We examined them successively, to see if one of them had not a funnel, showing that it had been tapped at some time or another. But all the barrels were hermetically closed.
Then, after half lifting one to make sure it was full, we went on our knees and, with the blade of a small knife which I carried, I prepared to stave in the bunghole.
At that moment, I seemed to hear, coming from very far, a sort of monotonous chant which I knew well, from often hearing it in the streets of Paris:
“Barrels! … Barrels! … Any barrels to sell? …”
My hand desisted from its work. M. de Chagny had also heard. He said:
“That’s funny! It sounds as if the barrel were singing!”
The song was renewed, farther away:
“Barrels! … Barrels! … Any barrels to sell? …”
“Oh, I swear,” said the viscount, “that the tune dies away in the barrel! …”
We stood up and went to look behind the barrel.
“It’s inside,” said M. de Chagny, “it’s inside!”
But we heard nothing there and were driven to accuse the bad condition of our senses. And we returned to the bunghole. M. de Chagny put his two hands together underneath it and, with a last effort, I burst the bung.
“What’s this?” cried the viscount. “This isn’t water!”