“By the example and with the approbation of Monsieur le Duc d’Orleans, Monsieur,” said St. Aulaire, turning gravely to Calvert, “we do all things a l’Anglaise—­for the moment.  You, who, after all, are English, will doubtless recognize many of your customs, manners, and sports among us—­always supposing Paris is fortunate enough to keep you,” and here he smiled deprecatingly and shook his head as if afraid such good fortune could not be true.  “I have just conceived the idea of having a steeple-chase on the ice.  ’Tis but a poor little hurdle,” and he shrugged his shoulders disdainfully, “but ’twill have to do.  We will take fifty yards start, Monsieur, and clear the fauteuil, rough ice and all!”

He broke out again in his mocking laugh, and, sculling rapidly backward, soon put the distance between him and the improvised barrier.  Calvert turned and followed, not without some inward disgust at the trap laid for him, although outwardly he wore the quiet air habitual to him, and, in spite of his disgust, he could not help but admire the reckless courage and activity which would dare such a thing, for ’twas evident now that the jump had not only to be dangerously long but high also, and any failure to clear the chair and broken ice would inevitably result in a ludicrous, probably serious mishap.

“’Tis evident that we cannot both jump at the same time,” says Monsieur de St. Aulaire, courteously.  “Shall we try for the honor?” and he drew a coin from his pocket and lightly tossed it upward.  ’Twas the fashion in Paris to decide everything by the fall of a coin.  “C’est a vous, Monsieur,” he says, looking at the gold piece as it lay face upward in his palm, and he laughed lightly again as if not displeased with his luck.  As for Calvert, he was no less pleased, for he suddenly felt impatient and eager for the trial.  He gave a glance at the fastenings of his skates and then, sweeping around to the starting-place, he skated slowly at first but with ever-increasing speed.  As he reached the gilt chair he paused for the infinitesimal part of a second as a horse does at a hurdle, and then, with one clean spring, was over safely.  As he slid along the smooth ice, unable to check his impetus, he could hear the applause of the spectators on the shore and the exclamations and laughter of the ladies.  Suddenly he bethought him of St. Aulaire.  He turned quickly and was just in time to see St. Aulaire start off.  There was a gallant recklessness in his bearing, but Calvert noted that his movements seemed heavy, though his pace accelerated greatly as he neared the improvised hurdle.  Indeed, he was coming too fast, and, as he reached the unlucky fauteuil, he was going with such speed that he could neither calculate the length of the jump nor raise himself sufficiently for it, and it was with a little cry of horror that Calvert and the onlookers saw the Baron essay it and fall short, catching his skates in the arm of the chair and crashing down heavily upon the