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-Réhu, 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:—
“Schön!.. schön...”
“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.