"May your sins be forgiven you!" cried Chesterfield, the apostle oftraining, as he and the Seraph came up to the table where Cecil andCos Wentworth were breakfasting in the garden of the Stephanien on therace-day itself. "Liqueurs, truffles, and every devilment under thesun?--cold beef, and nothing to drink, Beauty, if you've any conscienceleft!"
"Never had a grain, dear boy, since I can remember," murmured Bertieapologetically. "You took all the rawness off me at Eton."
"And you've been taking coffee in bed, I'll swear!" pursued thecross-examiner.
"What if he have? Beauty's condition can't be upset by a little mocha,nor mine either," said his universal defender; and the Seraph shook hissplendid limbs with a very pardonable vanity.
"Ruteroth trains; Ruteroth trains awfully," put in Cos Wentworth,looking up out of a great silver flagon of Badminton, with which he wasending his breakfast; and referring to that Austrian who was to ride theParis favorite. "Remember him at La Marche last year, and the racing atVincennes--didn't take a thing that could make flesh--muscles like iron,you know--never touched a soda even----"
"I've trained, too," said Bertie submissively; "look how I've beenwaltzing! There isn't harder work than that for any fellow. A deuxtempswith the Duchess takes it out of you like any spin over the flat."
His censurers laughed, but did not give in their point.
"You've run shocking risks, Beauty," said Chesterfield; "the King's infine running-form; don't say he isn't; but you've said scores of timeswhat a deal of riding he takes. Now, can you tell us yourself thatyou're in as hard condition as you were when you won the Military, eh?"
Cecil shook his head with a sigh.
"I don't think I am; I've had things to try me, you see. There was thatVerschoyle's proposal. I did absolutely think at one time she'd marryme before I could protest against it! Then there was that shock to one'swhole nervous system, when that indigo man, who took Lady Laura's house,asked us to dinner, and actually thought we should go!--and there was ascene, you know, of all earthly horrors, when Mrs. Gervase was so neareloping with me, and Gervase cut up rough, instead of pitying me; andthen the field-days were so many, and so late into the season; and Iexhausted myself so at the Belvoir theatricals at Easter; and I toiledso atrociously playing 'Almaviva' at your place, Seraph--a privateopera's galley slave's work!--and, altogether, I've had a good manythings to pull me down since the winter," concluded Bertie, with aplaintive self-condolence over his truffles.
The rest of his condemning judges laughed, and passed the plea ofsympathy; the Coldstreamer alone remained censorious and untouched.
"Pull you down! You'll never pull off the race if you sit drinkingliqueurs all the morning!" growled that censor. "Look at that!"
Bertie glanced at the London telegram tossed across to him, sent from aprivate and confidential agent.
"Betting here--two to one on L'Etoile; Irish Roan offered and takenfreely. Slight decline in closing prices for the King; getting on Frenchbay rather heavily at midnight. Fancy there's a commission out againstthe King. Looks suspicious." Cecil shrugged his shoulders and raised hiseyebrows a little.
"All the better for us. Take all they'll lay against me. It's as goodas our having a 'Commission out'; and if any cads get one against us itcan't mean mischief, as it would with professional jocks."
"Are you so sure of yourself, Beauty?"
Beauty shook his head repudiatingly.
"Never am sure of anything, much less of myself. I'm a chameleon, aperfect chameleon!"
"Are you so sure of the King, then?"
"My dear fellow, no! I ask you in reason, how can I be sure of whatisn't proved? I'm like that country fellow the old story tells of; hebelieved in fifteen shillings because he'd once had it in his hand;others, he'd heard, believed in a pound; but, for his part, he didn't,because he'd never seen it. Now that was a man who'd never commithimself; he might had had the Exchequer! I'm the same; I believe theKing can win at a good many things because I've seen him do 'em; but Ican't possibly tell whether he can get this, because I've never riddenhim for it. I shall be able to tell you at three o'clock--but that youdon't care for----"
And Bertie, exhausted with making such a lengthened exposition--thespeeches he preferred were monosyllabic--completed his sins againsttraining with a long draught of claret-cup.
"Then what the devil do you mean by telling us to pile our pots on you?"asked the outraged Coldstreamer, with natural wrath.
"Faith is a beautiful sight!" said Bertie, with solemnity.
"Offered on the altar of the Jews!" laughed the Seraph, as he turned himaway from the breakfast table by the shoulders. "Thanks, Beauty; I've'four figures' on you, and you'll be good enough to win them for me.Let's have a look at the King. They are just going to walk him over."
