CHAPTER XII
THE GENTLEMAN-RIDERS
True or false, M. de Cernay's story had awakened my curiosity to such a point that I was in the greatest hurry to arrive on the race-course.
We started off for the Bois de Boulogne. It was a beautiful day in February; the sun was shining brightly; the pure fresh air, not too cold to be pleasant, gave a healthy colour to the ladies who were riding in open carriages on their way to the races.
We stopped at the Porte Dauphine to mount our saddle-horses. Mine had to submit to another examination from M. de Cernay, who was apparently confirmed in the good opinion he had formed of me. This you may be sure flattered my vanity.
As for his own horses, they were, like everything else he owned, perfect in every respect.
M. du Pluvier proved himself to be the demonstration of a theory of mine, namely, that there are some men so constituted that they inevitably make themselves ridiculous; he was hardly on his horse's back before he allowed himself to be run away with. We supposed him to be some distance behind us, when he suddenly shot by us like an arrow. We watched him for some time, but his horse, turning into a cross-road, gave him such a shock that he lost his hat, and then he disappeared.
We arrived tranquilly on the ground with Ismaël, laughing at this mishap. I should mention the fact that De Cernay, being the owner of a beautiful black Arab horse, and wishing to be as gracious as possible to his "lion," had offered it to Ismaël as a mount. The renegade had accepted, and his characteristic, dark face, and strange, brilliant costume contrasted violently with, and served, as no doubt M. de Cernay had foreseen, to accentuate the Parisian elegance of the latter.
Once on the ground, I got off my horse and mingled with the habitués of the races, among whom I found several of my acquaintances. It was then that I saw the frightful obstacle which was to be leaped over, after the two miles had been run and the hedges crossed.
Fancy a beam raised five feet above the ground, and nailed across two perpendicular posts like a gate across a road.
It was then that the story M. de Cernay had told me, strange as it was, and contrary to all our usual customs, began to seem credible, and to explain why these two young men were about to run such a terrible risk.
There was quite a crowd of people around the barrier, who were quite as incredulous as I. They asked each other why two young men, who were rich and in the best society, should risk their lives in such a way as this. They wondered if the race was for an enormous sum of money, as that might in a certain way justify such foolish bravery; but the purse was but two hundred louis.
At last, after many foolish conjectures, several of the spectators, who were conversant with the happenings in high life, arrived, either from their own convictions or from being prompted by M. de Cernay's story,—arrived, I say, at the same conclusion as he did, and gave the same interpretation to this deadly duel.
This hypothesis was very generally admitted; because, in the first place, it had the irresistible attraction of maliciousness; and, secondly, because any explication of the silliest as well as the most serious question, which appears to solve the long and vainly sought answer to the enigma, is hailed with delight.
So that very soon I heard here and there such exclamations as the following: "Is it possible?" "Ah, really! now that explains it all." "What utter folly!" "What thoughtful tact!" "How foolhardy to run such risks for a scornful coquette!" "It is just like her to permit such behaviour!" "The devilish little marquise! It is disgusting!" "Incredible!" etc.
I had not the time to question M. de Cernay as to any details about the performers in this extraordinary entertainment, so while the public was venting its indignation on Madame de Pënâfiel, I happened to notice Sir Henry ——, a great sportsman of my acquaintance, and thought that perhaps he could give me some interesting information.
"Well," said I, "this race will be exciting enough, I hope! Can you tell me which is the favourite?"
"Opinions are very equally divided," said he, "so that there does not seem to be any favourite. As for the horses, they both come of good stock; one, Beverley, is by Augustus out of Cybele, and the other, Captain Morave, is by Camel out of Vengeress; both of them have spent two hunting seasons in England. As for the gentleman-riders, they are the Baron de Merteuil and the Marquis de Senneterre, and have each acquired a tremendous reputation among the upper crust of the habitués of Melton. They are said to equal our intrepid Captain Beacher, who broke his last sound limb (the left forearm) in last year's steeplechase, at St. Albans. One must be brave to face such danger. I have seen many races, I have been to hunts and steeplechases in Ireland, where they have stone walls instead of hedges, but the walls are never more than three or four feet high. To tell the truth, I have never seen anything worse than that bar," said Sir Henry ——, turning again towards the terrible barrier.
At every moment new carriages were arriving, and the crowd of spectators becoming greater. This crowd was divided into two distinct parties; the first, which was the greater majority, consisted of persons who knew nothing of the rumours of society, and only saw in this race a sort of show, whose peril they never suspected.
The smaller number, enlightened as to the reason and object assigned to this challenge, understood perfectly well the danger these gentleman-riders were about to expose themselves to.
But I must say that all of the spectators, especially these last, were waiting for the hour of the race with an impatience that I shared with them, and was almost ashamed of. Very soon the crowd rushed towards the centre of the circle.
