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.
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