“Oh! it’s enchanting!” cried the young Amazon passionately. “I feel as if I had wings; and Rosebud is so gentle!”
“Look here, Langrove,” called out Sir Simon, backing his powerful black horse, and stooping towards the vicar, “don’t you go worrying yourself about this business; it’s not worth it. They are a parcel of humbugs, the whole lot of them. I know Griggs well—a hot-headed, canting lout that would be much better occupied attending to his pigs. It would never do for a man like you to come into collision with him. Let those that like his fire and brimstone go and take it; you’ve a good riddance of them. And as to the old lady, keep never minding. You’ll do no good by crossing her; she’s a harmless old party as long as you let her have her own way, but if you rouse her there will be the devil to pay.”
M. de la Bourbonais had been kept out of the secret of the riding lessons. He had heard nothing more of the scheme since that evening at supper, and, with Angélique in the plot, it required no great diplomacy to manage the trying on of the riding habit, that had been made by the first lady’s dressmaker in London, brought down for the purpose; so that the intended surprise was as complete as Sir Simon and his accomplices could have wished.
“Comment donc!”[93] he exclaimed, breaking out into French, as usual when he was excited. “What is this? What do I see? My Clair de lune[94] turned into an Amazon!” And he stood at the end of the lawn and beheld Franceline careering on her beautiful, thoroughbred pony. “Ah! Simon, Simon, this is too bad. This is terrible!” he protested, as the baronet rode up; but the smile of inexpressible pleasure that shone in his face took all the reproach out of the words.
“Look at her!” cried Sir Simon triumphantly; “did you ever see any one take to it so quickly? Just see how she sits in her saddle. Stand out of the way a bit, till we have another gallop. Now, Franceline, who’ll be back first?”
And away they flew, Sir Simon reining in his more powerful steed, so as to let Rosebud come in a neck ahead of him.
“Simon, Simon, you are incorrigible! I don’t know what to say to you,” said Raymond, settling and unsettling the spectacles under his bushy eyebrows.
“Compliment me; that’s all you need say for the present,” said Sir Simon. “See what a color I’ve brought into her cheeks!”
“O petit père! it is so delightful,” exclaimed Franceline, caressing the hand her father had laid on Rosebud’s neck. “I never enjoyed anything so much. And I’m not the least fatigued; you know you were afraid it would fatigue me? And is not Rosebud a beauty? And look at my whip.” And she turned the elegant gold-headed handle for his inspection.
“Mounted in gold, and with your cipher in turquoise! Ah! you are nicely spoiled! Simon, Simon!” What more could he say at such a moment? It would have been odious to show anything but gratitude and pleasure, even if he felt it. This, then, was the end of the earnest midnight conference, and the distinct promise that Rosebud and Nero should be sold! The animal that would have paid half a lawful and urgent debt was to be kept for Franceline, and he must sanction the folly; to say nothing of the rigging out of that young lady in a complete riding suit of the most expensive fashion. Well, well, it was no use protesting now, and it was impossible to deny that the exquisitely-fitting habit and the dark beaver hat set off her figure and hair in singular perfection. The bright, healthy glow of her cheeks, too pleaded irresistibly in extenuation of Sir Simon’s extravagance.