The following day Coqueville, in rising, found the sun already high above the horizon.  The air was softer still, a drowsy sea under a clear sky, one of those times of laziness when it is so good to do nothing.  It was a Wednesday.  Until breakfast time, Coqueville rested from the fête of the previous evening.  Then they went down to the beach to see.

That Wednesday the fish, the Widow Dufeu, M. Mouchel, all were forgotten.  La Queue and Rouget did not even speak of visiting their jam-bins.  Toward three o’clock they sighted some casks.  Four of them were dancing before the village.  The “Zephir” and the “Baleine” went in chase; but as there was enough for all, they disputed no longer.  Each boat had its share.  At six o’clock, after having swept all over the little gulf, Rouget and La Queue came in, each with three casks.  And the fête began again.  The women had brought down tables for convenience.  They had brought benches as well; they set up two cafes in the open air, such as they had at Grandport.  The Mahes were on the left; the Floches on the right, still separated by a bar of sand.  Nevertheless, that evening the Emperor, who went from one group to the other, carried his glasses full, so at to give every one a taste of the six casks.  At about nine o’clock they were much gayer than the night before.

The next day Coqueville could never remember how it had gone to bed.

Thursday the “Zephir” and the “Baleine” caught but four casks, two each, but they were enormous.  Friday the fishing was superb, undreamed of; there were seven casks, three for Rouget and four for La Queue.  Coqueville was entering upon a golden age.  They never did anything any more.  The fishermen, working off the alcohol of the night before, slept till noon.  Then they strolled down to the beach and interrogated the sea.  Their sole anxiety was to know what liquor the sea was going to bring them.  They waited there for hours, their eyes strained; they raised shouts of joy when wreckage appeared.

The women and the children, from the tops of the rocks, pointed with sweeping gestures even to the least bunch of seaweed rolled in by the waves.  And, at all hours, the “Zephir” and the “Baleine” stood ready to leave.  They put out, they beat the gulf, they fished for casks, as they had fished for tun; disdaining now the tame mackerel who capered about in the sun, and the lazy sole rocked on the foam of the water.  Coqueville watched the fishing, dying of laughter on the sands.  Then in the evening they drank the catch.

That which enraptured Coqueville was that the casks did not cease.  When there were no more, there were still more!  The ship that had been lost must truly have had a pretty cargo aboard; and Coqueville became egoist and merry, joked over the wrecked ship, a regular wine-cellar, enough to intoxicate all the fish of the ocean.  Added to that, never did they catch two casks alike; they were of all shapes, of all sizes, of all colors.  Then, in every cask there was a different liquor.  So the Emperor was plunged into profound reveries; he who had drunk everything, he could identify nothing any more.  La Queue declared that never had he seen such a cargo.  The Abbe Radiguet guessed it was an order from some savage king, wishing to set up his wine-cellar.  Coqueville, rocked in mysterious intoxication, no longer tried to understand.

The ladies preferred the “creams”; they had cream of moka, of cacao, of mint, of vanilla.  Marie Rouget drank one night so much anisette that she was sick.

Margot and the other young ladies tapped the curaçao, the bénédictine, the trappistine, the chartreuse.  As to the cassis, it was reserved for the little children.  Naturally the men rejoiced more when they caught cognacs, rums, gins, everything that burned the mouth.  Then surprises produced themselves.  A cask of raki of Chio, flavored with mastic, stupefied Coqueville, which thought that it had fallen on a cask of essence of turpentine.  All the same they drank it, for they must lose nothing; but they talked about it for a long time.  Arrack from Batavia, Swedish eau-de-vie with cumin, tuica calugaresca from Rumania, slivowitz from Servia, all equally overturned every idea that Coqueville had of what one should endure.  At heart they had a weakness for kuemmel and kirschwasser, for liqueurs as pale as water and stiff enough to kill a man.

Heavens! was it possible so many good things had been invented!  At Coqueville they had known nothing but eau-de-vie; and, moreover, not every one at that.  So their imaginations finished in exultation; they arrived at a state of veritable worship, in face of that inexhaustible variety, for that which intoxicates.  Oh! to get drunk every night on something new, on something one does not even know the name of!  It seemed like a fairy-tale, a rain, a fountain, that would spout extraordinary liquids, all the distilled alcohols, perfumed with all the flowers and all the fruits of creation.

So then, Friday evening, there were seven casks on the beach!  Coqueville did not leave the beach.  They lived there, thanks to the mildness of the season.  Never in September had they enjoyed so fine a week.  The fête had lasted since Monday, and there was no reason why it should not last forever if Providence should continue to send them casks; for the Abbe Radiguet saw therein the hand of Providence.  All business was suspended; what use drudging when pleasure came to them in their sleep?  They were all bourgeois, bourgeois who were drinking expensive liquors without having to pay anything at the cafe.  With hands in pocket, Coqueville basked in the sunshine waiting for the evening’s spree.  Moreover, it did not sober up; it enjoyed side by side the gaieties of kuemmel, of kirsch-wasser, of ratafia; in seven days they knew the wraths of gin, the tendernesses of curaçao, the laughter of cognac.  And Coqueville remained as innocent as a new-born child, knowing nothing about anything, drinking with conviction that which the good Lord sent them.

