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Lejeune, with a sinking heart, sat down on the music-stool; he had never touched a piano in his life. 'Zhooey, zhooey! repeated the landowner. In desperation, the unhappy man beat on the keys as though on a drum, and played at hazard.
'Sauvez-moi, sauvez-moi, mon bon monsieur! repeated Lejeune. 'There, see what a wretched people they are! Not one of them knows Russian! Muzeek, muzeek, savey muzeek voo? savey? Well, speak, do! Compreny? savey muzeek voo? on the piano, savey zhooey? Lejeune comprehended at last what the landowner meant, and persistently nodded his head.
You were always entreating me to have you taught music and the French jargon; here you have a Frenchman, and he plays on the piano.... Come, mossoo, he went on, pointing to a wretched little instrument he had bought five years before of a Jew, whose special line was eau de Cologne, 'give us an example of your art; zhooey!
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