CHAPTER II
The audience was pretty large; and the proprietor of the café made a goodthing of it in beer. But the Berthelinis exerted themselves in vain.
Léon was radiant in velveteen; he had a rakish way of smoking a cigarettebetween his songs that was worth money in itself; he underlined his comicpoints, so that the dullest numskull in Castel-le-Gâchis had a notionwhen 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 romanticdrama; it was so dashing, so florid, and so cavalier.
Elvira, on the other hand, sang her patriotic and romantic songs withmore than usual expression; her voice had charm and plangency; and asLéon looked at her, in her low-bodied maroon dress, with her arms bare tothe shoulder, and a red flower set provocatively in her corset, herepeated to himself for the many hundredth time that she was one of theloveliest creatures in the world of women.
Alas! when she went round with the tambourine, the golden youth ofCastel-le-Gâchis turned from her coldly. Here and there a singlehalfpenny was forthcoming; the net result of a collection never exceededhalf a franc; and the Maire himself, after seven different applications,had contributed exactly twopence. A certain chill began to settle uponthe artists themselves; it seemed as if they were singing to slugs;Apollo himself might have lost heart with such an audience. TheBerthelinis struggled against the impression; they put their back intotheir work, they sang loud and louder, the guitar twanged like a livingthing; and at last Léon arose in his might, and burst with inimitableconviction into his great song, “Y a des honnêtes gens partout!” Neverhad he given more proof of his artistic mastery; it was his intimate,indefeasible conviction that Castel-le-Gâchis formed an exception to thelaw he was now lyrically proclaiming, and was peopled exclusively bythieves and bullies; and yet, as I say, he flung it down like achallenge, he trolled it forth like an article of faith; and his face sobeamed the while that you would have thought he must make converts of thebenches.
He was at the top of his register, with his head thrown back and hismouth open, when the door was thrown violently open, and a pair of newcomers marched noisily into the café. It was the Commissary, followed bythe Garde Champêtre.
The undaunted Berthelini still continued to proclaim, “Y a des honnêtesgens partout!” But now the sentiment produced an audible titter amongthe audience. Berthelini wondered why; he did not know the antecedentsof the Garde Champêtre; he had never heard of a little story aboutpostage stamps. But the public knew all about the postage stamps andenjoyed the coincidence hugely.
The Commissary planted himself upon a vacant chair with somewhat the airof Cromwell visiting the Rump, and spoke in occasional whispers to theGarde Champêtre, who remained respectfully standing at his back. Theeyes of both were directed upon Berthelini, who persisted in hisstatement.
“Y a des honnêtes gens partout,” he was just chanting for the twentiethtime; when up got the Commissary upon his feet and waved brutally to thesinger with his cane.
“Is it me you want?” inquired Léon, stopping in his song.
“It is you,” replied the potentate.
“Fichu Commissaire!” thought Léon, and he descended from the stage andmade his way to the functionary.
“How does it happen, sir,” said the Commissary, swelling in person, “thatI find you mountebanking in a public café without my permission?”
“Without?” cried the indignant Léon. “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 chooseto give them, and I will not be gagged. I am an artist, sir, adistinction that you cannot comprehend. I received your permission andstand here upon the strength of it; interfere with me who dare.”
“You have not got my signature, I tell you,” cried the Commissary. “Showme my signature! Where is my signature?”
That was just the question; where was his signature? Léon recognisedthat he was in a hole; but his spirit rose with the occasion, and heblustered nobly, tossing back his curls. The Commissary played up to himin the character of tyrant; and as the one leaned farther forward, theother leaned farther back—majesty confronting fury. The audience hadtransferred their attention to this new performance, and listened withthat silent gravity common to all Frenchmen in the neighbourhood of thePolice. Elvira had sat down, she was used to these distractions, and itwas rather melancholy than fear that now oppressed her.
“Another word,” cried the Commissary, “and I arrest you.”
“Arrest me?” shouted Léon. “I defy you!”
“I am the Commissary of Police,” said the official.
Léon commanded his feelings, and replied, with great delicacy ofinnuendo—
“So it would appear.”
The point was too refined for Castel-le-Gâchis; it did not raise a smile;and as for the Commissary, he simply bade the singer follow him to hisoffice, and directed his proud footsteps towards the door. There wasnothing for it but to obey. Léon did so with a proper pantomime ofindifference, but it was a leek to eat, and there was no denying it.
The Maire had slipped out and was already waiting at the Commissary’sdoor. Now the Maire, in France, is the refuge of the oppressed. Hestands between his people and the boisterous rigours of the Police. Hecan sometimes understand what is said to him; he is not always puffed upbeyond measure by his dignity. ’Tis a thing worth the knowledge oftravellers. When all seems over, and a man has made up his mind toinjustice, he has still, like the heroes of romance, a little bugle athis belt whereon to blow; and the Maire, a comfortable _deus ex machinâ_,may still descend to deliver him from the minions of the law. The Maireof Castel-le-Gâchis, although inaccessible to the charms of music asretailed by the Berthelinis, had no hesitation whatever as to the rightsof the matter. He instantly fell foul of the Commissary in very highterms, and the Commissary, pricked by this humiliation, accepted battleon the point of fact. The argument lasted some little while with varyingsuccess, until at length victory inclined so plainly to the Commissary’sside that the Maire was fain to reassert himself by an exercise ofauthority. He had been out-argued, but he was still the Maire. And so,turning from his interlocutor, he briefly but kindly recommended Léon toget back instanter to his concert.
“It is already growing late,” he added.
Léon did not wait to be told twice. He returned to the Café of theTriumphs of the Plough with all expedition. Alas! the audience hadmelted away during his absence; Elvira was sitting in a very disconsolateattitude on the guitar-box; she had watched the company dispersing bytwos and threes, and the prolonged spectacle had somewhat overwhelmed herspirits. Each man, she reflected, retired with a certain proportion ofher earnings in his pocket, and she saw to-night’s board and to-morrow’srailway expenses, and finally even to-morrow’s dinner, walk one afteranother out of the café door and disappear into the night.
“What was it?” she asked languidly. But Léon did not answer. He waslooking round him on the scene of defeat. Scarce a score of listenersremained, and these of the least promising sort. The minute hand of theclock was already climbing upward towards eleven.
“It’s a lost battle,” said he, and then taking up the money-box he turnedit out. “Three francs seventy-five!” he cried, “as against four of boardand six of railway fares; and no time for the tombola! Elvira, this isWaterloo.” And he sat down and passed both hands desperately among hiscurls. “O Fichu Commissaire!” he cried, “Fichu Commissaire!”
“Let us get the things together and be off,” returned Elvira. “We mighttry another song, but there is not six halfpence in the room.”
“Six halfpence?” cried Léon, “six hundred thousand devils! There is nota human creature in the town—nothing but pigs and dogs and commissaires!Pray heaven, we get safe to bed.”
“Don’t imagine things!” exclaimed Elvira, with a sh
udder.
And with that they set to work on their preparations. The tobacco-jar,the cigarette-holder, the three papers of shirt-studs, which were to havebeen the prices of the tombola had the tombola come off, were made into abundle with the music; the guitar was stowed into the fat guitar-case;and Elvira having thrown a thin shawl about her neck and shoulders, thepair issued from the café and set off for the Black Head.
As they crossed the market-place the church bell rang out eleven. It wasa dark, mild night, and there was no one in the streets.
“It is all very fine,” said Léon; “but I have a presentiment. The nightis not yet done.”
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