“It is none of my business,” said he. “Very well,” said Léon, “then we shall go to the Commissary.” Thither they went; the office was closed and dark; but the house was close by, and Léon was soon swinging the bell like a madman. The Commissary’s wife appeared at a window. She was a thread-paper creature, and informed them that the Commissary had not yet come home. “Is he at the Maire’s?” demanded Léon. She thought that was not unlikely. “Where is the Maire’s house?” he asked. And she gave him some rather vague information on that point. “Stay you here, Elvira,” said Léon, “lest I should miss him by the way. If, when I return, I find you here no longer, I shall follow at once to the Black Head.” And he set out to find the Maire’s. It took him some ten minutes wandering among blind lanes, and when he arrived it was already half-an-hour past midnight. A long white garden wall overhung by some thick chestnuts, a door with a letter-box, and an iron bell-pull, that was all that could be seen of the Maire’s domicile. Léon took the bell-pull in both hands, and danced furiously upon the side-walk. The bell itself was just upon the other side of the wall, it responded to his activity, and scattered an alarming clangour far and wide into the night. A window was thrown open in a house across the street, and a voice inquired the cause of this untimely uproar. “I wish the Maire,” said Léon. “He has been in bed this hour,” returned the voice. “He must get up again,” retorted Léon, and he was for tackling the bell-pull once more. “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 Léon, 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 Léon. “Not he,” she replied. “Good,” returned Léon. “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 Béranger’s:—