round the nearest soldier. The soldiers simply held their sides as they watched him.
“Now then, now then, teach us how it goes! I’ll soon pick it up. How is it?” said the man—a singer and a wag—whom Morel was embracing.
“ Vive Henri Quatre! Vive ce roi valiant! ” sang Morel, winking. “ Ce diable à quatre … ”
“Vivarika! Vif-seruvaru! Sedyablyaka!” repeated the soldier, flourishing his arm and really catching the tune.
“Bravo! Ha, ha, ha!” rose their rough, joyous laughter from all sides.
Morel, wrinkling up his face, laughed too.
“Well, go on, go on!”
“Qui eut le triple talent, De boire, de battre, Et d’être un vert galant.”
“It goes smoothly, too. Well, now, Zaletáev!”
“Ke …” Zaletáev, brought out with effort: “ke-e-e-e,” he drawled, laboriously pursing his lips, “le-trip-tala-de-bu-de-ba, e de-tra-va-ga-la” he sang.
“Fine! Just like the