The horse, frightened at so much noise, started off at a gallop and while Hector tried to stop him his hat fell off. The driver had to come down and pick it up, and having recovered it, Hector shouted to his wife:
“Make the children stop screaming, will you? They will make the horse run away.”
They lunched on the grass in the woods of Vésinet, having brought their food in baskets. Although the driver looked after the horses, Hector went every minute to see if his horse wanted anything. He patted it and fed it with bread, cake, and sugar.
“He is a great trotter,” he said to his wife. “He shook me at first, but you saw how quick I subdued him. He knows his master now.”
They came back by the Champs-Élysées as agreed. The huge avenue was crowded with carriages and the sidewalks lined with so many pedestrians, that they looked like two long black ribbons unrolling from the Arc de Triomphe to the Place de la Concorde. A sun shower was falling on the crowd, making the varnish of the carriages, the steel of the harness and the door handles glitter. The whole mass seemed to be seized by a frenzy of motion, an intoxication of life. In the distance the Obelisk arose in a golden mist. As soon as they passed the Arc de Triomphe Hector’s horse was suddenly possessed by a new ardour. It dashed at a rapid trot between the carriages in the direction of the stables, and the rider’s efforts to stop him were unavailing. The carriage containing his family was far behind. In front of the Palais de l’Industrie, the horse turned to the right at a gallop. An old woman was at that moment leisurely crossing the street, and Hector, who was unable to stop the horse, shouted: “Hey there, hey!” But the old woman was deaf, perhaps, for she slowly kept on until the horse struck her with such force that she turned a triple somersault and landed ten feet away. Several people shouted: “Stop him.”
Hector was distracted and held on desperately to the horse’s mane, crying: “Help, help!” A terrible shock sent him over the horse’s head like a bomb, and he landed in the arms of a policeman who was running toward him. An angry crowd gathered. An old gentleman wearing a decoration was especially angry.
“Confound it, sir!” he said, “if you cannot ride a horse why do you not stay at home instead of running over people!”
Four men appeared carrying the old woman, who to all appearances was dead, with her yellow face, and her bonnet awry and covered with dust.
“Take this woman to a chemist’s,” said the old gentlemen, “and let us go to the station-house.”
A crowd followed Hector, who walked between two policemen, while a third led his horse. At that moment the carriage appeared, and his wife, taking in the situation at a glance, ran toward him; the servant and the children came behind crying. He explained that his horse had knocked a woman down, but it was nothing, he would be home very soon. And his frightened family went away.
At the station-house, the explanation was brief. He gave his name, his place of employment, and awaited news of the injured woman. A policeman came back with the information that the woman’s name was Mme. Simon, and that she was a charwoman sixty-five years old. She had regained consciousness, but she suffered internally, she claimed. When Hector found that she was not dead, he recovered his spirits and promised to defray the expenses of her illness. He went to the drugstore where they had taken the old woman. An immense crowd blocked the doorway. The old woman was whining and groaning pitifully. Two doctors were examining her.
“There are no bones broken,” they said, “but we are afraid she is hurt internally.”
“Do you suffer much?” asked Hector.
“Oh, yes.”
“Where?”
“I feel as if my inside was on fire.”
“Then you are the cause of the accident?” said a doctor approaching.
“Yes, sir,” said Hector.
“This woman must go to a convalescent home. I know one where they will take her for six francs a day; shall I arrange this for you?”
Hector thanked him gratefully and went home relieved. He found his wife in tears, and he comforted her, saying:
“Don’t worry, she is much better already. I sent her to a convalescent home, and in three days she will be all right.”
After his work the next day he went to see Mme. Simon. She was eating some beef soup which she seemed to relish.
“Well,” said Hector, “how do you feel?”
“No better,” she answered. “I feel as good as dead. I don’t feel any better.”
The doctor advised waiting; complications might arise. He waited three days, then went to see the old woman again. Her skin was clear, her eyes bright, but as soon as she saw Hector she commenced to whine:
“I can’t move any more; l’ll be like this for the rest of my days!”
Hector felt a shiver running up and down his back. He asked for the doctor and inquired about the patient.
“I am puzzled,” the doctor said. “Every time we try to lift her up, or even change the position of her chair, she utters heartrending screams; still, I am forced to believe her. I cannot say that she shams until I have seen her walk.”
The old woman listened attentively; a sly look on her face. A week passed, then two, then a month, and still Mme. Simon did not leave her chair. Her appetite was excellent, she gained flesh and joked with the other patients. She seemed to accept her lot as a well-earned rest after fifty years of labour as a charwoman.
Hector came every day and found her the same; always repeating:
“I can’t move, I can’t!”
When Hector came home, his wife would ask with anxiety:
“How is Mme. Simon?”
“Just the same; absolutely no change,” answered Hector dejectedly.
They dismissed the
