The undaunted Berthelini still continued to proclaim, “Y a des honnêtes 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 Champêtre; 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 Champêtre, who remained respectfully standing at his back. The eyes of both were directed upon Berthelini, who persisted in his statement.
“Y a des honnêtes 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 Léon, stopping in his song.
“It is you,” replied the potentate.
“Fichu Commissaire!” thought Léon, 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 café without my permission?”
“Without?” cried the indignant Léon. “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.”