“The baroness was taken suddenly ill at the breakfast table. Her fainting fit startled me a little. But it was a mere trifle. She has quite recovered already, and you may rely upon her applauding your victory at Vincennes to-day. She has I don’t know how many hundred louis staked upon your horses.” The marquis’s countenance assumed an expression of cordial regret. “I am very sorry, upon my word!” he exclaimed. “But I sha’n’t take part in the races at Vincennes. I have withdrawn my horses. And, in future, I shall have nothing to do with racing.” “Nonsense!” “It is the truth, however. I have been led to this determination by the infamous slander which has been circulated respecting me.” This answer was a mere trifle, but it somewhat shook Baron Trigault’s confidence. “You have been slandered!” he muttered. “Abominably. Last Sunday the best horse in my stables, Domingo, came in third. He was the favorite in the ring. You can understand the rest. I have been accused of manoeuvering to have my own horse beaten. People have declared that it was my interest he should be beaten, and that I had an understanding with my jockey to that effect. This is an every-day occurrence, I know very well; but, as regards myself, it is none the less an infamous lie!” “Who has dared to circulate such a report?” “Oh, how can I tell? It is a fact, however, that the story has been circulated everywhere, but in such a cautious manner that there is no way of calling the authors to account. They have even gone so far as to say that this piece of knavery brought me in an enormous sum, and that I used Rochecotte’s, Kervaulieu’s, and Coralth’s names in betting against my own horse.” The baron’s agitation was so great that M. de Valorsay observed it, though he did not understand the cause. Living in the same society with the Baroness Trigault, and knowing her story, he thought that Coralth’s name might, perhaps, have irritated the baron. “And so,” he quickly continued, “don’t be surprised if, during the coming week, you see the sale of my horses announced.” “What! you are going to sell----” “All my horses--yes, baron. I have nineteen; and it will be very strange if I don’t get eight or ten thousand louis for the lot. Domingo alone is worth more than forty thousand francs.” To talk of selling--of realizing something you possess--rings ominously in people’s ears. The person who talks of selling proclaims his need of money--and often his approaching ruin. “It will save you at least a hundred and fifty or sixty thousand francs a year,” observed the baron. “Double it and you won’t come up to the mark. Ah! my dear baron, you have yet to learn that there is nothing so ruinous as a racing stable. It’s worse than gambling; and women, in comparison, are a real economy. Ninette costs me less than Domingo, with his jockey, his trainer, and his grooms. My manager declares that the twenty-three thousand francs I won last year, cost me at least fifty thousand.”