It was on Friday that the Mahes and the Floches fraternized.  They were very jolly that evening.  Already, the evening before, distances had drawn nearer, the most intoxicated had trodden down the bar of sand which separated the two groups.  There remained but one step to take.  On the side of the Floches the four casks were emptying, while the Mahes were equally finishing their three little barrels; just three liqueurs which made the French flag; one blue, one white, and one red.  The blue filled the Floches with jealousy, because a blue liqueur seemed to them something really supernatural.  La Queue, grown good-natured since he had been drunk, advanced, a glass in his hand, feeling that he ought to take the first step as magistrate.

“See here, Rouget,” he stuttered, “will you drink with me?”

“Willingly,” replied Rouget, who was staggering under a feeling of tenderness.

And they fell upon each other’s necks.  Then they all wept, so great was their emotion.  The Mahes and the Floches embraced, they who had been devouring one another for three centuries.  The Abbe Radiguet, greatly touched, again spoke of the finger of God.  They drank to each other in the three liqueurs, the blue, the white, and the red.

“Vive la France!” cried the Emperor.

The blue was worthless, the white of not much account, but the red was really a success.  Then they tapped the casks of the Floches.  Then they danced.  As there was no band, some good-natured boys clapped their hands, whistling, which excited the girls.  The fête became superb.  The seven casks were placed in a row; each could choose that which he liked best.  Those who had had enough stretched themselves out on the sands, where they slept for a while; and when they awoke they began again.  Little by little the others spread the fun until they took up the whole beach.  Right up to midnight they skipped in the open air.  The sea had a soft sound, the stars shone in a deep sky, a sky of vast peace.  It was the serenity of the infant ages enveloping the joy of a tribe of savages, intoxicated by their first cask of eau-de-vie.

Nevertheless, Coqueville went home to bed again.  When there was nothing more left to drink, the Floches and the Mahes helped one another, carried one another, and ended by finding their beds again one way or another.  On Saturday the fête lasted until nearly two o’clock in the morning.  They had caught six casks, two of them enormous.  Fouasse and Tupain almost fought.  Tupain, who was wicked when drunk, talked of finishing his brother.  But that quarrel disgusted every one, the Floches as well as the Mahes.  Was it reasonable to keep on quarreling when the whole village was embracing?  They forced the two brothers to drink together.  They were sulky.  The Emperor promised to watch them.  Neither did the Rouget household get on well.  When Marie had taken anisette she was prodigal in her attentions to Brisemotte, which Rouget could not behold with a calm eye, especially since having become sensitive, he also wished to be loved.  The Abbe Radiguet, full of forbearance, did well in preaching forgiveness; they feared an accident.  “Bah!” said La Queue; “all will arrange itself.  If the fishing is good to-morrow, you will see ­Your health!”

However, La Queue himself was not yet perfect.  He still kept his eye on Delphin and leveled kicks at him whenever he saw him approach Margot.  The Emperor was indignant, for there was no common sense in preventing two young people from laughing.  But La Queue always swore to kill his daughter sooner than give her to “the little one.”  Moreover, Margot would not be willing.

“Isn’t it so?  You are too proud,” he cried.  “Never would you marry a ragamuffin!”

“Never, papa!” answered Margot.

Saturday, Margot drank a great deal of sugary liqueur.  No one had any idea of such sugar.  As she was no longer on her guard, she soon found herself sitting close to the cask.  She laughed, happy, in paradise; she saw stars, and it seemed to her that there was music within her, playing dance tunes.  Then it was that Delphin slipped into the shadow of the casks.  He took her hand; he asked:  “Say, Margot, will you?”

She kept on smiling.  Then she replied:  “It is papa who will not.”

“Oh! that’s nothing,” said the little one; “you know the old ones never will ­provided you are willing, you.”  And he grew bold, he planted a kiss on her neck.  She bridled; shivers ran along her shoulders.  “Stop!  You tickle me.”

But she talked no more of giving him a slap.  In the first place, she was not able to, for her hands were too weak.  Then it seemed nice to her, those little kisses on the neck.  It was like the liqueur that enervated her so deliciously.  She ended by turning her head and extending her chin, just like a cat.

“There!” she stammered, “there under the ear ­that tickles me.  Oh! that is nice!”

They had both forgotten La Queue.  Fortunately the Emperor was on guard.  He pointed them out to the Abbe.

“Look there, Cure ­it would be better to marry them.”

“Morals would gain thereby,” declared the priest sententiously.

And he charged himself with the matter for the morrow.  ’Twas he himself that would speak to La Queue.  Meanwhile La Queue had drunk so much that the Emperor and the Cure were forced to carry him home.  On the way they tried to reason with him on the subject of his daughter; but they could draw from him nothing but growls.  Behind them, in the untroubled night, Delphin led Margot home.

The next day by four o’clock the “Zephir” and the “Baleine” had already caught seven casks.  At six o’clock the “Zephir” caught two more.  That made nine.

Then Coqueville feted Sunday.  It was the seventh day that it had been drunk.  And the fête was complete ­a fête such as no one had ever seen, and which no one will ever see again.  Speak of it in Lower Normandy, and they will tell you with laughter, “Ah! yes, the fête at Coqueville!”