Cecil complied; while he lounged away with the others to the stables,with a face of the most calm, gentle, weary indifference in the world,the thought crossed him for a second of how very near he was to thewind. The figures in his betting-book were to the tune of severalthousands, one way or another. If he won this morning it would be allright, of course; if he lost--even Beauty, odd mixture of devil-may-careand languor though he was, felt his lips grow, for the moment, hot andcold by turns as he thought of that possible contingency.
The King looked in splendid condition; he knew well enough what was upagain, knew what was meant by that extra sedulous dressing-down, thatsetting muzzle that had been buckled on him some nights previous, thelimitation put to his drink, the careful trial spins in the gray of themornings, the conclusive examination of his plates by a skillful hand;he knew what was required of him, and a horse in nobler condition neverstepped out in body clothing, as he was ridden slowly down on to theplains of Iffesheim. The Austrian Dragoon, a Count and a Chamberlainlikewise, who was to ride his only possible rival, the French horseL'Etoile, pulled his tawny silken mustaches as he saw the great Englishhero come up the course, and muttered to himself, "L'affaire est finie."L'Etoile was a brilliant enough bay in his fashion, but Count Ruterothknew the measure of his pace and powers too thoroughly to expect him tolive against the strides of the Guards' gray.
"My beauty, won't you cut those German fellows down!" muttered Rake, theenthusiast, in the saddling inclosure. "As for those fools what go aginyou, you'll put them in a hole, and no mistake. French horse, indeed!Why, you'll spread-eagle all them Mossoos' and Meinherrs' cattle in abrace of seconds--"
Rake's foe, the head groom, caught him up savagely.
"Won't you never learn decent breeding? When we wins we wins on thequiet, and when we loses we loses as if we liked it; all that braying,and flaunting, and boasting is only fit for cads. The 'oss is in tip-topcondition; let him show what he can do over furren ground."
"Lucky for him, then, that he hasn't got you across the pigskin; you'drope him, I believe, as soon as look at him, if it was made worth yourwhile," retorted Rake, in caustic wrath; his science of repartee chieflylay in a successful "plant," and he was here uncomfortably consciousthat his opponent was in the right of the argument, as he startedthrough the throng to put his master into the "shell" of theShire-famous scarlet and white.
"Tip-top condition, my boy--tip-top, and no mistake," murmured Mr.Willon for the edification of those around them as the saddle-girthswere buckled on, and the Guards' Crack stood the cynosure of every eyeat Iffesheim.
Then, in his capacity as head attendant on the hero, he directed theexercise bridle to be taken off, and with his own hands adjusted a newand handsome one, slung across his arm.
"'Tis a'most a pity. 'Tis a'most a pity," thought the worthy, as he putthe curb on the King; "but I shouldn't have been haggravated with thathinsolent soldiering chap. There, my boy! if you'll win with a paintedquid, I'm a Dutchman."
Forest King champed his bit between his teeth a little; it tastedbitter; he tossed his head and licked it with his tongue impatiently;the taste had got down his throat and he did not like its flavor; heturned his deep, lustrous eyes with a gentle
patience on the crowd abouthim, as though asking them what was the matter with him. No one movedhis bit; the only person who could have had such authority was busilygiving the last polish to his coat with a fine handkerchief--thatglossy neck which had been so dusted many a time with the cobwebcoronet-broidered handkerchiefs of great ladies--and his instincts,glorious as they were, were not wise enough to tell him to kick his headgroom down, then and there, with one mortal blow, as his poisoner andbetrayer.
The King chafed under the taste of that "painted quid"; he felt anausea as he swallowed, and he turned his handsome head with a strange,pathetic astonishment in his glance. At that moment a familiar handstroked his mane, a familiar foot was put into his stirrup, Bertie threwhimself into saddle; the lightest weight that ever gentleman-rider rode,despite his six-foot length of limb. The King, at the well-known touch,the well-loved voice, pricked his delicate ears, quivered in all hisframe with eager excitation, snuffed the air restlessly through hisdistended nostrils, and felt every vein under his satin skin thrilland swell with pleasure; he was all impatience, all power, all longing,vivid intensity of life. If only that nausea would go! He felt arestless sickliness stealing on him that his young and gallant strengthhad never known since he was foaled. But it was not in the King to yieldto a little; he flung his head up, champing angrily at the bit, thenwalked down to the starting-post with his old calm, collected grace; andCecil, looking at the glossy bow of the neck, and feeling the width ofthe magnificent ribs beneath him, stooped from his saddle a second as herode out of the inclosure and bent to the Seraph.
"Look at him, Rock! The thing's as good as won."
