The entire street seemed to be getting drunk on the odors from the Coupeau party.

In the reddish haze from the two lamps, the noise of the party was enough to shut out the rumbling of the last vehicles in the street.

Two policemen rushed over, thinking there was a riot, but on recognizing Poisson, they saluted him smartly and went away between the darkened buildings.
Coupeau was now singing this verse: "On Sundays at Petite Villette, Whene'er the weather's fine, We call on uncle, old Tinette, Who's in the dustman line.
To feast upon some cherry stones The young un's almost wild, And rolls amongst the dust and bones, What a piggish child! What a piggish child!" Then the house almost collapsed, such a yell ascended in the calm warm night air that the shouters applauded themselves, for it was useless their hoping to be able to bawl any louder.
Not one of the party could ever recollect exactly how the carouse terminated.

It must have been very late, it's quite certain, for not a cat was to be seen in the street.

Possibly too, they had all joined hands and danced round the table.