First Part Chapter 17

THE SAME TO THE SAME
April 2nd.

Yesterday the weather was splendid. I dressed myself like a girl who
wants to look her best in her sweetheart's eyes. My father, yielding
to my entreaties, has given me the prettiest turnout in Paris--two
dapple-gray horses and a barouche, which is a masterpiece of elegance.
I was making a first trial of this, and peeped out like a flower from
under my sunshade lined with white silk.

As I drove up the avenue of the Champs-Elysees, I saw my Abencerrage
approaching on an extraordinarily beautiful horse. Almost every man
nowadays is a finished jockey, and they all stopped to admire and
inspect it. He bowed to me, and on receiving a friendly sign of
encouragement, slackened his horse's pace so that I was able to say to
him: "You are not vexed with me for asking for my letter; it was no use to
you." Then in a lower voice, "You have already transcended the ideal.
. . . Your horse makes you an object of general interest," I went on
aloud. "My steward in Sardinia sent it to me. He is very proud of it; for
this horse, which is of Arab blood, was born in my stables."

This morning, my dear, Henarez was on an English sorrel, also very
fine, but not such as to attract attention. My light, mocking words
had done their work. He bowed to me and I replied with a slight
inclination of the head.