Léon did not wait to be told twice. He returned to the Café of the Triumphs of the Plough with all expedition. Alas! the audience had melted away during his absence; Elvira was sitting in a very disconsolate attitude on the guitar-box; she had watched the company dispersing by twos and threes, and the prolonged spectacle had somewhat overwhelmed her spirits. Each man, she reflected, retired with a certain proportion of her earnings in his pocket, and she saw to-night’s board and to-morrow’s railway expenses, and finally even to-morrow’s dinner, walk one after another out of the café door and disappear into the night. “What was it?” she asked languidly. But Léon did not answer. He was looking round him on the scene of defeat. Scarce a score of listeners remained, and these of the least promising sort. The minute hand of the clock was already climbing upward towards eleven. “It’s a lost battle,” said he, and then taking up the money-box he turned it out. “Three francs seventy-five!” he cried, “as against four of board and six of railway fares; and no time for the tombola! Elvira, this is Waterloo.” And he sat down and passed both hands desperately among his curls. “O Fichu Commissaire!” he cried, “Fichu Commissaire!” “Let us get the things together and be off,” returned Elvira. “We might try another song, but there is not six halfpence in the room.” “Six halfpence?” cried Léon, “six hundred thousand devils! There is not a human creature in the town—nothing but pigs and dogs and commissaires! Pray heaven, we get safe to bed.” “Don’t imagine things!” exclaimed Elvira, with a shudder. And with that they set to work on their preparations. The tobacco-jar, the cigarette-holder, the three papers of shirt-studs, which were to have been the prices of the tombola had the tombola come off, were made into a bundle with the music; the guitar was stowed into the fat guitar-case; and Elvira having thrown a thin shawl about her neck and shoulders, the pair issued from the café and set off for the Black Head. As they crossed the market-place the church bell rang out eleven. It was a dark, mild night, and there was no one in the streets. “It is all very fine,” said Léon; “but I have a presentiment. The night is not yet done.” CHAPTER III The “Black Head” presented not a single chink of light upon the street, and the carriage gate was closed. “This is unprecedented,” observed Léon. “An inn closed by five minutes after eleven! And there were several commercial travellers in the café up to a late hour. Elvira, my heart misgives me. Let us ring the bell.” The bell had a potent note; and being swung under the arch it filled the house from top to bottom with surly, clanging reverberations. The sound accentuated the conventual appearance of the building; a wintry sentiment, a thought of prayer and mortification, took hold upon Elvira’s mind; and, as for Léon, he seemed to be reading the stage directions for a lugubrious fifth act.