audience will be sordid and uproarious, and you will take a cold upon your throat. We have been besotted enough to come; the die is cast - it will be a second Sedan.'
Sedan was a town hateful to the Berthelinis, not only from patriotism (for they were French, and answered after the flesh to the somewhat homely name of Duval), but because it had been the scene of their most sad reverses. In that place they had lain three weeks in pawn for their hotel bill, and had it not been for a surprising stroke of fortune they might have been lying there in pawn until this day. To mention the name of Sedan was for the Berthelinis to dip the brush in earthquake and eclipse. Count Almaviva slouched his hat with a gesture expressive of despair, and even Elvira felt as if ill-fortune had been personally invoked.
'Let us ask for breakfast,' said she, with a woman's tact.
The Commissary of Police of Castel-le-Gachis was a large red Commissary, pimpled, and subject to a strong cutaneous transpiration. I have repeated the name of his office because he was so very much more a Commissary than a man. The spirit of his dignity had entered into him. He carried his corporation as if it were something official. Whenever he insulted a common citizen it seemed to him as if he were adroitly flattering the Government by a side wind; in default of dignity he was brutal from an overweening sense of duty. His office was a den, whence passers- by could hear rude accents laying down, not the law, but the good pleasure of the Commissary.
Six several times in the course of the day did M. Berthelini hurry thither in quest of the requisite permission for his evening's entertainment; six several times he found the official was abroad. Leon Berthelini began to grow quite a familiar figure in the streets of Castel-le-Gachis; he became a local celebrity, and was pointed out as 'the man who was looking for the Commissary.' Idle children attached themselves to his footsteps, and trotted after him back and forward between the hotel and the office. Leon might try as he liked; he might roll cigarettes, he might straddle, he might cock his hat at a dozen different jaunty inclinations - the part of Almaviva was, under the circumstances, difficult to play.
As he passed the market-place upon the seventh excursion the Commissary was pointed out to him, where he stood, with his waistcoat unbuttoned and his hands behind his back, to superintend the sale and measurement of butter. Berthelini threaded his way through the market stalls and baskets, and accosted the dignitary with a bow which was a triumph of the histrionic art.
'I have the honour,' he asked, 'of meeting M. le Commissaire?'
The Commissary was affected by the nobility of his address. He excelled Leon in the depth if not in the airy grace of his salutation.
'The honour,' said he, 'is mine!'
'I am,' continued the strolling-player, 'I am, sir, an artist, and I have permitted myself to interrupt you on an affair of business. To-night I give a trifling musical entertainment at the Cafe of the Triumphs of the Plough - permit me to offer you this little programme - and I have come to ask you for the necessary authorisation.'
At the word 'artist,' the Commissary had replaced his hat with the air of a person who, having condescended too far, should suddenly remember the duties of his rank.
'Go, go,' said he, 'I am busy - I am measuring butter.'
'Heathen Jew!' thought Leon. 'Permit me, sir,' he resumed aloud. 'I have gone six times already - '
'Put up your bills if you choose,' interrupted the Commissary. 'In an hour or so I will examine your papers at the office. But now go; I am busy.'
'Measuring butter!' thought Berthelini. 'Oh, France, and it is for this that we made '93!'
The preparations were soon made; the bills posted, programmes laid on the dinner-table of every hotel in the town, and a stage erected at one end of the Cafe of the Triumphs of the Plough; but when Leon returned to the office, the Commissary was once more abroad.
'He is like Madame Benoiton,' thought Leon, 'Fichu Commissaire!'
And just then he met the man face to face.
'Here, sir,' said he, 'are my papers. Will you be pleased to verify?'
But the Commissary was now intent upon dinner.
'No use,' he replied, 'no use; I am busy; I am quite satisfied. Give your entertainment.'
And he hurried on.
'Fichu Commissaire!' thought Leon.
CHAPTER II
The audience was pretty large; and the proprietor of the cafe made a good thing of it in beer. But the Berthelinis exerted themselves in vain.
Leon was radiant in velveteen; he had a rakish way of smoking a cigarette between his songs that was worth money in itself; he underlined his comic points, so that the dullest numskull in Castel-le-Gachis had a notion when to laugh; and he handled his guitar in a manner worthy of himself. Indeed his play with that instrument was as good as a whole romantic drama; it was so dashing, so florid, and so cavalier.
Elvira, on the other hand, sang her patriotic and romantic songs with more than usual expression; her voice had charm and plangency; and as Leon looked at her, in her low-bodied maroon dress, with her arms bare to the shoulder, and a red flower set provocatively in her corset, he repeated to himself for the many hundredth time that she was one of the loveliest creatures in the world of women.
Alas! when she went round with the tambourine, the golden youth of Castel-le-Gachis turned from her coldly. Here and there a single halfpenny was forthcoming; the net result of a collection never exceeded half a franc; and the Maire himself, after seven different applications, had contributed exactly twopence. A certain chill began to settle upon the artists themselves; it seemed as if they were singing to slugs; Apollo himself might have lost heart with such an audience. The Berthelinis struggled against the impression; they put their back into their work, they sang loud and louder, the guitar twanged like a living thing; and at last Leon arose in his might, and burst with inimitable conviction into his great song, 'Y a des honnetes gens partout!' Never had he given more proof of his artistic mastery; it was his intimate, indefeasible conviction that Castel-le-Gachis formed an exception to the law he was now lyrically proclaiming, and was peopled exclusively by thieves and bullies; and yet, as I say, he flung it down like a challenge, he trolled it forth like an article of faith; and his face so beamed the while that you would have thought he must make converts of the benches.
He was at the top of his register, with his head thrown back and his mouth open, when the door was thrown violently open, and a pair of new comers marched noisily into the cafe. It was the Commissary, followed by the Garde Champetre.
The undaunted Berthelini still continued to proclaim, 'Y a des honnetes gens partout!' But now the sentiment produced an audible titter among the audience. Berthelini wondered why; he did not know the antecedents of the Garde Champetre; he had never heard of a little story about postage stamps. But the public knew all about the postage stamps and enjoyed the coincidence hugely.
The Commissary planted himself upon a vacant chair with somewhat the air of Cromwell visiting the Rump, and spoke in occasional whispers to the Garde Champetre, who remained respectfully standing at his back. The eyes of both were directed upon Berthelini, who persisted in his statement.
'Y a des honnetes gens partout,' he was just chanting for the twentieth time; when up got the Commissary upon his feet and waved brutally to the singer with his cane.
'Is it me you want?' inquired Leon, stopping in his song.
'It is you,' replied the potentate.
'Fichu Commissaire!' thought Leon, and he descended from the stage and made his way to the functionary.
'How does it happen, sir,' said the Commissary, swelling in person, 'that I find you mountebanking in a public cafe without my permission?'
'Without?' cried the indignant Leon. 'Permit me to remind you - '
'Come, come, sir!' said the Commissary, 'I desire no explanations.'
'I care nothing about what you desire,' returned the singer. 'I choose to give them, and I will not be gagged. I am an artist, sir, a distinction that you cannot comprehend. I received your permission and stand here upon the strength of it; interfere with me who dare.'
