"Ha! they're full!" cried old Mother Tonsard to her daughter-in-law;
"your father is as red as a grid-iron, and that chip o' the block as
pink as vine-shoot."

"Your healths!" cried the old man, "and a fine lot of scoundrels you
are! All hail!" he said to his granddaughter, whom he spied kissing
Bonnebault, "hail, Marie, full of vice! Satan is with three; cursed
art thou among women, etcetera. All hail, the company present! you are
done for, every one of you! you may just say good-bye to your sheaves.
I being news. I always told you the rich would crush us; well now, the
Shopman is going to have the law of you! Ha! see what it is to
struggle against those bourgeois fellows, who have made so many laws
since they got into power that they've a law to enforce every trick
they play--"

A violent hiccough gave a sudden turn to the ideas of the
distinguished orator.

"If Vermichel were only here I'd blow in his gullet, and he'd get an
idea of sherry wine. Hey! what a wine it is! If I wasn't a Burgundian
I'd be a Spaniard! It's God's own wine! the pope says mass with it
-- Hey! I'm young again! Say, Courtecuisse! if your wife were only here
we'd be young together. Don't tell me! Spanish wine is worth a dozen
of boiled wine. Let's have a revolution if it's only to empty the
cellars!"

"But what's your news, papa?" said Tonsard.

"There'll be no harvest for you; the Shopman has given orders to stop
the gleaning."