For William Tell had always been his ideal man. When at Bézuquet’s pharmacy the game of Preferences was being played, and each one wrote on his slip of paper the name of the poet, the tree, the odor, the hero, and the woman that he preferred to all others of their kind, one slip invariably bore this inscription:
“Favorite tree?—The baobab.
“Favorite odor?—Gunpowder.
“Favorite author?—Fenimore Cooper.
“Who would you like to have been?—William Tell.”
And then everybody would exclaim, “That’s Tartarin!”
Imagine, then, how happy he was, and how his heart beat when he stood before the chapel commemorative of the gratitude of a whole nation. It seemed to him as if William Tell must come in person to open the door, still dripping from the waters of the lake, and holding in his hand his bolts and crossbow.
“Don’t come in here. I’m working. This is not the day on which tourists are allowed,” sounded a strong voice from the interior, reechoing against the walls.
“M. Astier-Réhu, of the French Academy!”
“Herr Professor Doctor Schwanthaler!”