“I know nothing of your baggage,” replied the landlord.
“You detain my baggage? You dare to detain my baggage?” cried the singer.
“Who are you?” returned the landlord. “It is dark—I cannot recognise you.”
“Very well, then—you detain my baggage,” concluded Léon. “You shall smart for this. I will weary out your life with persecutions; I will drag you from court to court; if there is justice to be had in France, it shall be rendered between you and me. And I will make you a by-word—I will put you in a song—a scurrilous song—an indecent song—a popular song—which the boys shall sing to you in the street, and come and howl through these spars at midnight!”
He had gone on raising his voice at every phrase, for all the while the landlord was very placidly retiring; and now, when the last glimmer of light had vanished from the arch, and the last footstep died away in the interior, Léon turned to his wife with a heroic countenance.
“Elvira,” said he, “I have now a duty in life. I shall destroy that man as Eugène Sue destroyed the concierge. Let us come at once to the Gendarmerie and begin our vengeance.”
He picked up the guitar-case, which had been propped against the wall, and they set forth through the silent and ill-lighted town with burning hearts.
The Gendarmerie was concealed beside the telegraph office at the bottom of a vast court, which was partly laid out in gardens; and here all the shepherds of the public lay locked in grateful sleep. It took a deal of knocking to waken one; and he, when he came at last to the door, could find no other remark but that “it was none of his business.” Léon reasoned with him, threatened him, besought him; “here,” he said, “was Madame Berthelini in evening dress—a delicate woman—in an interesting condition”—the last was thrown in, I fancy, for effect; and to all this the man-at-arms made the same answer:
“It is none of my business,” said he.
“Very well,” said Léon, “then we shall go to the Commissary.” Thither they went; the office was closed and dark; but the house was close by, and Léon was soon swinging the bell like a madman. The Commissary’s wife appeared at a window. She was a thread-paper creature, and informed them that the Commissary had not yet come home.