would have done better had she been afraid.

Thus it came to pass that, as they rode together through some of the
prettiest roads in the most beautiful part of Normandy, M. de Talbrun
began to talk, with an ever-increasing vivacity, of the days when they
first met, at Treport, relating a thousand little incidents which
Jacqueline had forgotten, and from which it was easy to see that he had
watched her narrowly, though he was on the eve of his own marriage. With
unnecessary persistence, and stammering as he was apt to do when moved by
any emotion, he repeated over and over again, that from the first moment
he had seen her he had been struck by her--devilishly struck by her--
he had been, indeed! And one day when she answered, in order not to
appear to attach any importance to this declaration, that she was very
glad of it, he took an opportunity, as their horses stopped side by side
before a beautiful sunset, to put his arm suddenly round her waist, and
give her a kiss, so abrupt, so violent, so outrageous, that she screamed
aloud. He did not remove his arm from her, his coarse, red face drew
near her own again with an expression that filled her with horror. She
struggled to free herself, her horse began to rear, she screamed for help
with all her might, but nothing answered her save an echo. The situation
seemed critical for Jacqueline. As to M. de Talbrun, he was quite at his
ease, as if he were accustomed to make love like a centaur; while the
girl felt herself in peril of being thrown at any moment, and trampled
under his horse's feet. At last she succeeded in striking her aggressor
a sharp blow across the face with her riding-whip. Blinded for a moment,
he let her go, and she took advantage of her release to put her horse to
its full speed. He galloped after her, beside himself with wrath and
agitation; it was a mad but silent race, until they reached the gate of
the Chateau de Fresne, which they entered at the same moment, their
horses covered with foam.