The
butterflies of this garden of sweets are the jaunty hats whose tender
wings of azure or of rose have but just unfolded themselves to the
light of day. My figure of "butterfly hats" has been ventured upon in
the hope that it may be found somewhat newer than that of the
"gentlemen butterflies" which the reporters of the press have chased so
often and so long that the down is quite rubbed from its wings, to say
nothing of the superior fitness of the comparison in the present case.
In fact, the gentlemen do but very rarely flutter from flower to flower
within the sacred confines of the paddock, but are much more apt to
betake themselves in crowds to the less showy parterre of the
betting-ground, where, under the shadow of the famous chestnut tree,
such enormous wagers are laid, and especially do they congregate in the
neighborhood of the tall narrow slates set up by such well-known
bookmakers as Wright, Valentine and Saffery.
Each successive year sees an increase in the number of betters, who
contribute indirectly, by means of subscriptions to the races, a very
important proportion of the budget of the Jockey Club. But if any one
should imagine from this constant growth of receipts that the taste for
racing is extending in France, and is likely to become national, he
would be making a great mistake: what is growing, and with alarming
rapidity, is the passion for gambling, for the indulgence of which the
"improvement of the breed of horses" is but a convenient and
sufficiently transparent veil.
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