Messieurs de Senneterre and de Merteuil had just got out of a carriage, and were mounting their horses to go to the starting-point.
M. de Merteuil looked to be no more than twenty-five, of an elegant and graceful figure, and a charming face; he was calm and smiling, though rather pale. He wore a silk jacket, half black and half white, with a cap to match, his breeches were of pale yellow buckskin, and, to complete his costume, he wore top-boots. He rode Captain Morave.
Captain Morave was a splendid bay horse, in such good condition that you could almost see the blood circulating in the veins under his fine, silky coat, which fairly reflected the light. You could have counted each one of his strong muscles, so divested of all superfluous fat was his firm flesh.
M. de Merteuil stopped a moment at the winning-post, to speak to M. de Cernay. M. de. Senneterre's horse was cooler, and did not need the quarter of a mile gallop that M. de Merteuil was taking on his way back to the starting-place. So he was riding a very pretty piebald back, curiously marked with black and white. He was about the same size as M. de Merteuil, and had quite as pleasant a face. Under his long overcoat could be seen his purple silk jacket; Beverley awaited him at the start. He approached his rival with a smile on his lips, and held out his hand. They shook hands with apparently the greatest cordiality, which I thought was dissimulation, but in good form, considering the terms on which they were supposed to be.
These two charming young men created a universal and disquieting interest, so real was the peril they were about to face in this thoughtless, heedless way. In fact, no matter what it undertakes, bravery is always admired. An elderly gentleman with white hair, and of very dignified appearance, approached M. de Merteuil, and evidently made some remarks to him about the perils of the race. His observations were received with the most perfect politeness, but had no effect, for, in the presence of that attentive crowd, Messieurs de Merteuil and de Senneterre could not now seem to shrink from danger, whatever it might be.
At last, it was time to go to the starting-place. One of M. de Cernay's friends went with the gentleman-riders to superintend the weighing, and give the signal.
The assemblage was now worked up to a breathless state of curiosity, for now it was about to be satisfied.
At this moment, hearing a confused murmur of voices, which was fast becoming a clamour of noise and confusion, I turned and beheld that unfortunate man, Du Pluvier, who, hatless, his hair streaming in the wind, his body thrown backward, and his legs forward, was stiffening himself with all his might, and trying to stop his runaway horse; who, dashing across the open race-course like an arrow, very soon disappeared in one of the contiguous paths, amidst the shouting and derision of the spectators.
This, ridiculous episode was hardly finished when another object attracted my attention.
I saw a very handsome orange-coloured coupé drive up, drawn by two magnificent black horses of the largest size, and yet of the finest race and style. The silver mountings of the harness glittered in the sun, and on the ample blue draperies of the coachman's seat I noted two coats-of-arms, richly embroidered in coloured silk, surmounted by the crown of a marquis worked in gold. I was gazing curiously into this carriage, when M. de Cernay, who was passing near me, said, "I was sure of it, there is Madame de Pënâfiel. It is infamous!" And, without giving me time to question him, he rode up to the door of the carriage, around which several men of Madame de Pënâfiel's acquaintance were pressing. She seemed to receive M. de Cernay with rather a careless affability, giving him the tips of her fingers. The count was very talkative and gay.
I looked again into the carriage, and could see Madame de Pënâfiel distinctly.
Through the white blonde veil which fell from her simple little mauve capote, I saw a very pale face, very regularly oval, and of a creamy white. Her large eyes, which she kept half closed, were of a changeable greenish shade, almost iridescent, and her eyebrows were beautifully arched above them. Her smooth, white forehead was slightly prominent, and was framed in a mass of light chestnut hair, whose golden shade reminded one of a portrait by Titian. Her nose was small but rather too straight, and her mouth, though rosy, was large, and the thin lips were so disdainfully closed that her face had an expression which was at the same time weary, sardonic, and scornful. The nonchalant pose of Madame de Pënâfiel, half reclining in her carriage, all wrapped in a black cashmere shawl, increased this look of languor and want of interest.
While I was gazing at Madame de Pënâfiel's features, she hardly seemed conscious that De Cernay was speaking to her. Suddenly she turned her head, in an absent-minded way, in the opposite direction from the count. At once her pale face brightened, and she leaned forward towards M. de Cernay, as though to ask him the name of some person she glanced at, with a look of lively curiosity.
I followed the direction of her eyes, and saw Ismaël, whose horse was impatiently rearing, though the renegade, who was a splendid horseman, had him well under control. The long flowing sleeves of his red and gold vestment were fluttering in the wind, and his white turban set off his handsome dark face. He frowned savagely while striking his horse's sides with the blades of his Moorish stirrups. Seen thus, Ismaël was a type of fierce and powerful beauty.
