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. 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."

"You have not got my signature, I tell you," cried the Commissary. "Show
me my signatu