Then, when the horse had recovered his equanimity and the rider his nerve, the latter asked: 

“Are you ready?”

The occupants of the carriage replied with one voice: 

“Yes.”

“Forward!” he commanded.

And the cavalcade set out.

All looks were centered on him.  He trotted in the English style, rising unnecessarily high in the saddle; looking at times as if he were mounting into space.  Sometimes he seemed on the point of falling forward on the horse’s mane; his eyes were fixed, his face drawn, his cheeks pale.

His wife, holding one of the children on her knees, and the servant, who was carrying the other, continually cried out: 

“Look at papa! look at papa!”

And the two boys, intoxicated by the motion of the carriage, by their delight and by the keen air, uttered shrill cries.  The horse, frightened by the noise they made, started off at a gallop, and while Hector was trying to control his steed his hat fell off, and the driver had to get down and pick it up.  When the equestrian had recovered it he called to his wife from a distance: 

“Don’t let the children shout like that!  They’ll make the horse bolt!”

They lunched on the grass in the Vesinet woods, having brought provisions with them in the carriage.

Although the driver was looking after the three horses, Hector rose every minute to see if his own lacked anything; he patted him on the neck and fed him with bread, cakes and sugar.

“He’s an unequal trotter,” he declared.  “He certainly shook me up a little at first, but, as you saw, I soon got used to it.  He knows his master now and won’t give any more trouble.”

As had been decided, they returned by the Champs-Elysees.

That spacious thoroughfare literally swarmed with vehicles of every kind, and on the sidewalks the pedestrians were so numerous that they looked like two indeterminate black ribbons unfurling their length from the Arc de Triomphe to the Place de la Concorde.  A flood of sunlight played on this gay scene, making the varnish of the carriages, the steel of the harness and the handles of the carriage doors shine with dazzling brilliancy.

An intoxication of life and motion seemed to have invaded this assemblage of human beings, carriages and horses.  In the distance the outlines of the Obelisk could be discerned in a cloud of golden vapor.

As soon as Hector’s horse had passed the Arc de Triomphe he became suddenly imbued with fresh energy, and, realizing that his stable was not far off, began to trot rapidly through the maze of wheels, despite all his rider’s efforts to restrain him.

The carriage was now far behind.  When the horse arrived opposite the Palais de l’Industrie he saw a clear field before him, and, turning to the right, set off at a gallop.

An old woman wearing an apron was crossing the road in leisurely fashion.  She happened to be just in Hector’s way as he arrived on the scene riding at full speed.  Powerless to control his mount, he shouted at the top of his voice: