French -- Germany -- Fiction; French fiction -- Translations into English; Mystery fiction; Nobility -- Germany -- Fiction
The march past was over. Whilst the Grand Duke Frederick-Augustus and
Duke Joachim came over to join the King of Würtemberg and General von
Eichhorn in front of the stand, the two calvary regiments massed for the
final charge at the place the princes had just left.
"Look!" said Marçais to me. "You are going to see the Cossack style."
On the right was the blue mass, on the left the red, smaller. Twenty
paces in front of them two riders, almost side by side. Colonel von
Becker's great bay snorted. Taras-Bulba, quivering with suppressed
excitement, did not move.
Leaning forward, Melusine looked on, her gaze at once roving and rapt.
Two sabres flashed and immediately, with a deafening roar, the great
wave broke.
And now one horse was ahead--Taras-Bulba. How long would it last?
Possibly ten seconds, and then the wave, three thousand horses and three
thousand riders, stopped dead before the stands amid a rattle of oaths
and the jingling of stirrups. The earth seemed to open.
I shall never forget the sight. On the right Becker, leaning back in his
saddle, his horse rearing, saluted the sovereigns with his sword. On the
left was Taras-Bulba pawing the air.
Five or six yards away from me the Grand Duchess sat her prancing horse.
No pink glow on her pale face spoke of that breathless rush. Her huge
black kolbach entirely hid her hair. Her green eyes shone gloriously. A
Murat among Amazons, she held her sword raised above her head.
She smiled to us.
At that same moment a cry of admiring wonder broke from three throats.
Melusine von Graffenfried, Marçais and I had the glory of leading a
frantic burst of cheering.
Then Taras-Bulba fell back on his fore feet. With one hand Aurora von
Lautenburg patted his shaggy mane, while she extended the other to King
Albert, who kissed it again.
* * * * * *
An invitation card, handed to me by Ludwig when I returned to my rooms,
intimated that my presence was requested at the dinner to take place at
eight o'clock in the Great Gallery, in honour of His Majesty the King of
Würtemberg and His Excellency General von Eichhorn. Third table; place
23.
I spent the afternoon in my room, playing with some manuscript or other,
turning over pages, but not reading. At seven o'clock I went out into
the park. Two hours earlier I had heard the last strains of the hunting
horns, distant at first, die out in the ravine of the Melna. It was
there that the hunt, led by the King and the Grand Duchess, had
concluded.
The palace was a blaze of light, and through its lofty windows I could
see the great tables groaning beneath their load of flowers and glass.
Most of the high officials and all the Lautenburg officers had been
invited, and three hundred covers were laid at twelve tables.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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