In the next act it would be all different. Everything depended on her own balance and accuracy. It would be all trick work then, not riding. As she slid out of her habit and into the ugly ballet-skirts she loathed, her courage vanished and she trembled as she faced the audience for the second time, transformed in white satin and pale blue, the thinness of her neck and arms painfully apparent.
The flying rush through the air as she jumped the hurdles and gates made her feel horribly dazed and giddy, and unable to collect her senses in time for the next leap. As she descended lightly in her heelless silk slippers upon Don Juan's back after the fourth hurdle had been passed, she swayed and only by a violent effort recovered herself. Her heart seemed to be beating right up in her throat and choking her. She put up one hand and pulled at her turquoise collar till the clasp gave way and thrust the blue stones into the low-cut bodice. The band sounded louder than ever, the light danced and waved. Round and round and round again, while the ring-master's whip cracked monotonously.
The rhythm of the waltz beat in her brain as the music in some delirious dream. She wondered dully why there was so little applause now. Was she doing so badly? Once she had jumped too low and knocked against a hurdle instead of clearing it properly. The grooms had helped her by lowering everything as much as possible, but all they could do had not been able to disguise her unwonted awkwardness.
She would have a few minutes' rest when the clown came on, and perhaps that would help her to go through the rest of the act without an absolute breakdown.
The interlude was all too short, the signal came and she sprang up and poised herself mechanically. Again the waltz music struck up and Don Juan's hoofs fell with a soft thud upon the tan. The hurdles and gates had all been cleared successfully, and now she must dismount and let her steed go round alone while she ran across from the opposite side of the ring and vaulted from the ground to the saddle.
It was the trick she had found impossible to get through at the rehearsal, the trick she most dreaded. Everything depended on her coolness and steadiness. She must start exactly at the right time, and measure the distance with unerring precision. For the first time in her life she feared the audience. She knew too well the fickle nature of a Spanish crowd. To a performer who failed to please them they would be merciless. People who screamed aloud for more blood when the sport had been tame at a bull-fight, people who habitually tortured their animals, were not likely to show consideration to one who was paid to entertain them. They would applaud furiously one minute and hiss furiously the next.
As she stood alone, waiting, she glanced instinctively towards the place where Emile always sat, and wished he had been there. He would be angry with her if she failed, but she felt somehow that he would be sorry for her as well. Perhaps he might even make excuses for her, for he was the only person who knew about the episode of the previous night, and her injured hand. Sometimes she had loved the swaying crowd of human beings for whose amusement she risked her life and limbs. Now she hated the eager watching faces. They only wanted to see her fall, she told herself.
She ran blindly across the open space. The next instant she was on her feet on the ground again and Don Juan had stopped short. Her upward leap had carried her on to his back, but she had not been able to keep her balance.
There was dead silence and then the hissing in the audience broke out, vehement and unrestrained.
That she had pleased them hitherto went for nothing in her favour now.
She had been clumsy, ungraceful, had failed—that was enough.