The knave did his business so well that Grabot, being just such a man as the stroller had described to us, the altercation on the threshold was of itself the most amusing thing in the world. "Who?" we heard a loud, coarse voice exclaim. "Who d'ye say are here, man?" "The Mayor of Bottitort." "MILLE DIABLES!" "The Mayor of Bottitort and the Mayors of Gol and St. Just," the servant repeated as if he noticed nothing amiss. "That is a lie!" the new comer replied, with a snort of triumph, "and an impudent one. But you have got the wrong sow by the ear this time." "Why, man," a third voice, somewhat nasal and rustical, struck in, "don't you know the Mayor of Bottitort?" "I should," my Breton answered bluntly, and making, as we guessed, a stand before them. "For I am his servant, and he is this moment at his meat." "The Mayor of Bottitort?" "Yes." "M. Grabot?" "Yes." "And you are his servant?" "I have thought so for some time," the Breton answered contemptuously. The Mayor fairly roared in his indignation. "You--his servant! The Mayor of Bottitort's?" he cried in a voice of thunder. "I'll tell you what you are; you are a liar!--a liar, man, that is what you are! Why, you fool, I am the Mayor of Bottitort myself. Now, do you see how you have wasted yourself? Out of my way! Jehan, follow me in. I shall look into this. There is some knavery here, but if Simon Grabot cannot get to the bottom of it the Mayor of Bottitort will. Follow me, I say. My servant indeed? Come, come!" And, still grumbling, he flung open the door, which the Breton had left ajar, and stalked in upon us, fuming and blowing out his cheeks for all the world like a bantam cock with its feathers erect. He was a short, pursy man; with a short nose, a wide face, and small eyes. But had he been Caesar and Alexander rolled into one, he could not have crossed the threshold with a more tremendous assumption of dignity. Once inside, he stood and glared at us, somewhat taken aback, I think, for the moment by our numbers; but recovering himself almost immediately, he strutted towards us, and, without uncovering or saluting us, he asked in a deep voice who was responsible for the man outside. "I am," the graver mountebank answered, looking at the stranger with a sober air of surprise. "He is my servant." "Ah!" the Mayor exclaimed, with a withering glance. "And who, may I ask, are you?" "You may ask, certainly," the player answered drily. "But until you take off your hat I shall not answer." The Mayor gasped at this rebuff, and turned, if it were possible, a shade redder; but he uncovered. "Now I do not mind telling you," Pierre continued, with a mild dignity admirably assumed, "that I am Simon Grabot, and have the honour to be Mayor of Bottitort." "You!" "Yes, monsieur, I; though perhaps unworthy."