"I will tell you," said he, "the real story about this race, which is quite extraordinary.
"One of the prettiest women in Paris, Madame la Marquise de Pënâfiel, has among the number of her adorers two who are rivals, and whose devotion to her is well known, or, rather, guessed at. Having one day exchanged some hasty words in regard to a mutual rival, who was each one's enemy without helping the cause of either, and being too well-bred to fight about a woman they both loved, and who would be seriously compromised by the scandal of a duel,—to avoid this inconvenience and gain the same object, they chose this deadly way of settling their quarrel.
"Their chances are equal, as they are both splendid riders and have magnificent horses, but the result is not to be doubted; because if there is any horse capable of running a race of two miles, and leaping over three hedges, and yet being equal to taking a jump over a fixed barrier five feet high, it is almost impossible that there should be two horses who would be so tremendously lucky. Thus, you see, there is no possible chance that this race can end in any other way than by a terrible accident. If they escape this time, they will try it again at some future day, as a duel is begun over again after the principals have vainly exchanged shots."
All this seemed to be so strange, so unusual,—though there was no reason why it should therefore be absolutely impossible,—that I was quite stupefied.
"And Madame de Pënâfiel," I asked M. de Cernay, "does she know anything of this fatal contest of which she is the cause?"
"Certainly she does; and to give you an idea of her character, it is not at all impossible that she may come to look on."
"If she should come," said I, this time with a very marked smile of incredulity, "Madame de Pënâfiel will find it quite as natural as to assist at the bloody fights of the toreadors of her own country; for, from her name and her ferocious disregard of our customs, I judge that this savage marquise is some Spanish amazon of the very bluest blood,—one of those black-eyed daughters of Xérès, or of Vejer, who to this day carry a knife in their garter!"
M. de Cernay could not refrain from a laugh, and said to me:
"You are not anywhere near the truth. Madame de Pënâfiel is a Frenchwoman, born in Paris, and a Parisienne in every sense of the word. Furthermore, she is a very distinguished person, and allied to some of the best families in France. She is a widow, and her late husband, the Marquis de Pënâfiel, was a Spaniard."
"Come, now," said I to the count, laughing in my turn, "I see how it is; you are trying to awaken an interest, a romantic and fantastic interest, about a race of which you are to be the judge. I wonder all Paris does not go to look on."