t 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.

Accustomed as he was to the rubs of his profession, Berthelini was
unpleasantly affected by the landlord's manner.

"Elvira," said he to his wife, "mark my words: Castel-le-Gachis is a
tragic folly."

"Wait till we see what we take," replied Elvira.

"We shall take nothing," replied Berthelini; "we shall feed upon
insults. I have an eye, Elvira; I have a spirit of divination; and this
place is accursed. The landlord has been discourteous, the Commissary
will be brutal, the audience will be sordid and uproarious, and you will
take a cold upon your throat. We have been besotted enough to come; the
die is cast--it will be a second Sedan."

Sedan was a town hateful to the Berthelinis, not only from patriotism
(for they were French, and answered after the flesh to the somewhat
homely name of Duval), but because it had been the scene of their most
sad reverses. In that place they had lain three weeks in pawn for their
hotel bill, and had it not been for a surprising stroke of fortune they
might have been lying there in pawn until this day. To mention the name
of Sedan was for the Berthelinis to dip the brush in earthquake and
eclipse. Count Almaviva slouched his hat with a gesture expressive of
despair, and even Elvira felt as if ill-fortune had been personally
evoked.

"Let us ask for breakfast," said she, with a woman's tact.

The Commissary of Police of Castel-le-Gachis was a large red Commissary,
pimpled, and subject to a strong cutaneous transpiration. I have
repeated the name of his office because he was so very much more a
Commissary than a man. The spirit of his dignity had entered