"Sylvie," called Mme. Vauquer, "bring in some biscuits, and the little
cakes."
"Those little cakes are mouldy graybeards," said Vautrin. "But trot
out the biscuits."
The Bordeaux wine circulated; the dinner table became a livelier scene
than ever, and the fun grew fast and furious. Imitations of the cries
of various animals mingled with the loud laughter; the Museum official
having taken it into his head to mimic a cat-call rather like the
caterwauling of the animal in question, eight voices simultaneously
struck up with the following variations:
"Scissors to grind!"
"Chick-weeds for singing bir-ds!"
"Brandy-snaps, ladies!"
"China to mend!"
"Boat ahoy!"
"Sticks to beat your wives or your clothes!"
"Old clo'!"
"Cherries all ripe!"
But the palm was awarded to Bianchon for the nasal accent with which
he rendered the cry of "Umbrellas to me-end!"
A few seconds later, and there was a head-splitting racket in the
room, a storm of tomfoolery, a sort of cats' concert, with Vautrin as
conductor of the orchestra, the latter keeping an eye the while on
Eugene and Father Goriot. The wine seemed to have gone to their heads
already.
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