“No,” said Nana. “I shall bet ten louis on Lusignan, and five on Boum.”
On hearing this, La Faloise burst out again.
“But, my dear, Boum is simply awful! don’t back him. Even Gase, the owner, won’t. And Lusignan, he’s not in it!—all rubbish! By Lamb out of Princess—just think of it! Not the ghost of a chance for anything by Lamb out of Princess! All too short in the legs!”
He was almost choking. Philippe observed that notwithstanding all that, Lusignan had carried off the Des Cars Prize and the Grande Poule des Produits. But the other was ready for him. What did that prove? Nothing at all. On the contrary, they should beware; and, besides, Gresham was to ride Lusignan, so what was the use of arguing? Gresham had no luck, he never won.
And the discussion, which started from Nana’s landau, seemed to spread from one end of the race-ground to the other. Screeching voices were heard. The passion for gambling passed over all, giving a flush to the faces, and putting confusion into the gestures; whilst the book-makers were furiously calling out the prices, and inscribing the bets made. Only the small fry of the betting fraternity were there, the big bets were being made inside the enclosure. It was the greediness of the smaller gamblers risking their five francs, displaying their eagerness for a possible gain of a few louis. In short, the big battle was expected to be between Spirit and Lusignan. Some Englishmen, easily recognisable by their appearance, were walking about amongst the different groups as though at home, with flushed faces, and already triumphing. Bramah, a horse of Lord Reading, had won the Grand Prize the previous year—a defeat for which all French hearts were still bleeding. This year it would be a regular disaster if France was beaten again, so that all the women were dreadfully excited on account of national pride. The Vandeuvres stable became the rampart of the honour of France. They all backed Lusignan, they upheld him, they cheered him to the echo. Gaga, Blanche, Caroline, and the others all put their money on him. Lucy did not do so, because her son was with her; but it was said that Rose Mignon had commissioned Labordette to back him to the extent of two hundred louis. Only old Tricon, seated beside her driver, awaited the last moment, very cool in the midst of the wrangling, predominating over the increasing uproar, in which the names of the different horses were continually repeated in the sprightly remarks of the Parisians, and the guttural exclamations of the Englishmen. She listened and took notes in a majestic manner.
“And Nana?” said George. “Is no one backing her?”
No, no one was backing her; she was not even mentioned. The outsider of the Vandeuvres stable was eclipsed by Lusignan’s popularity. But La Faloise raised his arms in the air and exclaimed,
“An inspiration! I shall put a louis on Nana.”
“Bravo! I’ll put two,” said George.
“And I three,” added Philippe.
And they kept increasing their amount, pleasantly paying their court, quoting figures as though they were bidding for Nana at an auction. La Faloise talked of covering her with gold. Besides, everyone ought to back her for something. They would go and canvass among those willing to bet. But as the three young men hastened off to carry out their design, Nana called to them,
“Remember, I’ll have nothing to do with her! Not on any account! George, ten louis on Lusignan and five on Valerio II.”
They rushed away. She, greatly amused, watched them glide amongst the wheels, stoop beneath the horses’ heads, and beat all about the place. As soon as they recognised any one in a carriage, they hurried to them and lauded the filly to the skies. And great bursts of laughter passed over the crowd as now and again they looked back and triumphantly held up their fingers to show the number of louis that had been bet; whilst the young woman, standing up in her carriage, waved her parasol. However, they did not meet with much success. A few men allowed themselves to be persuaded. Steiner, for instance, who felt strangely moved at the sight of Nana, risked three louis; but the women all most emphatically refused. Thank you; they did not want a certain loss! Besides, they were not in a hurry to add to the success of a beast of a girl who put them all in the shade with her four white horses, her postillions, and her air of devouring every one. Gage and Clarisse stiffly asked La Faloise if he thought them a couple of fools. When George boldly presented himself at the Mignons’ carriage, Rose, highly incensed, turned away her head without answering. One must be a dirty baggage to allow one’s name to be given to a horse! Mignon, on the contrary, followed the young man, looking greatly amused, and saying that women always brought luck.
“Well?” asked Nana, when the young men returned after a long visit to the book-makers.
“You’re at forty,” said La Faloise.
“How at forty?” cried she in amazement. “I was at fifty. What has happened?”
