CHAPTER IV.
A TOSS-UP.
“One can be but what one is born.”
If any one had asked the Count Lory de Vasselot who and what he was, hewould probably have answered that he was a member of the English JockeyClub. For he held that that distinction conferred greater honour upon himthan the accident of his birth, which enabled him to claim forgrandfather the first Count de Vasselot, one of Murat’s aides-de-camp, abrilliant, dashing cavalry officer, a boyhood’s friend of the greatNapoleon. Lory de Vasselot was, moreover, a cavalry officer himself, buthad not taken part in any of the enterprises of an emperor who held thatto govern Frenchmen it is necessary to provide them with a war every fouryears.
“Bon Dieu!” he told his friends, “I did not sleep for two nights after Iwas elected to that great club.”
Lory de Vasselot, moreover, did his best to live up to his position. Henever, for instance, had his clothes made in Paris. His very gloves camefrom a little shop in Newmarket, where only the seamiest and clumsiest ofhand-coverings are provided, and horn buttons are a _sine qua non_.
To desire to be mistaken for an Englishman is a sure sign that you belongto the very best Parisian set, and Lory de Vasselot’s position was anenviable one, for so long as he kept his hat on and stood quite still anddid not speak, he might easily have been some one connected with theBritish turf. It must, of course, be understood that the similitude of deVasselot’s desire was only an outward one. We all think that every othernation would fain be English, but as all other countries have a likepitying contempt for us, there is perhaps no harm done. And it is to bepresumed that if some candid friend were to tell de Vasselot that themoment he uncovered his hair, or opened his lips, or made a singlemovement, he was hopelessly and unmistakably French from top to toe, hewould not have been sorely distressed.
It will be remembered that the Third Napoleon--the last of that strangedynasty--raised himself to the Imperial throne--made himself, indeed, themost powerful monarch in Europe--by statecraft, and not by power ofsword. With the magic of his name he touched the heart of the mostimpetuous people in the world, and upon the uncertain, and, as it iswhispered, not always honest suffrage of the plebiscite, climbed to theunstable height of despotism. For years he ruled France with a sort ofcareless cynicism, and it was only when his health failed that his handbegan to relax its grip. In the scramble for place and power, thegrandson of the first Count de Vasselot might easily have gained a prize,but Lory seemed to have no ambition in that direction. Perhaps he had notaste for ministry or bureau, nor cared to cultivate the subtle knowledgeof court and cabinet, which meant so much at this time. His tastes wererather those of the camp; and, failing war, he had turned his thoughts tosport. He had hunted in England and fished in Norway. In the winter of1869, he went to Africa for big game, and, returning in the early weeksof March, found France and his dear Paris gayer, more insouciant, morebrilliant than ever.
For the empire had never seemed more secure than it did at this moment,had never stood higher in the eyes of the world, had never boasted solavish a court. Paris was at her best, and Lory de Vasselot exclaimedaloud, after the manner of his countrymen, at the sight of the young budsand spring flowers around the Lac in the Bois de Boulogne, as he rodethere this fresh morning.
He had only arrived in Paris the night before, and, dining at the CercleMilitaire, had accepted the loan of a horse.
“One will at all events see one’s friends in the wood,” he said. Butriding there in an ultra-English suit of cords at the fashionable hour,he found that he had somehow missed the fashion. The alleys, which hadbeen popular a year ago, were now deserted; for there is nothing sofickle as social taste, and the riders were all at the other side of theRoute de Longchamps.
Lory turned his horse’s head in that direction, and was riding leisurely,when he heard an authoritative voice apparently directed towards himself.He was in one of the narrow _allées_, “reserved for cavaliers,” and,turning, perceived that the soft sandy gravel had prevented his hearingthe approach of other riders--a man and a woman. And the woman’s horsewas beyond control. It was a little, fiery Arab, leaping high in the airat each stride, and timing a nasty forward jerk of the head at the worstmoment for its rider’s comfort.
There was no time to do anything but touch his own trained charger withthe spur and gallop ahead. He turned in his saddle. The Arab was gainingon him, and gradually leaving behind the heavy horse and weighty riderwho were giving chase. The woman, with a set white face, was jerking atthe bridle with her left hand in an odd, mechanical, feeble way, whilewith her right, she held to the pommel of her saddle. But she was swayingforward in an unmistakable manner. She was only half conscious, and in amoment must fall.
