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Updated: June 4, 2025
"Oh, woman, woman!" said Leon, 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, Leon," said Elvira; "that woman is in trouble."
"Mine is Berthelini Léon Berthelini, ex-artist of the theatres of Montrouge, Belleville, and Montmartre. Humble as you see me, I have created with applause more than one important rôle. The Press were unanimous in praise of my Howling Devil of the Mountains, in the piece of the same name.
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."
This was a dismal, conventual building in a narrow street, capable of standing siege when once the gates were shut, and smelling strangely in the interior of straw and chocolate and old feminine apparel. Berthelini paused upon the threshold with a painful premonition. In some former state, it seemed to him, he had visited a hostelry that smelt not otherwise, and been ill received.
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.
When he wore an overcoat he scorned to pass the sleeves; a single button held it round his shoulders; it was tossed backwards after the manner of a cloak, and carried with the gait and presence of an Almaviva. I am of opinion that M. Berthelini was nearing forty. But he had a boy's heart, gloried in his finery, and walked through life like a child in a perpetual dramatic performance.
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.
Accustomed as he was to the rubs of his profession, Berthelini was unpleasantly affected by the landlord's manner. "Elvira," said he to his wife, "mark my words: Castel-le-Gâchis is a tragic folly." "Wait till we see what we take," replied Elvira. "We shall take nothing," replied Berthelini; "we shall feed upon insults.
Léon Berthelini began to grow quite a familiar figure in the streets of Castel-le-Gâchis; 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.
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.
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