by Eugène Sue
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 racecourse 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 Pënârfiel, 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 emoti
ons 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 certainly. 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.
CHAPTER XIII.
THE OPÉRA.
M. DE CERNAY having invited me to fill a vacant seat in a box at the Opéra, which he and Lord Falmouth leased together, I was glad to accept, and went there the very night of this unfortunate race, which, by the way, happened on a Friday.
As I ascended the staircase, I was accosted by a certain M. de Pommerive, who was an amusing sort of parasite in good society. He was from fifty to sixty years old. He had more curiosity and malice than any man I ever knew, and, besides, was the greatest gossip and liar that you can imagine.
“Well,” said he, as he joined me with an air of great consternation, “do you know what has happened? That unfortunate M. de Merteuil is dead! Ah, mon Dieu, mon Dieu, what a dreadful misfortune! I have just been dining with Count — ; I can’t remember a single thing I have eaten, I was so overcome!”
“It was a frightful accident!”
“Frightful, frightful, frightful! But what is worse still, is the cause of the challenge. You know what people say?”
“I know what they say,” I replied, “but I do not know the facts of the case.”
“It amounts to the same thing,” said M. de Pommerive; “but don’t you think it was the height of insolence in Madame de Pënâfiel to go to that race? Because she has one of the most elegant houses in Paris, because she is witty enough to say the most clever and cutting things, this imperious marquise thinks she may be permitted to do anything she pleases. It is revolting! My word of honour, — she ought to be made to feel it! And since, after all, people will go to her house, because they are well received and dine well there, it would be a shame, it would be an indignity, it would be positively wicked, I say, to be quiet about such a scandal. We would all seem to be the slaves of her caprices; perfect slaves!” said he, with indignation.
“You are quite right,” said I; “you show your independence, and your noble contempt for benefits that you have received; nothing could be more manly. But do they really say that De Merteuil and De Senneterre had any quarrel about Madame de Pënâfiel, and that their challenge was in consequence of it?”
“Certainly; people say so, every one repeats the same story, and every one believes it though they themselves, that is to say Senneterre, for he is the only one left, will never admit it. I met him awhile ago as I went to inquire for that poor De Merteuil, who only lived two hours after his fall. I met Senneterre at the door looking perfectly wretched, — such a face!
“I began to sound him about Madame de Pënâfiel, but he had sufficient control over himself to pretend not to understand a word I was saying. But after the way Madame de Pënâfiel treated them both on the racecourse, Senneterre could not admit the real cause of the challenge without being thought a fool.”
“How could that be?” said I.
“What, haven’t you heard the good story about the marquise and the Turk?” exclaimed M. de Pommerive, suddenly elated with joy.
As I had scarcely taken my eyes off Ismaël during the whole period of the race, I was curious to know how much of his story could be true; so I told M. de Pommerive that I had heard nothing at all about such a story.
Then that infernal mountebank began the following tale, accompanying it with ridiculous gestures and malicious pantomime, so as to make it more mischievous by making it amusing.
“Imagine, then, my dear monsieur,” said De Pommerive, “that at the very moment when these two unfortunate young men were about to risk their lives, from an exaggerated sense of what was due to her reputation, Madame de Pënâfiel was amusing herself by falling suddenly in love with a Turk. Yes, monsieur, for an infernal scoundrel of a Turk, who is as handsome as he can be, and whom De Cernay is infatuated with, nobody knows why. But to get up such a sudden passion for a Turk; can you conceive of such a thing? I can readily believe it, for every one knows how capricious and how blasé she is, that marquise! Nothing that she could do would astonish me. But women generally try to hide such exhibitions of their feelings, — not she, not at all.”
“That is a very strange story,” said I.
“There is not the slightest doubt about its truth,” replied he. “Cernay, who was one of the judges, told me all about it, for it was of him that Madame de Pënâfiel had asked, with almost indecent haste, who was that Turk; for no sooner had
she laid eyes on that remarkable specimen, then she had no eyes, no thoughts, for any one else. (Here M. de Pommerive spoke in a falsetto voice in supposed imitation of Madame de Pënâfiel). ‘Ah, mon Dieu, how handsome he is! Where did he come from? Ah, what an adorable costume! Ah, how different from your hideous clothes! (She never thinks anything is handsome.) Mon Dieu, what an adorable face! What a noble figure! Oh, there is nothing of the common herd about him! What daring! How splendidly he holds his horse,’ etc. I suppress the etcetera,” added De Pommerive, as he returned to his natural voice, “because it would take me until to-morrow to repeat all of her impassioned exclamations. But, can you believe it? She ordered her driver to go up as close as possible, so that she might see him nearer, that lovely Turk, that adorable Turk!”
“You are quite right. It was a sudden and violent passion. It was almost African,” said I to M. de Pommerive, hardly able to keep from laughing outright at this truthful recital.
“Ah, but wait,” said he, “you have not yet heard the best of the story! Thanks to Madame Pënâfiel’s cursed curiosity, one of her carriage horses ran against the crupper of the Grand Turk’s horse, and the latter began to rear, to plunge, to paw the air with his fore feet; then, the marquise, almost fainting with alarm, terrified for the safety of her dear, delightful Turk, commenced to utter shrieks and lamentations.