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.
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