His
collar is so white and stiff and portentous as to make it impossible for
him to tighten up his own girths. His breeches are so breechy about the
knees as to render an ascent to the saddle a feat which it is not
prudent to attempt without assistance. His gloves are so large and seamy
as to make it extremely difficult to grasp the bridle, and quite
impossible to buckle a strap. Your French horseman is, in fact, rather
like a knight of old, inasmuch as his attendants are required to set him
on his horse with his face turned in the right direction, his bridle in
his left hand, his whip in his right, and, it is to be supposed, his
heart in his mouth. When he is once up there, however, the gallant son
of Gaul can teach even some of us, my fox-hunting masters, the way to
sit a horse!
We have, however, little to do with such matters here, except in so far
as they affect the persons connected with this record. The Concours
Hippique, be it therefore known, was at its height. Great deeds of
horsemanship had been successfully accomplished. The fair had smiled
beneath pencilled eyebrows upon the brave in uniform and breeches. At
the time when we join the fashionable throng, the fair are smiling their
brightest. It is, in fact, an interval for refreshment.
A crowd of well-dressed men jostled each other good-naturedly around a
long table, where insolent waiters served tepid coffee, and sandwiches
that had been cut by the hand of a knave.
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