between the hotel and the office. Leon might try as he liked; he might roll cigarettes, he might straddle, he might cock his hat at a dozen different jaunty inclinations—the part of Almaviva was, under the circumstances, difficult to play.
As he passed the market-place upon the seventh excursion the Commissary was pointed out to him, where he stood, with his waistcoat unbuttoned and his hands behind his back, to superintend the sale and measurement of butter. Berthelini threaded his way through the market stalls and baskets, and accosted the dignitary with a bow which was a triumph of the histrionic art.
"I have the honor," he asked, "of meeting M. le Commissaire?"
The Commissary was affected by the nobility of his address. He excelled Leon in the depth if not in the airy grace of his salutation.
"The honor," said he, "is mine!"
"I am," continued the strolling-player, "I am, sir, an artist, and I have permitted myself to interrupt you on an affair of business. To-night I give a trifling musical entertainment at the café of the Triumphs of the Plough—permit me to offer you this little programme—and I have come to ask you for the necessary authorization."
At the word "artist," the Commissary had replaced his hat with the air of a person who, having condescended too far, should suddenly remember the duties of his rank.
"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 lulls 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."
