Not long, however, could the interest of the spectators be diverted from the amusement of the day and soon all eyes were drawn once more to the track where the horses’ hoofs resounded with exciting patter, as they struggled toward the wire, urged by the stimulating voices of the jockeys.
But even when Leduc won the race, beating the best heat on record; when the ladies in the grand stand arose in a body, like a thousand butterflies, disturbed by a sudden footfall in a sunlit field; when the jockey 245 became the hero of the hour; when the small boys outside nearly fell from the trees in their exuberance of ecstasy, and the men threw their hats in the air and shouted themselves hoarse––even these exhilarating circumstances failed to reawaken the land baron’s concern in the scene around him. His efforts at indifference were chafing his inmost being; the cloak of insouciance was stifling him; the primeval man was struggling for expression, that brute-like rage whose only limits are its own fury and violence.
A quavering voice, near at hand, recalled him to himself, and turning, he beheld the marquis approaching with mincing manner, the paint and pigments cracked by the artificial smiles wreathing his wrinkled face. In that vast assemblage, amid all the energy, youth and surfeit of vitality, he seemed like a dried and crackling leaf, tossed helplessly, which any foot might crush to dust. The roar of the multitude subsided, a storm dying in the distance; the ladies sank in their seats––butterflies settling once more in the fields––and Leduc, with drooping head, was led to the paddock, followed by a few fair adorers.
“I placed the winner, Monsieur Mauville,” piped the marquis. “Though the doctors told me the excitement would kill me! What folly! Every new sensation adds a day to life.”
“In your case, certainly, Marquis, for I never saw you looking younger,” answered the land baron, with an effort.
“You are too amiable, my dear friend! The ladies 246 would not think so,” he added, mournfully wagging his head with anile melancholy.
“Nonsense!” protested the other. “With your spirit, animation––”
“If I thought you were right,” interrupted the delighted marquis, taking his young friend’s arm, “I would ask you to present me to the lady over there––the one you just bowed to.”
“The deuce!” said Mauville to himself. “The marquis is becoming a bore.”
“You rascal! I saw the smile she gave you,” continued the other playfully. “And you ran away from her. What are the young men made of nowadays? In the old days they were tinder; women sparks. But who is she?”