Lory glanced behind her, and saw a stout built man, with a fair moustacheand a sunburnt face, riding his great horse in the stirrups like ajockey, his face alight with that sudden excitement which sometimesblazes in light blue eyes. He made a quick gesture, which said as plainlyas words--“You must act, and quickly; I can do nothing.”
And the three thundered on. The rides in the Bois de Boulogne are allbordered on either side by thick trees. If Lory de Vasselot pulledacross, he would send the maddened Arab into the forest, where the firstlow branch must of a necessity batter in its rider’s head. He rode on,gradually edging across to what in France is the wrong side of the road.
“Hold on, madame; hold on,” he said, in a quick low voice.
But the woman did not seem to hear him. She had dropped the bridle now,and the Arab had thrown it forward over its head.
Then Lory gradually reined in. The woman was reeling in the saddle as theArab thundered alongside. The wind blew back the long habit, and showedher foot to be firmly in the stirrup.
“Stirrup, madame!” shouted Lory, as if she were miles away. “Mon Dieu,your stirrup!”
But she only looked ahead with glazed eyes.
Then, edging nearer with a delicate spur, de Vasselot shook off his ownright stirrup, and, leaning down, lifted the fainting woman with hisright arm clean out of the saddle. He rested her weight upon his thigh,and, feeling cautiously with his foot, found her stirrup and kicked itfree. He pulled up slowly, and, drawing aside, allowed the lady’scompanion to pass him at a steady gallop after the Arab.
The lady was now in a dead faint, her dark red hair hanging like a ropeacross de Vasselot’s arm. She was, fortunately, not a big woman; for itwas no easy position to find one’s self in, on the top, thus, of a largehorse with a senseless burden and no help in sight. He managed, however,to dismount, and rather breathlessly carried the lady to the shade of thetrees, where he laid her with her head on a mound of rising turf, and,lifting aside her hair, saw her face for the first time.
“Ah! That dear baroness!” he exclaimed; and, turning, he found himselfbowing rather stiffly to the gentleman, who had now returned, leading therunaway horse. He was not, it may be mentioned, the baron.
While the two men were thus regarding each other in a polite silence, thebaroness opened a pair of remarkably bright brown eyes, at first withwonder, and then with understanding, and finally with wonder again whenthey lighted on de Vasselot.
“Lory!” she cried. “But where have you fallen from?”
“It must have been from heaven, baroness,” he replied, “for I assuredlycame at the right moment.”
He stood looking down at her--a lithe, neat, rather small-made man. Thenhe turned to attend to his horse. The baroness was already busy with herhair. She rose to her feet and smoothed her habit.
“Ah, good!” she laughed. “There is no harm done. But you saved my life,my dear Lory. One cannot have two opinions as to that. If it were notthat the colonel is watching us, I should embrace you. But I have notintroduced you. This is Colonel Gilbert--my dear and good cousin, Lory deVasselot. The colonel is from Bastia, by the way, and the Count deVasselot pretends to be a Corsican. I mention it because it is onlyfriendly to tell you that you have something more than the weather and mygratit
ude in common.”
She laughed as she spoke; then became suddenly grave, and sat down againwith her hand to her eyes.
“And I am going to faint,” she added, with ghastly lips that tried tosmile, “and nobody but you two men.”
“It is the reaction,” said Colonel Gilbert, in his soothing way. But heexchanged a quick glance with de Vasselot. “It will pass, baroness.”
“It is well to remember at such a moment that one is a sportswoman,” suggested de Vasselot.
“And that one has de Vasselot blood in one’s veins, you mean. You may aswell say it.” She rose as she spoke, and looked from one to the otherwith a brave laugh. “Bring me that horse,” she said.
De Vasselot conveyed by one inimitable gesture that he admired herspirit, but refused to obey her. Colonel Gilbert smiled contemplatively,He was of a different school--of that school of Frenchmen which owes itsexistence to Napoleon III.--impassive, almost taciturn--more British thanthe typical Briton. De Vasselot, on the contrary, was quick andvivacious. His fine-cut face and dark eyes expressed a hundred thingsthat his tongue had no time to put into words. He was hard and brown andsunburnt, which at once made him manly despite his slight frame.
“Ah,” he cried, with a gay laugh, “that is better. But seriously, youknow, you should have a patent stirrup--”
He broke off, described the patent stirrup in three gestures, how itopened and released the foot. He showed the rider falling, the horsegalloping away, the released lady-rider rising to her feet and satisfyingherself that no bones were broken--all in three more gestures.
