On the floor there were two straw mats, one piled on top of the other; and in a corner were spread a mattress and a bolster, nothing more.

Inside there Coupeau was dancing and yelling, his blouse in tatters and his limbs beating the air.
He wore the mask of one about to die.

What a breakdown! He bumped up against the window, then retired backwards, beating time with his arms and shaking his hands as though he were trying to wrench them off and fling them in somebody's face.

One meets with buffoons in low dancing places who imitate the delirium tremens, only they imitate it badly.
One must see this drunkard's dance if one wishes to know what it is like when gone through in earnest.

The song also has its merits, a continuous yell worthy of carnival-time, a mouth wide open uttering the same hoarse trombone notes for hours together.