The queer thing about Fureux was that, though he was a Communist when sober, he turned violently patriotic when drunk. He started the evening with good Communist principles, but after four or five litres he was a rampant Chauvinist, denouncing spies, challenging all foreigners to fight, and, if he was not prevented, throwing bottles. It was at this stage that he made his speech–for he made a patriotic speech every Saturday night. The speech was always the same, word for word. It ran:

‘Citizens of the Republic, are there any Frenchmen here? If there are any Frenchmen here, I rise to remind them–to remind them in effect, of the glorious days of the war. When one looks back upon that time of comradeship and heroism–one looks back, in effect, upon that time of comradeship and heroism. When one remembers the heroes who are dead–one remembers, in effect, the heroes who are dead. Citizens of the Republic, I was wounded at Verdun——’

Here he partially undressed and showed the wound he had received at Verdun. There were shouts of applause. We thought nothing in the world could be funnier than this speech of Fureux’s. He was a well-known spectacle in the quarter; people used to come in from other bistros to watch him when his fit started.

The word was passed round to bait Fureux. With a wink to the others someone called for silence, and asked him to sing the ‘Marseillaise’. He sang it well, in a fine bass voice, with patriotic gurgling noises deep down in his chest when he came to ‘Aux arrmes, citoyens! Forrmez vos bataillons!’ Veritable tears rolled down his cheeks; he was too drunk to see that everyone was laughing at him. Then, before he had finished, two strong workmen seized him by either arm and held him down, while Azaya shouted, ‘Vive l’Allemagne!’ just out of his reach. Fureux’s face went purple at such infamy. Everyone in the bistro began shouting together, ‘Vive l’Allemagne! À bas la France!’ while Fureux struggled to get at them. But suddenly he spoiled the fun. His face turned pale and doleful, his limbs went limp, and before anyone could stop him he was sick on the table. Then Madame F. hoisted him like a sack and carried him up to bed. In the morning he reappeared, quiet and civil, and bought a copy of L’Humanité.