APRIL, 18—.
I met Marguerite in the Champs Élysées. She spoke of horses, and said to me: "Why do you not make Candid run oftener? They say he is so fast, so handsome, and that you are so fond of him,—oh, so fond, that I am almost jealous," she added, laughing.
At this moment M. de Cernay, who, like myself, was on horseback, rode up to the side of Madame de Pënâfiel's carriage. He bowed to her, and said to me:
"Is this true that I hear? Is Candid dead?"
Marguerite looked at me with amazement.
"He is dead," said I to M. de Cernay.
"That is what I was told, but it does not surprise me,—to travel more than seven leagues at night, in an hour and four minutes! No matter how full-blooded a horse was, it would be hard for him to stand such a trial as that, and when he was not in condition! And your wager was for three hundred louis, I believe?"
"Yes, three hundred louis."
"Well, between us, you have done a foolish thing, for I have seen you refuse more than that for him, and very properly, too, for you would never get such a horse for five hundred louis. I tell you this because he is dead now," he added, with great simplicity.
"A horse's reputation, then, seems to be like that of a great man," I said, laughing, "jealousy prevents him from being appreciated while he is alive."