The Doll - Bolesaw Prus [121]
The second race was over, the music struck up again. Wokulski ran across to the stands, and meeting Young who was carrying his saddle and had just left the weighing-in, he whispered: ‘Mr Young, we must win…a hundred roubles over and above our agreement. Even if it kills the mare…’
‘Ach,’ the jockey muttered, eyeing him with a touch of cool surprise.
Wokulski had his carriage brought closer to that of the Countess and went back to join the ladies. He was surprised to see that no one was standing near them. Admittedly, the Baron and the marshal had approached the carriage, but on being coldly received by Izabela, had soon withdrawn. But young men merely bowed from a distance and passed by.
‘I understand,’ Wokulski thought, ‘the news that the house is to be auctioned off has cooled them down. But now,’ he added inwardly, looking at Izabela, ‘you will see who really loves you, not your money.’
The bell rang for the third race. Izabela stood up on the seat; a blush appeared on her face. A few yards away Young passed mounted on Sultanka, with the expression of a man who is bored. ‘Run well, you beautiful creature!’ Izabela cried.
Wokulski jumped into his carriage and opened his field-glasses. He was so absorbed by the race that for a moment he forgot Izabela. The seconds dragged like hours: it seemed to him he was bound to the three horses which were going to race, and every unnecessary movement they made caused him a prickling sensation. He thought that his mare was lacking in fire and that Young was too blasé. He listened involuntarily to the conversations around him: ‘Young will walk away with it…’ ‘But… just look at the bay!’ ‘I’d give ten roubles if Wokulski were to win. He’d wipe the smiles off the faces of those Counts.’ ‘Krzeszowski would be furious…’
The bell rang. The three horses set off at a gallop: ‘Young’s in the lead!’ ‘Nonsense…’ ‘They’ve passed the corner…’ ‘The first corner, but the bay is just behind…’ ‘Now the second!’ ‘He’s moved ahead again!’ ‘The bay is coming up!…’ ‘The red jacket is falling back!…’ ‘The third corner!’ ‘But Young is not troubled by them!’ ‘The bay is catching up!’ ‘Look, look! The red jacket is coming up after the bay!’ ‘The bay is last! You’ve lost your bet!’ ‘The red jacket is catching up with Young!…’ ‘He won’t overtake him, he’s already whipping the horse!’ ‘No, no…Bravo, Young! Bravo, Wokulski! The mare is going like the wind! Bravo! Bravo! Bravo!…’
The bell. Young had won. The tall sportsman took the mare by the bridle, led her to the judges’ stand and cried: ‘Sultanka! Ridden by Young. Owner—anonymous!’
‘Anonymous, indeed! Wokulski…Bravo, Wokulski!’ the crowd roared. ‘The owner is Mr Wokulski,’ the tall gentleman repeated, and sent the mare to be put up for auction.
Wild enthusiasm for Wokulski arose among the crowd. No race had excited the spectators so much; there was rejoicing that a Warsaw tradesman had beaten two Counts.
Wokulski approached the Countess’s carriage. Mr Łęcki and the elderly ladies congratulated him; Izabela was silent. At this moment the tall sportsman ran up; ‘Mr Wokulski,’ he said, ‘here is the money—three hundred roubles prize, eight hundred for the mare, which I have bought…’
Wokulski turned with the packet of banknotes to Miss Izabela: ‘Will you permit me to hand you this for your charities?’ Izabela accepted the packet with a smile and beautiful glance.
Then someone pushed against Wokulski. It was Baron Krzeszowski. Pale with rage, he approached the carriage, stretched out his hand to Izabela and exclaimed in French: ‘I am pleased, dear cousin, that your admirers are triumphant…I’m sorry it had to be at my expense, though. How do you do, ladies?’ he added, bowing to the Countess and Duchess.
The Countess’s face clouded over; Mr Łęcki was embarrassed, Izabela turned white. The Baron put on his pince-nez in an impertinent manner and, gazing fixedly at Izabela, said: