“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, té!”
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 famulus: “Quick! a block, charcoal!..”
The fact is, the Tarasconese hero was something worth painting,—squat, round-shouldered, head bent forward, the muffler round his chin like a strap, and his flaming little eye taking aim at the terrified famulus.