"That is a very strange story," said I.
"There is not the slightest doubt about its truth," replied he. "Cernay, who was one of the judges, told me all about it, for it was of him that Madame de Pënâfiel had asked, with almost indecent haste, who was that Turk; for no sooner had she laid eyes on that remarkable specimen, then she had no eyes, no thoughts, for any one else. (Here M. de Pommerive spoke in a falsetto voice in supposed imitation of Madame de Pënâfiel). 'Ah, mon Dieu, how handsome he is! Where did he come from? Ah, what an adorable costume! Ah, how different from your hideous clothes! (She never thinks anything is handsome.) Mon Dieu, what an adorable face! What a noble figure! Oh, there is nothing of the common herd about him! What daring! How splendidly he holds his horse,' etc. I suppress the etcetera," added De Pommerive, as he returned to his natural voice, "because it would take me until to-morrow to repeat all of her impassioned exclamations. But, can you believe it? She ordered her driver to go up as close as possible, so that she might see him nearer, that lovely Turk, that adorable Turk!"
"You are quite right. It was a sudden and violent passion. It was almost African," said I to M. de Pommerive, hardly able to keep from laughing outright at this truthful recital.
"Ah, but wait," said he, "you have not yet heard the best of the story! Thanks to Madame Pënâfiel's cursed curiosity, one of her carriage horses ran against the crupper of the Grand Turk's horse, and the latter began to rear, to plunge, to paw the air with his fore feet; then, the marquise, almost fainting with alarm, terrified for the safety of her dear, delightful Turk, commenced to utter shrieks and lamentations.
"'Take care!'" exclaimed Pommerive, in his former falsetto, imitating Madame de Pënâfiel's cry of alarm. "'Take care! Hold his horse! Ah, heavens, the poor man! I have killed him! It was my fault! Save him, save him! Help, help! If he is killed I shall never forgive myself! Ismaël! Ismaël!' Till at last," said M. de Pommerive, "the marquise was so beside herself that she was half hanging out of the window of her carriage, waving her arms, and stretching them out towards her dear Turk, with such an accompaniment of sobs and stifled cries that people took her for a woman who had suddenly become insane. She was as pale as death, her features were all convulsed, and, with her eyes starting almost out of her head and streaming with tears, you can imagine what she looked like and what a sensation she created. All that might have passed for overexcitement or weak nerves, and thus have simply appeared ridiculous, if we who knew the whole story did not know it to be worse than ridiculous, it was abominable; for since Madame de Pënâfiel had braved public opinion so far as to come and look on at the race, of which she knew herself to be the cause, she might have behaved decently, and not made a spectacle of herself in such an indecorous way, and for whom, pray? Bon Dieu, for a devil of a Turk, that five minutes before she didn't know from Eve nor from Adam!"
Every word of De Pommerive's story was revoltingly stupid and false; there were twenty people, at least, who could deny it with as much certitude as I. But when it came to calumniating and belittling Madame de Pënâfiel, from whatever motive I knew not, these absurdities would probably find an echo among people of the best society, for calumny needs no foundation, and can feed upon itself.
"Well, what have you got to say to it? Is it not abominable?" said De Pommerive, snorting with indignation, and panting with fatigue from his efforts in mimicry and the strain on his voice.
"I have got to say this, my dear M. de Pommerive," said I, "that your information is entirely unreliable, and your story utterly false. I am simply astounded, that a man of your sense and experience could have put the least particle of faith in such a romance."
"How is that?"
"I was at the race; by accident I was standing very close to Madame de Pënâfiel's carriage and I saw her all the time."