The marshals were pierrots and
clowns on long stilts, who towered in a ghostly way above the crowd. They
were cheerful, fantastic revellers, singing the maddest and silliest of
songs, with singular refrains and repetitions. The last line of one verse
was the beginning of another:
"A Saint Malo, beau port de mer,
Trois gros navir' sont arrives.
Trois gros navir' sont arrives
Charges d'avoin', charges de ble."
For an hour and more their fantastic songs delighted the simple folk.
They stopped at last in front of the Louis Quinze. The windows of
Valmond's chambers were alight, and to one a staff was fastened. Suddenly
the Kalathumpians quieted where they stood, for the voice of their
leader, a sort of fat King of Yvetot, cried out:
"See there, my noisy children!" It was the inventive lime-burner who
spoke. "What come you here for, my rollicking blades?"
"We are a long way from home; we are looking for our brother, your
Majesty," they cried in chorus.
"Ha, ha! What is your brother like, jolly dogs?"
"He has a face of ivory, and eyes like torches, and he carries a silver
sword.
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