She did it so well that the party then begged mother Coupeau to sing
“The Mouse.”
The old woman refused, vowing that she did not know that naughty song. Yet she started off with the remnants of her broken voice; and her wrinkled face with its lively little eyes underlined the allusions, the terrors of Mademoiselle Lise drawing her skirts around her at the sight of a mouse.
All the table laughed; the women could not keep their countenances, and continued casting bright glances at their neighbors; it was not indecent after all, there were no coarse words in it.
All during the song Boche was playing mouse up and down the legs of the lady coal-dealer.
Things might have gotten a bit out of line if Goujet, in response to a glance from Gervaise, had not brought back the respectful silence with “The Farewell of Abdul-Kader,” which he sang out loudly in his bass voice.
The song rang out from his golden beard as if from a brass trumpet.
All the hearts skipped a beat when he cried, “Ah, my noble comrade!” referring to the warrior’s black mare. They burst into applause even before the end.
“Now, Pere Bru, it’s your turn!” said mother Coupeau.
“Sing your song.
The old ones are the best any day!”
And everybody turned towards the old man, pressing him and encouraging him.
He, in a state of torpor, with his immovable mask of tanned skin, looked at them without appearing to understand.
They asked him if he knew the “Five Vowels.” He held down his head; he could not recollect it; all the songs of the good old days were mixed up in his head.
As they made up their minds to leave him alone, he seemed to remember, and began to stutter in a cavernous voice:
“Trou la la, trou la la,
Trou la, trou la, trou la la!”
His face assumed an animated expression, this chorus seemed to awake some far-off gaieties within him, enjoyed by himself alone, as he listened with a childish delight to his voice which became more and more hollow.
“Say there, my dear,” Virginie came and whispered in Gervaise’s ear,
“I’ve just been there again, you know.
It worried me.
Well! Lantier has disappeared from Francois’s.”
“You didn’t meet him outside?” asked the laundress.
“No, I walked quickly, not as if I was looking for him.”
But Virginie raised her eyes, interrupted herself and heaved a smothered sigh.
“Ah! Mon Dieu!
He’s there, on the pavement opposite; he’s looking this way.”
Gervaise, quite beside herself, ventured to glance in the direction indicated.
Some persons had collected in the street to hear the party sing.
And Lantier was indeed there in the front row, listening and coolly looking on.
It was rare cheek, everything considered.
Gervaise felt a chill ascend from her legs to her heart, and she no longer dared to move, whilst old Bru continued:
“Trou la la, trou la la,
Trou la, trou la, trou la la!”
“Very good. Thank you, my ancient one, that’s enough!” said Coupeau.
“Do you know the whole of it?
You shall sing it for us another day when we need something sad.”
This raised a few laughs.
The old fellow stopped short, glanced round the table with his pale eyes and resumed his look of a meditative animal.
Coupeau called for more wine as the coffee was finished.
Clemence was eating strawberries again.
With the pause in singing, they began to talk about a woman who had been found hanging that morning in the building next door.
It was Madame Lerat’s turn, but she required to prepare herself.
She dipped the corner of her napkin into a glass of water and applied it to her temples because she was too hot.
Then, she asked for a thimbleful of brandy, drank it, and slowly wiped her lips.
“The ‘Child of God,’ shall it be?” she murmured, “the
‘Child of God.’“
And, tall and masculine-looking, with her bony nose and her shoulders as square as a grenadier’s she began:
“The lost child left by its mother alone
Is sure of a home in Heaven above,