emerald sea
crested by the dark waves of the hedges, as the horses rocked like
ships over the obstacle--Bon Jour closely followed the favorite.

At the moment Miss Malines cried: "Oh, a jockey's off! Oh, Jack, it's
Bon Jour! She's _thrown_ her jockey! I see the red and white."

But Falconer biting his cigar fiercely, laughed in scorn. "She's
thrown _them_ all right. She's left them all _behind_ her--see!" he
pointed, "there are only three running." And, indeed, as they came
again in sight, one of the horses was seen to be wandering loose about
the course, and another cantered nonchalantly some hundred yards behind.

"She's not even trying," murmured her enchanted owner. "She's cool as
a rose."

The cries which had named the Rothschild gelding from the start were
now mingled, and Bon Jour, flying around the emerald course, might have
heard her name for the first on the public lips. She was running
gracefully, her head even with the favorite's saddle and the English
gray was a far-off third. Bon Jour was pressing to fame.

At the last hurdle as they appeared flying in full sight of the Grand
Stand it was evident the pretty creature had made her better good. The
horses leapt simultaneously and came down on all fours, with Grimace to
the rear, and amongst the frantic acclamation with which the public is
always ready to greet the surprise of unlooked-for merit, Bon Jour
passed Grimace by half a metre at the goal. Jack Falconer was an
interesting figure on the turf; his horse was worth twenty thousand
pounds.

Several hours later, Bulstrode, early in the salon, walked up and down
waiting the arrival of the ladies. He had paid downstairs a hundred
francs for the privilege of dining in the window of the restaurant,
because Mrs. Falconer chanced to remark that one saw the room better
from that point. And the head waiter even after this monstrous tip
said if "_ces dames_" were late there would be no possibility to keep
this gilt-edged table for them. It was the night of the year at
Trouville: Boldi and his Hungarians played to five hundred people in
the dining-room.

Bulstrode looked at the clock; they had yet ten minutes' grace.

Extremely satisfied with himself, with Bon Jour, above all with the
French Marquis--he felt a glow of affection for the whole French nation.

"How we misjudge them!" he mused; "how we accuse them of clinging to
their families' apron strings, of being bad colonists; call them
h