Imagination, O magic power!.. He thought himself on the marketplace of Altorf, in front of his own child, he, who had never had any; an arrow in his bow, another in his belt to pierce the heart of the tyrant. His conviction became so strong that it conveyed itself to others.
“‘T is William Tell himself!..” said the painter, crouched on a stool and driving his sketch with a feverish hand. “Ah! monsieur, why did I not know you earlier? What a model you would have been for me!..”
“Really! then you see some resemblance?” said Tartarin, much flattered, but keeping his pose.
Yes, it was just so that the artist imagined his hero.
“The head, too?”
“Oh! the head, that’s no matter...” and the painter stepped back to look at his sketch. “Yes, a virile mask, energetic, just what I wanted—inasmuch as nobody knows anything about William Tell, who probably never existed.”
Tartarin dropped the cross-bow from stupefaction.
“Outre! {*}.. Never existed!.. What is that you are saying?”
* “Outre” and “boufre” are Tarasconese oaths of mysterious
etymology.
“Ask these gentlemen...”