Once more pesage and pelouse rushed down upon him, not now with a murmur of voices, but with a mighty roar, that swelled, deafening, into his ears. "Flambeau! Flambeau! C'est Flambeau qui gagne!" There was a gasp of short-coming breath at his elbow, a gleam of white, tense neck, a flash of red breeches and of polished boots, and the Steeple Chase Militaire was run, with Vivandière second, and the lean, white Flambeau winner by a length. The officers rode back slowly, past the applauding tribunes. Eugène saw dimly that it was a colonel of infantry who rode Flambeau, a metre ahead of him, but his thoughts were more for Natalie than for himself or his successful competitor. Poor little girl! She had been so anxious for his victory, and no doubt so confident, after the brave words of Vieux César. But, after all,--second! It was not so bad in a field of twelve. But he had been wrong not to speak to her before he mounted. Well, he would atone for that, never fear! Moreover, when once they were married, he would give her Vivandière--the cause of their first meeting--the reason of their present sympathy! It was a good thought. Eugène did not find the general and his daughter readily in the vast throng in the pesage. Three times he made the circuit of the tribunes, scanning the tiers of seats, and threading his way through the little wooden chairs upon the turf in front. Once he passed Cavaignac and Mors, walking arm in arm, who swore at him picturesquely for his defeat. Vivandière had paid but seventeen francs fifty placé, and so they had only seventy-five to show for the five louis they had placed upon her gagnant. The privilege of calling her master tête de laitue was but trifling recompense, and they strolled on, surprised that one noted for his eloquence in this variety of obloquy did not deign to reply. Finally, at the doors of the little refreshment pavilion, and talking with a colonel of infantry, he found the objects of his quest, and went up eagerly, saluting. Vieux César greeted him with heartiness. "Ah, lieutenant! Our preserver of Friday--quoi? Natalie, see who is here--our preserver of Friday!" The girl was radiant. Her cheeks were flushed, and the gray eyes shone with a brightness that set Eugène's heart pounding so hard that he felt its throbbing must be dimpling the breast of his tunic. "What a magnificent race!" she said, giving him her hand. "You have cause to be proud of Vivandière. It is something to have ridden such a horse." "It is always something to ride a good horse," said Eugène, looking into her eyes, "and it is something, also, to be second in a good race, but it is more to be first. And I had my reasons for wishing to be that, mademoiselle." Natalie smiled. "Ah, sans doute!" she answered. "But you must not call me mademoiselle, monsieur. You must know that since yesterday I am a serious married woman. And what is more, my husband rode Flambeau! Am I not a veritable mascotte?"