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.
Pages:
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374