“Ah! His gesture then! He gave a dramatic start--this Cyrano of the Camargue--as though he was aware of them for the first time. He moved. All their beautiful breeches twinkled for an instant along the top of the barrier. He held the stage alone! But Christophe and I, we trembled! For, observe, he had now involved himself in a stupendous drama of which he only could supply the third act. And, except for an audience on the razor-edge of emotion, he had exhausted his material. Molière himself--we have forgotten, my friend, to drink to the health of that great soul--might have been at a loss. And Tragedy is but a step behind Failure. We could see the four or five Civil Guards, who are sent always to keep order, fingering the breeches of their rifles. They were but waiting a word from the Mayor to fire on him, as they do sometimes at a bull who leaps the barrier among the spectators. They would, of course, have killed or wounded several people--but that would not have saved Apis.” Monsieur Voiron drowned the thought at once, and wiped his beard. “At that moment Fate--the Genius of France, if you will--sent to assist in the incomparable finale, none other than Chisto, the eldest, and, I should have said (but never again will I judge!) the least inspired of all; mediocrity itself but, at heart--and it is the heart that conquers always, my friend--at heart an artist. He descended stiffly into the arena, alone and assured. Apis regarded him, his eyes in his eyes. The man took stance, with his cloak, and called to the bull as to an equal: ‘Now, Señor, we will show these honourable caballeros something together.’ He advanced thus against this thinker who at a plunge--a kick--a thrust--could, we all knew, have extinguished him. My dear friend, I wish I could convey to you something of the unaffected bonhomie, the humour, the delicacy, the consideration bordering on respect even, with which Apis, the supreme artist, responded to this invitation. It was the Master, wearied after a strenuous hour in the atelier, unbuttoned and at ease with some not inexpert but limited disciple. The telepathy was instantaneous between them. And for good reason! Christophe said to me: ‘All’s well. That Chisto began among the bulls. I was sure of it when I heard him call just now. He has been a herdsman. He’ll pull it off.’ There was a little feeling and adjustment, at first, for mutual distances and allowances. “Oh, yes! And here occurred a gross impertinence of Villamarti. He had, after an interval, followed Chisto--to retrieve his reputation. My Faith! I can conceive the elder Dumas slamming his door on an intruder precisely as Apis did. He raced Villamarti into the nearest refuge at once. He stamped his feet outside it, and he snorted: ‘Go! I am engaged with an artist.’ Villamarti went--his reputation left behind for ever.