"Without?" cried the indignant Leon. "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."
"You have not got my signature, I tell you," cried the Commissary. "Show me my signature! Where is my signature?"
That was just the question; where was his signature? Leon recognized that he was in a hole; bat his spirit rose with the occasion, and he blustered nobly, tossing back his curls. The Commissary played up to him in the character of tyrant; and as the one leaned farther forward, the other leaned farther back—majesty confronting fury. The audience had transferred their attention to this new performance, and listened with that silent gravity common to all Frenchmen in the neighborhood of the police. Elvira had sat down, she was used to these distractions, and it was rather melancholy than fear that now oppressed her.
"Another word," cried the Commissary, "and I arrest you."
"Arrest me!" shouted Leon. "I defy you!"
"I am the Commissary of Police," said the official.
Leon commanded his feelings, and replied, with great delicacy of innuendo—
"So it would appear."
The point was too refined for Castel-le-Gâchis; it did not raise a smile; and as for the Commissary, he simply bade the singer follow him to his office, and directed his proud footsteps towards the door. There was nothing for it but to obey. Leon did so with a proper pantomime of indifference, but it was a leek to eat, and there was no denying it.
