They burst into applause even before the end.
"Now, Pere Bru, it's your turn!" said mother Coupeau.

"Sing your song.
The old ones are the best any day!" And everybody turned towards the old man, pressing him and encouraging him.

He, in a state of torpor, with his immovable mask of tanned skin, looked at them without appearing to understand.

They asked him if he knew the "Five Vowels." He held down his head; he could not recollect it; all the songs of the good old days were mixed up in his head.

As they made up their minds to leave him alone, he seemed to remember, and began to stutter in a cavernous voice: "Trou la la, trou la la, Trou la, trou la, trou la la!" His face assumed an animated expression, this chorus seemed to awake some far-off gaieties within him, enjoyed by himself alone, as he listened with a childish delight to his voice which became more and more hollow.
"Say there, my dear," Virginie came and whispered in Gervaise's ear, "I've just been there again, you know.