier jour de l'année
La Guignolée vous nous devez.
Si vous n'avez rien à nous donner,
Dites-nous le;
Nous vous demandons pas grande chose, une échinée—
Une échinée n'est pas bien longue
De quatre-vingt-dix pieds de longue.
Encore nous demandons pas de grande chose,
La fille ainée de la maison.
Nous lui ferons faire bonne chère—
Nous lui ferons chauffer les pieds."
Horrified at these last words of the song, I scarcely dared glance at mademoiselle; but when I did dare, to my amazement, she was smiling good-humoredly, and I saw the words meant nothing to her. But the chorus was interrupted at that moment by a single voice which I recognized at once as Josef Papin's, singing a ditty about doves and cuckoos and nightingales, and winding up by declaring that he was dying for the soft eyes of his mistress. I saw that mademoiselle recognized the voice, too, and I was vexed to see the bright color and downcast eyes that betokened she understood these words perfectly.
But the chorus began again immediately:
"Nous saluons la compagnie
Et la prions nous excuser.
Si l'on a fait quelque folie."
(I thought this apology most becoming.)
"C'était pour vous désennuyer;
Une autre fois nous prendrons garde
Quand sera temps d'y revenir.
Dansons la guenille,
Dansons la guenille,
Dansons la guenille!"
And then the doors were flung open, and there burst in upon us a motley crew of grotesque and hideous masks, each one bearing a basket or bucket or sack, and all singing and shouting in every key and in no time:
"Bon soir, le maître et la maîtresse,
Et tout le monde du logis!"