FullReads

“You will never make him hear,” responded the voice. “The garden is of great extent, the house is at the farther end, and both the Maire and his housekeeper are deaf.”

“Aha!” said Leon, pausing. “The Maire is deaf, is he? That explains.” And he thought of the evening’s concert with a momentary feeling of relief. “Ah!” he continued, “and so the Maire is deaf, and the garden vast, and the house at the far end?”

“And you might ring all night,” added the voice, “and be none the better for it. You would only keep me awake.”

“Thank you, neighbour,” replied the singer. “You shall sleep.”

And he made off again at his best pace for the Commissary’s. Elvira was still walking to and fro before the door.

“He has not come?” asked Leon.

“Not he,” she replied.

“Good,” returned Leon. “I am sure our man’s inside. Let me see the guitar-case. I shall lay this siege in form, Elvira; I am angry; I am indignant; I am truculently inclined; but I thank my Maker I have still a sense of fun. The unjust judge shall be importuned in a serenade, Elvira. Set him up – and set him up.”

He had the case opened by this time, struck a few chords, and fell into an attitude which was irresistibly Spanish.

“Now,” he continued, “feel your voice. Are you ready? Follow me!”

The guitar twanged, and the two voices upraised, in harmony and with a startling loudness, the chorus of a song of old Beranger’s:-

“Commissaire! Commissaire!
Colin bat sa menagere.”

The stones of Castel-le-Gachis thrilled at this audacious innovation. Hitherto had the night been sacred to repose and nightcaps; and now what was this? Window after window was opened; matches scratched, and candles began to flicker; swollen sleepy faces peered forth into the starlight. There were the two figures before the Commissary’s house, each bolt upright, with head thrown back and eyes interrogating the starry heavens; the guitar wailed, shouted, and reverberated like half an orchestra; and the voices, with a crisp and spirited delivery, hurled the appropriate burden at the Commissary’s window. All the echoes repeated the functionary’s name. It was more like an entr’acte in a farce of Moliere’s than a passage of real life in Castel-le-Gachis.

The Commissary, if he was not the first, was not the last of the neighbours to yield to the influence of music, and furiously throw open the window of his bedroom. He was beside himself with rage. He leaned far over the window-sill, raying and gesticulating; the tassel of his white night-cap danced like a thing of life: he opened his mouth to dimensions hitherto unprecedented, and yet his voice, instead of escaping from it in a roar, came forth shrill and choked and tottering. A little more serenading, and it was clear he would be better acquainted with the apoplexy.

I scorn to reproduce his language; he touched upon too many serious topics by the way for a quiet story-teller. Although he was known for a man who was prompt with his tongue, and had a power of strong expression at command, he excelled himself so remarkably this night that one maiden lady, who had got out of bed like the rest to hear the serenade, was obliged to shut her window at the second clause. Even what she had heard disquieted her conscience; and next day she said she scarcely reckoned as a maiden lady any longer.

Leon tried to explain his predicament, but he received nothing but threats of arrest by way of answer.

“If I come down to you!” cried the Commissary.

“Aye,” said Leon, “do!”

“I will not!” cried the Commissary.

“You dare not!” answered Leon.

At that the Commissary closed his window.

“All is over,” said the singer. “The serenade was perhaps ill- judged. These boors have no sense of humour.”

“Let us get away from here,” said Elvira, with a shiver. “All these people looking – it is so rude and so brutal.” And then giving way once more to passion – “Brutes!” she cried aloud to the candle-lit spectators – “brutes! brutes! brutes!”