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llow, with the gilded, ruddy head of an artist of the Renaissance, received his visitors on the wooden steps which led to the temporary staging put up for the purpose of painting the roof. The frescos, representing the principal episodes in the life of William Tell, were finished, all but one, namely: the scene of the apple in the market-place of Altorf. On this he was now at work, and his young _famulus_, as he called him, feet and legs bare under a toga of the middle ages, and his hair archangelically arranged, was posing as the son of William Tell. All these archaic personages, red, green, yellow, blue, made taller than nature in narrow streets and under the posterns of the period, intended, of course, to be seen at a distance, impressed the spectators rather sadly. However, they were there to admire, and they admired. Besides, none of them knew anything. "I consider that a fine characterization," said the pontifical Astier-Rehu, carpet-bag in hand. And Schwanthaler, a camp-stool under his arm, not willing to be behindhand, quoted two verses of Schiller, most of it remaining in his flowing beard. Then the ladies exclaimed, and for a time nothing was heard but:-- "Schoen!.. schoen..." "Yes... lovely..." "Exquisite! delicious!.." One might have thought one's self at a confectioner's. Abruptly a voice broke forth, rending with the ring of a trumpet that composed silence. "Badly shouldered, I tell you... That crossbow is not in place..." Imagine the stupor of the painter in presence of this exorbitant Alpinist, who, alpenstock in hand and ice-axe on his shoulder, risking the annihilation of somebody at each of his many evolutions, was demonstrating to him by A + B that the motions of his William Tell were not correct. "I know what I am talking about, _au mouain_... I beg you to believe it..." "Who are you?" "Who am I!" exclaimed the Alpinist, now thoroughly vexed... So it was not to him that the door was opened; and drawing himself up he said: "Go ask my name of the panthers of the Zaccar, of the lions of Atlas... they will answer you, perhaps." The company recoiled; there was general alarm. "But," asked the painter, "in what way is my action wrong?" "Look at me, _te!_" Falling into position with a thud of his heels that made the planks beneath them smoke, Tar-tarin, shouldering his ice-axe like a crossbow, stood rigid. "Superb! He's right... Don't stir..." Then to the _famu
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