It chanced one day that Monsieur and Madame Berthelini descended
with two boxes and a guitar in a fat case at the station of the
little town of Castel-le-Gachis, and the omnibus carried them with
their effects to the Hotel of the Black Head. This was a dismal,
conventual building in a narrow street, capable of standing siege
when once the gates were shut, and smelling strangely in the
interior of straw and chocolate and old feminine apparel.
Berthelini paused upon the threshold with a painful premonition.
In some former state, it seemed to him, he had visited a hostelry
that smelt not otherwise, and been ill received.
The landlord, a tragic person in a large felt hat, rose from a
business table under the key-rack, and came forward, removing his
hat with both hands as he did so.
"Sir, I salute you. May I inquire what is your charge for
artists?" inquired Berthelini, with a courtesy at once splendid and
insinuating.
"For artists?" said the landlord. His countenance fell and the
smile of welcome disappeared. "Oh, artists!" he added brutally;
"four francs a day." And he turned his back upon these
inconsiderable customers.
A commercial traveller is received, he also, upon a reduction - yet
is he welcome, yet can he command the fatted calf; but an artist,
had he the manners of an Almaviva, were he dressed like Solomon in
all his glory, is received like a dog and served like a timid lady
travelling alone.
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