The prince drove his curricle, and had charge of his belle cousine.  It may have been the red fezzes in the carriage of the Turkish ambassador which frightened the prince’s grays, or Mrs. Champignon’s new yellow liveries, which were flaunting in the Park, or hideous Lady Gorgon’s preternatural ugliness, who passed in a low pony-carriage at the time, or the prince’s own want of skill, finally; but certain it is that the horses took fright, dashed wildly along the mile, scattered equipages, pietons, dandies’ cabs, and snobs’ pheaytons.  Amethyst was screaming; and the prince, deadly pale, had lost all presence of mind, as the curricle came rushing by the spot where Miss Amethyst’s carriage stood.

“I’m blest,” Frederick exclaimed to his companion, “if it ain’t the prince a-drivin our missis!  They’ll be in the Serpingtine, or dashed to pieces, if they don’t mind.”  And the runaway steeds at this instant came upon them as a whirlwind.

But if those steeds ran at a whirlwind pace, Jeames was swifter.  To jump from behind, to bound after the rocking, reeling curricle, to jump into it, aided by the long stick which he carried and used as a leaping-pole, and to seize the reins out of the hands of the miserable Borodino, who shrieked piteously as the dauntless valet leapt on his toes and into his seat, was the work of an instant.  In a few minutes the mad, swaying rush of the horses was reduced to a swift but steady gallop; presently into a canter, then a trot; until finally they pulled up smoking and trembling, but quite quiet, by the side of Amethyst’s carriage, which came up at a rapid pace.

“Give me the reins, malappris! tu m’ecrases le corps, manant!” yelled the frantic nobleman, writhing underneath the intrepid charioteer.

“Tant pis pour toi, nigaud,” was the reply.  The lovely Amethyst of course had fainted; but she recovered as she was placed in her carriage, and rewarded her preserver with a celestial smile.

The rage, the fury, the maledictions of Borodino, as he saw the latter—­a liveried menial—­stoop gracefully forward and kiss Amethyst’s hand, may be imagined rather than described.  But Jeames heeded not his curses.  Having placed his adored mistress in the carriage, he calmly resumed his station behind.  Passion or danger seemed to have no impression upon that pale marble face.

Borodino went home furious; nor was his rage diminished, when, on coming to dinner that day, a recherche banquet served in the Frangipane best style, and requesting a supply of a puree a la bisque aux ecrevisses, the clumsy attendant who served him let fall the assiette of vermeille cisele, with its scalding contents, over the prince’s chin, his Mechlin jabot, and the grand cordon of the Legion of honor which he wore.

“Infame,” howled Borodino, “tu l’as fait expres!”

“Oui, je l’ai fait expres,” said the man, with the most perfect Parisian accent.  It was Jeames.

Such insolence of course could not be passed unnoticed even after the morning’s service, and he was chassed on the spot.  He had been but a week in the house.