“You will draw my wife’s portrait?” he asked, bending over my sketch. “She is pretty too.”
At that moment, on the tennis-court which I have mentioned, a match began, which at once attracted M. Alphonse’s attention. I too, tired and in despair of rendering that diabolical face, soon quitted my sketch to watch the players. Among them were some Spanish muleteers who had arrived the night before. They were Aragonese and Navarrese, almost all of marvellous skill. Accordingly the Ille men, though encouraged by the presence and advice of M. Alphonse, were pretty promptly beaten by these new champions. The local spectators were in consternation. M. Alphonse looked at his watch. It was only half-past nine yet. His mother had not got her hair dressed. He hesitated no longer; he took off his coat, asked for a jacket, and challenged the Spaniards. When I saw him do so, I smiled and was rather surprised.
“We must keep up the honour of the country,” he said. I found him really handsome then. He was aroused. His dress, which had occupied him so much a little ago, was nothing more to him now. A few minutes before, he had been afraid to turn his head for fear of deranging his neck-tie. Now he had no more thought of his curled hair or his neatly pleated ruffle. And his bride?... Really, had it been necessary, I believe he would have had the marriage postponed. I saw him hastily slip on a pair of sandals, turn up his sleeves, and, with a confident air, place himself at the head of the defeated side, like Cæsar rallying his soldiers at Dyrrachium. I leaped over the hedge and stationed myself comfortably under the shade of a celiis australis, so that I had a good view of the two camps.
Contrary to general expectation, M. Alphonse missed the first ball; true it came skimming low down and delivered with surprising force by an Aragonese, who appeared to be the leader of the Spaniards.
He was a man about forty years of age, hard and wiry, about six feet tall, and his olive skin was almost as dark in tone as the bronze of the Venus.
M. Alphonse threw his racket on the ground in a rage.
“It’s this confounded ring,” he cried, “which pinched my finger, and made me miss a safe ball!”
He took off the diamond ring, not without difficulty; I went to take it from him; but he was too quick for me and ran to the Venus, put the ring on its ring-finger, and resumed his place at the head of the Ille men.
He was pale, but calm and resolute. Thenceforth he did not make a single mistake, and the Spaniards were thoroughly beaten. It was a fine sight to see the enthusiasm of the on-lookers: some uttered a thousand cries of joy and threw their bonnets in the air; others pressed his hands, calling him the honour of their country. If he had repelled an invasion, I doubt whether he would have received more lively or more sincere congratulations. The disappointment of the losers added still more to the brilliance of his victory.
“We’ll have other matches, my good fellow,” he said to the Aragonese with a tone of superiority; “but I’ll give you a handicap.”