X
"BELZÉBUTH"

WE were heavy sportsmen (à l'Anglaise) at Bellevue at that time. Not only did we lay out a race-course, but we imported hounds and performed the Chasse au renard. We got up point-to-point races and paper-chases. There were actually Ladies' races, and some folk went so far as to talk about pig-sticking.

   "Of course, Madame Merlonorot will ride when she comes out to Algeria?" asked Madame Paës.

   "Dieu! Rather! " replied Colonel Merlonorot of the Zouaves. "I am on the look-out for a good thing for her now. She wants all the equine perfections embodied in one Arab pony, Won't keep a string. . . . Too much bother. . . . Must have won a good race or two, must have been hunted by a lady, must hack quietly in both saddles, must trap, and be trusted to take no exception to camels, Arab music, whirling dervishes, or fireworks. Also he must make the promenade in the governess-cart upon occasion! What?"

   "It's a far cry from the race-course to the governess-cart, isn't it?" inquired Madame Paës.

   "Yes. But she'll expect me to produce all that in the next month — and not to spend more than about three thousand francs! . . . Let's know if you hear of anything that might meet most of the requirements — and available within the month, will you, dear Madame? Must be a racer, though — and that limits the field when you're looking for a hack. . . . She's great on Ladies' Point-to-Points, Hunt-races, Chasse au renard, and everything you can do on a horse. She would play le polo and would pursue the pig with a spear if I would consent!"

   "I will remember, Colonel — and I have an idea. . . . Three thousand francs for a pony that meets all the specifications?"

   "About that, and a thousand thanks. Must be young, thoroughbred, and something to look at — and be vetted sound all over, of course." . . .

   Three thousand francs! It would mean Home this year instead of next. Paris in Spring! It would mean avoiding the awful prostrating heat of la canicule for the babies — neither of them robust, both of them showing the signs of French babyhood kept too long in Africa's forcing-house. It might mean life to one or both of them, especially with the usual cholera, smallpox, typhoid, and dysentery epidemics about, as they grew weaker. And Guillaume needed his long-overdue leave badly. He was overworked, run down, ill, and his temper — never very good — was getting unbearable. Fancy having leave and being too poor to take it! What a shame it was that the condition of the majority of married junior officers of the XIXth Army Corps should be one of cruel grinding poverty, pitiful shifts to keep up appearances, and a weary, heartbreaking struggle to make ends meet. Well, one must "drag the lengthening chain" and, having once clasped it on, must take the consequences. One can't start life afresh in France at thirty odd — and, well, one can always hope, or nearly always. And one might win a prize in the Lottery. (Think of it! One's chief hope for a brighter future, a chance of winning a prize in the Lottery!) . . . Three thousand francs!

   But young Belzébuth had never run a race in his life and never taken part in the Chasse au renard nor the pursuit of the spear-threatened pig, unless, perhaps, when he had had an English master in Maroc. Still, he was a real picture, was rising seven, sound as a bell, quiet as a mouse, and undoubtedly thoroughbred.

   He hacked in both saddles and was a fast and steady trapper — and took the babies for an airing daily. Certainly he had a turn of speed — and there was simply no tiring him.

   He would take Guillaume (a very bad and nervous rider) for a ride in the morning, and in the trap to the barracks after breakfast. He would bring him home to lunch, and then take the babies for their drive in the evening.

   Sometimes he would finish up the day by taking the trap to a distant villa when a dinner-party was toward. And when Guillaume was away on manœuvres or marches, Madame Paës, horse-woman born and bred, got her only riding.

   Three thousand francs! And Guillaume had bought him for two hundred francs when Lieutenant d'Amienville — who ought not to be allowed to keep a pig or a pariah dog, much less a horse — went away. Starved, neglected, and dying for want of work, Belzébuth had looked a bad bargain at 200 fcs. A man ought not to go unprosecuted who buys a horse and uses a motor-car, leaving the horse to the mercy of a rascally homard who feeds it on offal and never takes it out of the stall. Her heart had ached when she had seen the staring coat, blear eye, and overgrown hoofs of the walking skeleton that Lieutenant d'Amienville swore had cost him, raw, a couple of thousand francs. She could have hung her sun-hat on him in a dozen places. But she knew a good horse when she saw one. Had not her father run his own horses at Longchamps and Auteuil before he went bankrupt?