The day was very warm and brilliant; all Baden had come down to therace-course; continuous strings of carriages, with their four or sixhorses and postilions, held the line far down over the plains; mob therewas none, save of women in matchless toilets, and men with the highestnames in the "Almanac de Gotha"; the sun shone cloudlessly on the broad,green plateau of Iffesheim, on the white amphitheater of chalk hills,and on the glittering, silken folds of the flags of England, France,Prussia, and of the Grand Duchy itself, that floated from the summits ofthe Grand Stand, Pavilion, and Jockey Club.
The ladies, descending from the carriages, swept up and down on thegreen course that was so free from "cads" and "legs"; their magnificentskirts trailing along without the risk of a grain of dust; their costlylaces side by side with the Austrian uniforms of the military men fromRastadt. The betting was but slight, in odd contrast with the hubbub andstriking clamor of English betting rings; the only approach to anythinglike "real business" being transacted between the members of theHousehold and those of the Jockey Clubs. Iffesheim was pure pleasure,like every other item of Baden existence, and all aristocratic,sparkling, rich, amusement-seeking Europe seemed gathered there underthe sunny skies, and on everyone's lips in the titled throng was but onename--Forest King's. Even the coquettish bouquet-sellers, who rememberedthe dresses of his own colors which Cecil had given them last year whenhe had won the Rastadt, would sell nothing except little twin scarletand white moss rosebuds; of which thousands were gathered and died thatmorning in honor of the English Guards' champion.
A slender event usually, the presence of the renowned crack of theHousehold Cavalry made the Prix de Dames the most eagerly watched-forentry on the card; and the rest of the field were scarcely noticed asthe well-known gold-embroidered jacket came up at the starting-post.
The King saw that blaze of light and color over course and stands thathe knew so well by this time; he felt the pressure round him of hisforeign rivals as they reared and pulled and fretted and passaged; theold longing quivered in all his eager limbs, the old fire wakened in allhis dauntless blood; like the charger at sound of the trumpet-call, helived in his past victories, and was athirst for more. But yet--betweenhim and the sunny morning there seemed a dim, hazy screen; on hisdelicate ear the familiar clangor smote with something dulled andstrange; there seemed a numbness stealing down his frame; he shook hishead in an unusual and irritated impatience; he did not know what ailedhim. The hand he loved so loyally told him the work that was wanted ofhim; but he felt its guidance dully too, and the dry, hard, hot earth,as he struck it with his hoof, seemed to sway and heave beneath him; theopiate had stolen into his veins and was creeping stealthily and surelyto the sagacious brain, and over the clear, bright senses.
The signal for the start was given; the first mad headlong rush brokeaway with the force of a pent-up torrent suddenly loosened; everyinstinct of race and custom, and of that obedience which rendered himflexible as silk to his rider's will, sent him forward with that stridewhich made the Guards' Crack a household word in all the Shires. For amoment he shook himself clear of all the horses, and led off in the oldgrand sweeping canter before the French bay, three lengths in the onesingle effort.
Then into his eyes a terrible look of anguish came; the numb and sicklynausea was upon him, his legs trembled, before his sight was a blurred,whirling mist; all the strength and force and mighty life within himfelt ebbing out, yet he struggled bravely. He strained, he panted, heheard the thundering thud of the first flight gaining nearer and nearerupon him; he felt his rivals closing hotter and harder in on him; hefelt the steam of his opponent's smoking, foam-dashed withers burnon his own flanks and shoulders; he felt the maddening pressure of aneck-to-neck struggle; he felt what in all his victorious life he hadnever known--the paralysis of defeat.
The glittering throngs spreading over the plains gazed at him in thesheer stupor of amazement; they saw that the famous English hero wasdead-beat as any used-up knacker.
One second more he strove to wrench himself through the throng of thehorses, through the headlong crushing press, through--worst foe ofall!--the misty darkness curtaining his sight! One second more hetried to wrestle back the old life into his limbs, the unworn powerand freshness into nerve and sinew. Then the darkness fell utterly; themighty heart failed; he could do no more--and his rider's hand slackenedand turned him gently backward; his rider's voice sounded very low andquiet to those who, seeing that every effort was hopeless, surged andclustered round his saddle.
"Something ails the King," said Cecil calmly; "he is fairly knockedoff his legs. Some Vet must look to him; ridden a yard farther he willfall."
Words so gently spoken!--yet in the single minute that alone had passedsince they had left the Starter's Chair, a lifetime seemed to have beencentered, alike to Forest King and to his owner.
The field swept on with a rush, without the favorite; and the Prix deDames was won by the French bay L'Etoile.