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Detonations of temper were not unfrequent in the zones he travelled; but sulky fogs and tearful depressions were there alike unknown. A well-delivered blow upon a table, or a noble attitude, imitated from Mélingue or Frédéric, relieved his irritation like a vengeance. Though the heaven had fallen, if he had played his part with propriety, Berthelini had been content!
"And the man, my angel?" inquired Berthelini, passing the ribbon of his guitar. "And the man, m'amour?" "He is a man," she answered. "You hear that?" said Léon to Stubbs. "It is not too late for you. Mark the intonation. And now," he continued, "what are we to give them?" "Are you going to sing?" asked Stubbs. "I am a troubadour," replied Léon. "I claim a welcome by and for my art.
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.
"You hear that, Elvira," said Léon. "Madame Berthelini," he went on, "is ridiculously affected by this trifling occurrence. For my part, I find it romantic and far from uncomfortable; or at least," he added, shifting on the stone bench, "not quite so uncomfortable as might have been expected. But pray be seated."
A dog barked furiously in a courtyard as they went by; then the church clock struck two, and many domestic clocks followed or preceded it in piping tones. And just then Berthelini spied a light. It burned in a small house on the outskirts of the town, and thither the party now directed their steps. "It is always a chance," said Léon.
"Oh, woman, woman!" said Léon, beginning to open the guitar-case. "It is one of the burdens of my life, Monsieur Stubbs; they support each other; they always pretend there is no system; they say it's nature. Even Madame Berthelini, who is a dramatic artist!" "You are heartless, Léon," said Elvira; "that woman is in trouble."
A dog barked furiously in a courtyard as they went by; then the church clock struck two, and many domestic clocks followed or preceded it in piping tones. And just then Berthelini spied a light. It burned in a small house on the outskirts of the town, and thither the party now directed their steps. "It is always a chance," said Leon.
Madame Berthelini, who was art and part with him in these undignified labours, had perhaps a higher position in the scale of beings, and enjoyed a natural dignity of her own.
"Go, go," said he, "I am busy; I am measuring butter." "Heathen Jew!" thought Léon. "Permit me, sir," he resumed, aloud. "I have gone six times already " "Put up your bills if you choose," interrupted the Commissary. "In an hour or so I will examine your papers at the office. But now go; I am busy." "Measuring butter!" thought Berthelini. "O France, and it is for this that we made '93!"
"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 hour or so I will examine your papers at the office. But now go; I am busy." "Measuring butter!" thought Berthelini. "Oh, France, and it is for this that we made '93!"
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