   And, under her care, Belzébuth had soon changed into a picture of bright, sleek, healthy happiness, and had served them exceedingly well.

   Could she make him worth three thousand francs before Guillaume returned from manœuvres, sell him to Colonel Merlonorot (her father's old comrade), and put the money into Guillaume's hand, saying, "Book the passages for Marseilles to-morrow, mon ange."

   Could she? For, the utmost screwing and scraping, the most optimistic view of the saleable value of the few goods and chattels, the estimating the cheapest and nastiest journey to Paris — left a gaping chasm of a good thousand francs between hope and realization of a holi certainly avoid getting the Beaune that M&eacuate;decin-Major Parme had ordered her to take, since she had had malarial fever, and use the money for oats. But what a speculation! It is an ill-wind that blows no good at all — the fever had reduced her weight, and she could ride at about seven stone now.

   But what would Guillaume say of the wasted money — if she failed? Well, it wouldn't be all waste, for Belzébuth's value would go up, in any case, if she hunted him well and he got a place in the Point-to-Point.

   The proverbs say that where there is a will there is a way, and that Heaven helps those that help themselves.

   She would simply live to sell Belzébuth to dear rich old Colonel Merlonorot for three thousand francs, as a racer, hunter, hack in both saddles, bright trapper, and confidential nursery-pony! For the next month she would give mind, soul, and body to winning the Desert Point-to-Point. . . .

*  *  *  *  *

   Belzébuth was taken for a long quiet ride next morning, and for another in the evening, and his mistress personally superintended his feed and toilet.

   Next day he was introduced to a new and glorious place where the going was beautiful and you went straight ahead between railings, with plenty of room and no obstacles.

   He took his furlong burst on the race-course at a good pace, and improved daily at two, three, and four furlongs.

   Madame Paës' notions of training were original, but based on the sound principle, "Train for what you have to do by repeatedly doing it — and work up gradually to the first doing."

   After a week Belzébuth was doing his mile on the race-course and doing it uncommon well (as one or two observers noted). Also he went down the lane of jumps cleverly and willingly, beautifully schooled.

   One morning, Colonel Merlonorot noticed Madame Paës at the meet, on a very likely-looking bay Arab good in the legs, well ribbed up, high in the withers, and with a blood look about him. ("He liked the look of that beast. Nom d'un pipe, he did!")

   Madame Paës had not hunted since she had scrambled about with the North Devons in Angleterre — a long-legged, long-haired Diana of fourteen (at a Devonshire school) on a fat pony.

   She was now a tiny, slim, pale, big-eyed Diana of twenty-four — and as good as a jockey.

   But she looked as though she had been too long in Exile (which was exactly the case), and fitter for a deck-chair on a homeward-bound liner than for a saddle in the hunting-field. . . .

   When would they get off? How would Belzébuth behave? Would he belie his nursery mildness and go fou when it was a case of full cry and all away? Would the unwonted oats and the rousing on the race-course and over the jumps react unfavourably now for the weak-backed, weary rider? He was certain to be méchant, and might buck or bolt. Would trembling hands and aching arms be unable to hold him? How her back ached, too! . . . Dear old Belzébuth, be good! It's for the babies and Guillaume. . . . God knew she'd sooner be in bed than in the midst of this gay throng of strong and happy men and women, well-content, well-clad, well-fed. . . .

   Well-fed! A melancholy fact. Madame Paës, wife of a French commissioned officer, was not well fed. A woman of the unselfish sort does not buy costly tonic-foods, dainties, and wines, and eat the money that is sorely needed for other things. For plain food she had no appetite. To people who have been brought up in a chateau atmosphere, an income — which to ci-devant dwellers in Montmartre or the bourgeois suburbs is wealth — may be degrading poverty.

