“Yes,” Deydier assents dryly: “he has changed.”
The curé would have said something more, but a loud, rather shrill, cry checks the words on his lips.
“Mon Dieu! What has happened?”
Nothing! Only that Ameyric, the leader of the Farandoulo, and Nicolette with him had been about the only ones who had not perceived the approach of the elegant riders. It is an understood thing that one by one the band of rioters becomes shorter and shorter, as some fall out, breathless after awhile, and Ameyric, who was half wild with excitement to-day, and Nicolette, whose senses were reeling in the excitement of this wild rush through perfume-laden space went on running, running, for the longer the Farandoulo can be kept up by the leaders the greater is the honour that awaits them in the end; and so they ran, these two, until their mad progress was suddenly arrested by a loud, shrill cry, followed less than a second later by another terrified one, and the pawing and clanging of a horse’s hoofs upon the hard stony road. Ameyric was only just in time to drag Nicolette, with a violent jerk, away from the spot where she had fallen on her knees right under the hoofs of a scared and maddened animal. The beautiful rider in gorgeous velvet habit was vainly trying to pacify her horse, who, startled by a sudden clash of tambours, was boring and champing and threatening to rear. Rixende, not a very experienced rider, had further goaded him by her screams and by her nervous tugging at the bridle: she did indeed present a piteous spectacle—her elegant hat had slipped down from her head and hung by its ribbon round her neck, her hair had become disarranged and her pretty face looked crimson and hot, whilst her small hands, encased in richly embroidered gloves, clung desperately to the reins. The untoward incident, however, only lasted a few seconds. Already one of Deydier’s men had seized the bridle of the fidgety animal and Bertrand, bending over in his saddle, succeeded not only in quieting the horse, but also in soothing his loved one’s temper; he helped her to readjust her hat and to regain her seat, he rearranged the tumbled folds of her skirt, and saw to her stirrup leather and the comfort of her small, exquisitely shod feet.
But Rixende would not allow herself to be coaxed back into good humour.
“These ignorant louts!” she murmured fretfully, “don’t they know that their silly din will frighten a highly strung beast?”
“It was an accident, Rixende,” Bertrand protested: “and here,” he added, “comes M. le Curé to offer you an apology for his flock.”
“Hélas, mademoiselle,” M. le Curé said, with hands held up in genuine concern, as he hurried to greet M. le Comte and his fair companion, “we must humbly beg your pardon for this unfortunate accident. In the heat and excitement of the dance, I fear me the boys and girls lost their heads a bit.”
“Lost their heads, M. le Curé,” Rixende retorted dryly. “I might have lost my life by what you are pleased to call this unfortunate accident. Had my horse taken the bit between his teeth....”
She shrugged her pretty shoulders in order to express all the grim possibilities that her words had conjured up.