“Voilà!” he said; “I shall send you one.”
“And you as poor--as poor,” said the baroness, whose husband was of thenew nobility, which is based, as all the world knows, on solidmanufacture. “My friend, you cannot afford it.”
“I cannot afford to lose _you_” he said, with a sudden gravity, and witheyes which, to the uninitiated, would undoubtedly have conveyed theimpression that she was the whole world to him. “Besides,” he added, asan after-thought, “it is only sixteen francs.”
The baroness threw up her gay brown eyes.
“Just Heaven,” she exclaimed, “what it is to be able to inspire suchaffection--to be valued at sixteen francs!”
Then--for she was as quick and changeable as himself--she turned, andtouched his arm with her thickly-gloved hand.
“Seriously, my cousin, I cannot thank you, and you, Colonel Gilbert, foryour promptness and your skill. And as to my stupid husband, you know, hehas no words; when I tell him, he will only grunt behind his greatmoustache, and he will never thank you, and will never forget. Never!Remember that.” And with a wave of the riding-whip, which was attached toher wrist, she described eternity.
De Vasselot turned with a deprecatory shrug of the shoulders, and busiedhimself with the girths of his saddle. At the touch and the sight of thebuckles, his eyes became grave and earnest. And it is not only Frenchmenwho cherish this cult of the horse, making false gods of saddle andbridle, and a sacred temple of the harness-room. Very seriously deVasselot shifted the side-saddle from the Arab to his own large andgentle horse--a wise old charger with a Roman nose, who never wasted hismettle in park tricks, but served honestly the Government that paid hisforage.
The Baroness de Mélide watched the transaction in respectful silence, forshe too took _le sport_ very seriously, and had attended a course oflectures at a riding-school on the art of keeping and using harness. Hercolour was now returning--that brilliant, delicate colour which so oftenaccompanies dark red hair--and she gave a little sigh of resignation.
Colonel Gilbert looked at her, but said nothing. He seemed to admire her,in the same contemplative way that he had admired the moon rising behindthe island of Capraja from the Place St. Nicholas in Bastia.
De Vasselot noted the sigh, and glanced sharply at her over the shoulderof the big charger.
“Of what are you thinking?” he said.
“Of the millennium, mon ami”
“The millennium?”
“Yes,” she answered, gathering the bridle; “when women shall perhaps beallowed to be natural. Our mothers played at being afraid--we play atbeing courageous.”
As she spoke she placed a neat foot in Colonel Gilbert’s hand, who liftedher without effort to the saddle. De Vasselot mounted the Arab, and theyrode slowly homewards by way of the Avenue de Longchamps, through thePorte Dauphine, and up that which is now the Avenue du Bois de Boulogne,which was quiet enough at this time of day. The baroness was inclined tobe silent. She had been more shaken than she cared to confess to twosoldiers. Colonel Gilbert probably saw this, for he began to makeconversation with de Vasselot.
“You do not come to Corsica,” he said.
“I have never been there--shall never go there,” answered de Vasselot.“Tell me--is it not a terrible place? The end of the world, I am told. Mymother”--he broke off with a gesture of the utmost despair. “She isdead!” he interpolated--“always told me that it was the most terribleplace in the world. At my father’s death, more than thirty years ago, shequitted Corsica, and came to live in Paris, where I was born, and where,if God is good, I shall die.”
“My cousin, you talk too much of death,” put in the baroness, seriously.
“As between soldiers, baroness,” replied de Vasselot, gaily. “It is ourtrade. You know the island well, colonel?”
“No, I cannot say that. But I know the Chateau de Vasselot.”
“Now, that is interesting; and I who scarcely know the address! NearCalvi, is it not? A waste of rocks, and behind each rock at least onebandit--so my dear mother assured me.”
“It might be cultivated,” answered Colonel Gilbert, indifferently. “Itmight be made to yield a small return. I have often thought so. I haveeven thought of whiling away my exile by attempting some such scheme. Ionce contemplated buying a piece of land on that coast to try. Perhapsyou would sell?”
“Sell!” laughed de Vasselot. “No; I am not such a scoundrel as that. Iwould toss you for it, my dear colonel; I would toss you for it, if youlike.”
And as they turned out of the avenue into one of the palatial streetsthat run towards the Avenue Victor Hugo, he made the gesture of throwinga coin into the air.