agile, and at least six feet tall. His olive skin was almost as dark as the bronze of the Venus.
M. Alphonse threw his racquet angrily on the ground.
"It is this cursed ring," he cried, "which squeezes my finger, and makes me miss a sure ball."
He drew off his diamond ring with some difficulty; I approached to take it, but he forestalled me by running to the Venus and shoving it on her fourth finger. He then resumed his post at the head of the Illois.
He was pale, but calm and resolute. From that moment he did not miss a single ball, and the Spaniards were completely beaten. The enthusiasm of the spectators was a fine sight; some threw their caps in the air and shouted for joy, while others wrung M. Alphonse's hands, calling him the honor of the country. If he had repulsed an invasion I doubt if he would have received warmer or sincerer congratulations. The vexation of the vanquished added to the splendor of the victory.
"We will play other games, my good fellow," he said to the Aragonese in a tone of superiority, "but I will give you points."
I should have wished M. Alphonse to be more modest, and I was almost pained by his rival's humiliation.
The Spanish giant felt the insult deeply. I