into him.
He carried his corporation as if it were something official. Whenever he
insulted a common citizen it seemed to him as if he were adroitly
flattering the Government by a side-wind; in default of dignity he was
brutal from an over-weening sense of duty. His office was a den, whence
passers-by could hear rude accents laying down, not the law, but the
good pleasure of the Commissary.

Six several times in the course of the day did M. Berthelini hurry
thither in quest of the requisite permission for his evening's
entertainment; six several times he found the official was abroad. Leon
Berthelini began to grow quite a familiar figure in the streets of
Castel-le-Gachis; he became a local celebrity, and was pointed out as
"the man who was looking for the Commissary." Idle children attached
themselves to his footsteps, and trotted after him back and forward
between the hotel and the office. Leon might try as he liked; he might
roll cigarettes, he might straddle, he might cock his hat at a dozen
different jaunty inclinations--the part of Almaviva was, under the
circumstances, difficult to play.

As he passed the market-place upon the seventh excursion the Commissary
was pointed out to him, where he stood, with his waistcoat unbuttoned
and his hands behind his back, to superintend the sale and measurement
of butter. 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
hou