   The Paës had expenses which it was due to their honour and proper pride to have — and which are not due to the honour and proper pride of the bourgeoisie. . . . And these expenses and the health of Guillaume and the babies came before food and clothes for Madame Paës, in Madame Paës' opinion.

*  *  *  *  *

   A note of music from the clump of jungle that had swallowed up the hounds. A crash of the grand wild music. A line! Hounds are off and the first "run" is on.

   Belzébuth commenced by a series of bounds, the outcome of a high and joyous heart, good feeding, and good condition. He felt a touch of the curb, arched his back in protest, and went along at a smart canter, a vision of dainty horse-flesh.

   The jackal got into a vineyard, was put out again, and had to make for open country.

   It was fine going, and Madame Paës let Belzébuth go. He went — and in five minutes the first rider behind the Master was Madame Paës, and she was holding Belzébuth in, or he would have passed the Master's big Syrian-Barb who was doing his possible under Colonel de Longueville's fifteen stone.

   When the end came, Madame Paës was in at the death, lengths ahead of the second arrival, and minutes ahead of the field. Belzébuth had hardly turned a hair, and the Master presented the rider with the brush and a compliment. Madame Paës took her pony home, the while the field jogged on to the next likely cactus covert.

   In another week Belzébuth was doing two kilometres on the race-course, morning and evening.

   At the next meet, a very long run (twenty-two kilometres, the Master said) was finished by a field of four arriving thus: the Master and Madame Paës together; Captain Dutoit of the Spahis, seconds later; fourth man, Major Bruil of the Chasseurs d'Afrique, minutes later. Rest nowhere — and strung out for miles. Belzébuth had been held, while the other horses had been spurred.

   Belzébuth hunted twice more, and the hunt-correspondent of the "Depèche Algérienne" singled him out for high praise.

   Madame Paës dropped race-course practice and hunting, and let him do exercise walks in the compound on one day, and a point-to-point run on another.

   Riding out alone to some scrubby, sandy jungle, she would endeavour to estimate a two-kilometre distance, note a clump of palms, a tree, a hut, a hillock, and other natural landmarks, and then ride from one to the other at Belzébuth's best speed.

   Once she had a narrow escape of settling the question of Belzébuth's value, and all other values, finally. Emerging at a furious gallop from a cactus-strewn area, in which pace could only be maintained and disaster avoided by skilful "bending," she came upon a beautiful smooth patch with a gentle rise ending in — a wadi or gully, thirty feet deep and fifty wide. She realized the fact in time to bring Belzébuth round in a curve that missed the precipice by inches.

   On the Wednesday before the Saturday on which the race would be run, Madame Paës took Belzébuth out for his last training gallop. In the middle of it she put him at a terrasse, a "bund," or low earthen embankment, round what had once been a cultivated field.

   The three-foot banks Belzébuth preferred to clear. The four-foot variety he liked to treat as on-and-offs-alighting on the two-foot top and leaving it like a bird.

   This particular bank was a delusion and a snare.

   Though fair-seeming to the eye on Madame Paës' side of it, on the other it was eroded, crumbling, beetling.

   Belzébuth landed beautifully on the top — and horse and rider went down in a cloud of dust and an avalanche of clods and stones.

   The horse turned a complete somersault across the woman.

   But the flood that had caused the erosion had made some amends by scooping a channel at the base of the undermined bank, and instead of breaking every bone in Madame Paës' body and crushing her chest, Belzébuth's weight forced her into this channel and rested on its sides.

   He arose and stood steady as a troophorse.

   His mistress lay still and white.

   Soon she stirred, sat up — and straightened her tricorne hat. Then, too shaken to stand, sick and faint, giddy and stunned, not knowing whether she was seriously injured, she crawled to Belzébuth and examined his knees.

   "Oh! Thank God!" she whispered, on finding that, instead of being broken as she had expected, they were unmarked.

   What did her own injuries matter so long as Belzébuth's knees were right?

   A blemish there — and two hundred francs was his price.

   An hour later, Madame Paës, looking like death on a bay horse, rode into the compound of her villa and went straight to bed.

   Next day she could not move.

   On the Friday she was better, but unable to get up.

