It is not the fashion, except among plain-spoken
habitans, who always talk downright Norman." Master Pothier looked
approvingly at Colonel Philibert, who, listening with indignant
ears, scarcely heeded his guide.
"That is a jolly song, your Honor," continued Pothier, waving one
hand in cadence to a ditty in praise of wine, which a loud voice was
heard singing in the Chateau, accompanied by a rousing chorus which
startled the very pigeons on the roof and chimney-stacks. Colonel
Philibert recognized the song as one he had heard in the Quartier
Latin, during his student life in Paris--he fancied he recognized
the voice also:
"'Pour des vins de prix
Vendons tous nos livres!
C'est pen d'etre gris,
Amis, soyons ivres!
Bon.
La Faridondaine!
Gai.
La Faridonde!'"
A roar of voices and a clash of glasses followed the refrain.
Master Pothier's eyes winked and blinked in sympathy. The old
notary stood on tiptoe, with outspread palms, as with ore rotundo
he threw in a few notes of his own to fill up the chorus.
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