I turned my head, and saw Madame de Pënâfiel, who, until then, had been so uninterested, watching with the greatest anxiety every movement of the renegade.
All at once, the horse of the latter reared so suddenly on its hind legs that he was on the point of falling over backwards.
When this happened Madame de Pënâfiel threw herself back in her carriage, and covered her eyes with her hand. However, as Ismaël's horse did not fall, Madame de Pënâfiel, whose face for an instant had shown how terribly alarmed she was, became quite serene again, and fell back in her careless attitude.
All this scene took place in less than five minutes, and yet it gave me an uncomfortable feeling. Under any other circumstances, the curiosity Madame de Pënâfiel had shown in noticing Ismaël, whose picturesque costume and brilliant colouring attracted universal attention, would have appeared the most natural thing in the world. It was perfectly natural, too, when the renegade's horse almost fell on him, that she should have been suddenly terrified; what struck me as strange and peculiar in her conduct, was that she should manifest so much solicitude about a man she was not acquainted with, while at the same time she could be hard-hearted enough to come and look on at a deadly struggle, which might end in the death of one of those young men who were in love with her.
As soon as Ismaël's horse became quieted, Madame de Pënâfiel resumed her nonchalant and bored attitude, then giving M. de Cernay a nod, she closed the windows of her carriage, probably because she was afraid of the cold, which was getting to be severe.
At this moment some men on horseback hurried towards the race-track, crying, "They are off!"
M. de Cernay instantly stepped to the winning-post; a murmur of excitement and curiosity ran through the assemblage; every one kept clear of the space on each side of the terrible bar, which reared itself on the hard and stony ground; while two doctors, sent in case of accident, stood beside the dismal litter which is one of the obligatory accessories of every race-course.
After having felt any of the thousand emotions which are excited by a race,—the vanity of ownership, the real affection a man has for a noble horse, the pride of a looked-for triumph, the fear or the hope of losing or winning large sums of money,—we can easily understand the breathless suspense that pervades the crowd at such a scene.
But on this occasion every spectator seemed to have an immense and fearful interest at stake, so convinced was the crowd of the fearful danger these gentlemen were running. I remember that, with the tact that exists, and always will exist, among well-bred people, not a single bet was made between any members of the upper classes who were witnesses of this race, for its issue might be so fatal that the only thing thought of was the chances of escape these young men might have, for they were well known to all.
Every one waited eagerly for their appearance. All the opera and field glasses were brought to bear on the two-mile track, for nothing could be clearly distinguished.
At last a universal outcry showed that the jockeys had been sighted.
At the farthest end of the course we could see them bending over their saddles. When they got to the first hedge they leaped it together. Then they ran neck to neck over the distance between the first and second hedges.
Then we saw the two horses' heads as they neared the second hedge,—then the two riders who passed over it royally—both at once!
It was a magnificent race; the applauding was tremendous, but the nervous excitement was even greater,—we were breathless, we were frightfully oppressed.
At the third hedge M. de Merteuil had the advantage of a length, but after the leap M. de Senneterre caught up with him, and they were now again head to head, and were nearing the last terrible barrier with incredible speed.
I had gone into the counter alley some feet from the winning-post, so as to see the faces of the two rivals.
Very soon we heard the dull resonance of the ground under the shock of the galloping horses. Like a flash they passed before me still head to head. They were sweeping over the ground at a marvellous pace, their coats were scarcely damp, their nostrils were open and trembling, their heads were stretched out, their tails down, and their ears set back on their necks.
The gentleman-riders, pale, bent over their horses' necks, clutched the pommels with their bare hands, and pressed their horses between their muscular legs with almost convulsive energy.
As they passed before me they were neither of them ten feet from the bar. At this moment I saw M. de Merteuil give a vigorous blow of the whip to his horse, attacking at the same time with the spur, intending in this way to lift him over the bar with greater certainty. The brave horse leaped instantly forward before his rival could get to the bar, for he was then about half a length behind; but whether his strength gave out, or whether he had been imprudently urged at that moment, instead of being allowed to gather himself together so that he might take more time to the leap, Captain Morave charged so blindly at the beam that he struck it with his fore feet.
Then, hearing that great crowd utter a single and formidable cry, I saw the horse and his rider turn a somersault, and roll on the track, at the moment when M. de Senneterre, either on a better horse, or a better rider, dashing up, made Beverley take an enormous leap, and cleared the bar, which he soon left far behind him, as it was impossible for him to stop the impetuous speed of his horse for some seconds.
Every one immediately surrounded the unfortunate M. de Merteuil. Not daring to go near him, so much did I dread such a sight, I turned to where I had seen Madame de Pënâfiel. Her carriage had disappeared.
Did she leave before or after this horrible accident?
Soon this dreadful murmur, "He is dead!" went through the throng.