   On Saturday she would leave her bed and, if necessary, be carried downstairs, driven to the starting-point, and lifted on to Belzébuth.

   Who could ride him for her at seven stone — and ride him as she would? Nobody.

   All Bellevue was en route for the scene of the famous Bellevue Point-to-Point races, consisting of team-races for horses, another for ponies, a handicap, and an open race for quadrupeds of any size and bipeds of any weight.

   Then came the Ladies' Point-to-Point, over two and a half kilometres of fairly good course and a few jumps.

   The ordinary course was a stiff one, and so arranged that a really bold and resolute rider could shorten the distance on the average man by taking wadis, and the other "places" that discretion would ride round.

   The Ladies' Course included nothing that gave the stout heart and strong seat a marked advantage. So much the worse for Madame Paës, who was out, not so much to win a race and glory, as to win health and happiness, possibly life itself, for her children and husband.

   A large crowd, on horseback for the most part, surrounded the tents (where the officers of the Chasseurs d'Afrique were "At Home"), the starting-point, and neighbouring winning-post.

   Madame Paës lay in a long chair, with closed eyes — while the men's four races were run — limp, relaxed, and weary to death.

   Oh, for a cushion to put under her weak and aching back! — and oh, for a petit verre of eau de vie to give her heart and strength! But her idolized Guillaume (a prig of the first water and petty domestic tyrant) did not "approve" of alcohol for ladies. There were so many things of which Guillaume did not "approve" for other people, though he appeared to approve of most things for Guillaume.

   At last! The bell for the Ladies' Point-to-Point, the most popular and famous race in the Colony.

   Madame Paës mounted Belzébuth and walked him to the starting-point.

   Nine competitors.

   Colonel Lebrun's wife on the pride of the Chasseurs (but a heavy, bumping, mouth-sawing rider who would spoil any horse's chance).

   Madame Maxin on a characterless, unreliable racer.

   Little Angélique Dandin, on her brother's one and only pony.

   Madame Malherbe, cool, quiet, neat, and businesslike, on a light and dainty black mare with slender legs but powerful quarters.

   Major Parme's wife on the best horse that her money could buy but a woman who thought far more of hat, habit, and figure than of seat and hands.

   Madame Deville, riding (astride) her husband's charger and intending to win if spur and quirt would do it.

   Colonel de Longueville's wife, a fine horsewoman, handsome, smart, and clever, on the pick of her husband's racing-stable. And a couple of quidnuncs.

   A bad field to beat.

   Betting was on Madame Maxin if her horse "behaved." If he didn't, Madame de Longueville must win in a common canter.

   Strangers liked the look of Madame Malherbe, but local wisdom knew her mare couldn't live with the other two.

   General Blanc, starter, drew the attention of the ladies to a pair of red flags half a kilometre away, a pair of blue ones to the right of these and half a kilometre from them, another pair of red to the right of the "field," and a pair of white, at present behind their backs and some three furlongs distant.

   "You must pass between the red flags, then between the blue, then the red, and lastly. between the white, and finish here," said he. "There is nothing serious in the way of ditch or wall. Pick your own route — and any competitor not passing between the flags is, of course, disqualified."

   A silly question from Madame Lebrun — politely answered.

   All ready? . . . The flag falls.

   Madame Paës thanked Heaven they were away at last.

   A hundred yards from the starting-point is a brush-wood jump which must be taken — or a large patch of dense cactus-jungle skirted to the left or right.

   Should she try and take it first of all?

   She hated jumping in company. Yes. A flick told Belzébuth he might stretch himself for a bit, and he cleared the jump ten lengths ahead of the next horse.

   "Nom de Dieu! It's an 'outsider's year,'" said General Blanc. "Bar accidents, that's the winner. Who is she?"

   Madame Lebrun's horse — with a round dozen stone hanging on his mouth-refused; the lady and the animal parted company, and the subsequent proceedings interested them no more.

   Madame Parme elected to skirt the jungle, and was out of the race from that moment.

   A quidnunc took alarm at the pace and pulled with all her strength.

   The virtueless and evil-reputed racer drew level with Belzébuth, Madame Maxin spurring, and Madame de Longueville passed both.

