respects except for the sword, which was a stick, as a professional bull who must die. He was manœuvred into, or he posed himself in, the proper attitude; made his rush; received the point on his shoulder and then--turned about and cantered toward the door by which he had entered the arena. He said to the world: ‘My friends, the representation is ended. I thank you for your applause. I go to repose myself.’ But our Arlesians, who are--not so clever as some, demanded an encore, and Apis was headed back again. We others from his country, we knew what would happen. He went to the centre of the ring, kneeled, and, slowly, with full parade, plunged his horns alternately in the dirt till the pads came off. Christophe shouts: ‘Leave him alone, you straight-nosed imbeciles! Leave him before you must.’ But they required emotion; for Rome has always debauched her loved Provincia with bread and circuses. It was given. Have you, Monsieur, ever seen a servant, with pan and broom, sweeping round the baseboard of a room? In a half-minute Apis has them all swept out and over the barrier. Then he demands once more that the door shall be opened to him. It is opened and he retires as though--which truly, is the case--loaded with laurels.” Monsieur Voiron refilled the glasses, and allowed himself a cigarette, which he puffed for some time. “And afterwards?” I said. “I am arranging it in my mind. It is difficult to do it justice. Afterwards--yes, afterwards--Apis returned to his pastures and his mistresses and I to my business. I am no longer a scandalous old ‘sportif’ in shirtsleeves howling encouragement to the yellow son of a cow. I revert to Voiron Frères--wines, chemical manures, _et cetera_. And next year, through some chicane which I have not the leisure to unravel, and also, thanks to our patriarchal system of paying our older men out of the increase of the herds, old Christophe possesses himself of Apis. Oh, yes, he proves it through descent from a certain cow that my father had given his father before the Republic. Beware, Monsieur, of the memory of the illiterate man! An ancestor of Christophe had been a soldier under our Soult against your Beresford, near Bayonne. He fell into the hands of Spanish guerrillas. Christophe and his wife used to tell me the details on certain Saints’ Days when I was a child. Now, as compared with our recent war, Soult’s campaign and retreat across the Bidassoa----” “But did you allow Christophe just to annex the bull?” I demanded. “You do not know Christophe. He had sold him to the Spaniards before he informed me. The Spaniards pay in coin--douros of very pure silver. Our peasants mistrust our paper. You know the saying: ‘A thousand francs paper; eight hundred metal, and the cow is yours.’ Yes, Christophe sold Apis, who was then two and a half years old, and to Christophe’s knowledge thrice at least an assassin.” “How was that?” I said.