   Madame Paës was holding Belzébuth in from the moment he had cleared the first jump.

   Madame Deville began flogging, like a jockey, in the first quarter-mile of the race, and passed Madame de Longueville with a spurt. Shortly after she took fifth place and kept it. . . .

   Between the first flags passed Madame de Longueville with the wicked racer at her girth and Belzébuth at her tail, Madame Malherbe a dozen lengths behind, and Madame Deville thirty.

   Angélique Dandin came later in the day, having lost her way. Neither quidnunc continued her wild career to this point. . . .

   Gradually the distance between the leading three and the following two lengthened — and, for a kilometre, Madame Paës, Madame de Longueville, and Madame Maxin ran neck and neck.

   Suddenly the bad-charactered racer took a line of his own, missed the next flags by a few metres, and bolted into the desert. At the second flags, Madame de Longueville led, Belzébuth consenting — or, rather, being made to consent; Madame Malherbe, creeping up, passed the flags three lengths behind, and Angélique Dandin, catching Madame Deville, led her through, a score lengths in rear. . . .

   Madame Paës was filled with hope.

   Should she let Belzébuth out yet? No, not till the last flags — if she could live so long — if her heart would beat instead of stabbing — if her brain would not reel so — if the blue mist would clear from her eyes.

   (Those who had climbed to points of vantage shouted that Madame de Longueville would win in a walk — had led from the start — was going strong — except for that dark horse which seemed to manage to hang on.

   A fairish jump ahead — should she pass Madame de Longueville? No, let her take it first, and let Belzébuth save himself for the three-furlong run home.

   At the last flags Madame de Longueville led by twenty lengths, Madame Paës second, Madame Malherbe third, Angélique Dandin a neck behind, and Madame Deville, still flogging, a safe fifth.

   And then Madame Paës gave Belzébuth a sharp flick, raised her bridle hand, and called to him.

   The roar of applause and welcome to Madame de Longueville died down with curious suddenness as Belzébuth sprang forward, passed Madame de Longueville's lathered grey Arab as though he were standing, forged rapidly and steadily ahead, and, finishing in a quiet canter, won the race by a good furlong. Madame Paës reeled in the saddle and fell heavily into the arms of Colonel Merlonorot, who came forward to help her to dismount.

   "Splendid! Splendid!" said he. "Mon Dieu! If I hadn't just bought my wife a horse, I'd ask if that pony of yours is for sale. You should run him at Longchamps!"

   . . . "If I hadn't just bought my wife a horse" . . . what was he saying? "If I hadn't just bought my wife a horse, I'd ask if that pony of yours is for sale." . . .

   Then it was all for nothing — and money wasted!

   Madame Paës fainted quietly and privately in a comfortable chair at the back of the empty reception-tent of the Spahis.

   Colonel Merlonorot drove her home in his uncomfortable high dogcart — (quite à l'Anglaise).

   Just time to change and rest before Guillaume arrived. . . .

   He burst into her room, looking fagged, white, and weary — and his greeting, after five weeks' absence, was —

   "What on earth have you been doing with my horse? It's as lame as a tree, and the valet has got its near fore in a bucket of hot water. . . . It's a shame, I say. . . . The only horse I have got, and you can't take a little care of it! What am I to do tomorrow? I suppose it doesn't trouble you that I must cycle to barracks in the sun? . . . Peste! . . . Nom d'un Nom! . . ." and much more.

   Poor Guillaume! He was so overworked and ill — but she wept bitterly, and, lying awake all night, wished she were dead. But a note was handed in at breakfast, next morning, from Colonel de Longueville, which ran:

   "DEAR MADAME,
      "I should like to offer my very hearty congratulations on your, and your pony's performance yesterday, and to ask whether your husband would take 4,000 fcs. for him.

   "I gave that for the pony that Belzébuth left standing yesterday — so it's not a very brilliant offer. I should train him for bigger things.

   "With my most distinguished regards and compliments,

HENRI DE LONGUEVILLE,            
"Colonel."   

   Madame Paës, being very weak and tired, wept again.