Labordette just then returned. They were clearing the course, and the ringing of a bell announced the first race. And in the uproar that this occasioned, she questioned him respecting the sudden rise in price; but he answered evasively. No doubt there had been a few inquiries about the filly. She was obliged to be contented with that explanation. Besides, Labordette, who appeared to have something on his mind, told her that Vandeuvres intended coming if he could possibly get away for a time.
The race ended almost unnoticed in the waiting for the big event, when a cloud burst over the course. For some little while the sun had disappeared, and a dull light darkened the crowd. The wind rose, and the rain came down, first in big drops and then in torrents. There was a momentary confusion; shouts and jokes and oaths were heard on all sides, whilst the people on foot scrambled under cover in the refreshment tents. In the carriages the women tried to shelter themselves, holding their parasols with both hands, and the bewildered footmen hastened to raise the hoods. But the shower ceased almost immediately; the sun reappeared with dazzling splendour, shining amidst the last fine drops of rain. A long strip of blue appeared in the place of the cloud as the wind carried it over the Bois. And the sky became quite bright, raising the laughter of the women, who no longer feared for their elegant costumes; whilst the flood of golden sunshine, in the midst of the snorting of the horses and the helter-skelter and agitation of the soaked crowd shaking off the wet, lit up the ground all sparkling with drops of crystal.
“Oh! poor little Louis!” said Nana. “Are you very wet, my cherub?”
The child, without a word, let her wipe his hands with her pocket-handkerchief. She then wiped Bijou, who was trembling more than ever. It was nothing, only a few spots on the white satin of her dress, but she didn’t care. The bouquets, freshened up, glittered like snow; and she, feeling so happy, smelt one of them, wetting her lips as though in dew.
The shower, however, had had the effect of suddenly filling the stands. Nana looked at them through her field-glass. At that distance one could only distinguish a compact and mixed mass, piled up on the different tiers, a dark background broken by the pale faces. The sun filtered in through the corners of the roof, curtailing the seated crowd with angles of light, and giving a washed-out appearance to the costumes of the women. But Nana was most amused by the ladies whom the shower had driven from the rows of chairs placed on the gravel at the foot of the stands. As admission to the enclosure was rigorously denied to all gay women, Nana made the most spiteful remarks about the respectable members of her sex, who she considered were shockingly badly dressed and looked highly ridiculous.
A murmur ran through the crowd. The Empress was entering the little stand in the centre, a pavilion in the form of a Swiss cottage, the large balcony of which was furnished with red arm-chairs.
“Why, there he is!” said George. “I did not think he was on duty this week.”
Count Muffat’s stiff, solemn figure had appeared behind the Empress. Then the young men began to joke, regretting Satin was not there to go and give him a knock in the stomach. But Nana, looking through her field-glass, caught sight of the head of the Prince of Scotland in the imperial stand.
“Look! there’s Charles!”
she cried. She thought he was fatter. In eighteen months he seemed to have become broader. And she gave some details. Oh! he was a devilish strong fellow.
Round about her, the other women in their carriages were whispering that the count had given her up. It was quite a story. The Tuileries had become scandalized at the chamberlain’s behaviour since he had been going about with her openly, so, to preserve his place, he had put an end to his connection with her. La Faloise impudently repeated the story to the young woman, again offering himself and calling her “his Juliet.” But she had a hearty laugh, and said:
“It’s absurd. You don’t know him. I’ve only to whistle to him, and he’ll throw everything up for me.”
For a few minutes she had been watching Countess Sabine and Estelle. Daguenet was still with them. Fauchery, who had just arrived, disturbed everyone in order to get to them, and he also remained there, smiling. Then she continued, disdainfully pointing to the stands,
“Besides, you know, all those people no longer amaze me. I know them too well. You should see them with the gloss off! No more respect! respect is done with! Filth below, filth up above, it’s always filth and company. That’s why I won’t put up with any nonsense.
And she made an extended gesture which included all—from the grooms leading the horses on to the course to the sovereign herself, who was conversing with Charles, a prince, but a dirty fellow all the same.
“Bravo, Nana! she’s capital, Nana!” exclaimed La Faloise enthusiastically.
The sounds of the bell were lost in the wind. The races continued. The race for the Ispahan Prize had just been won by Berlingot, a horse belonging to the Méchain stable. Nana called to Labordette to ask him for news of her fifty louis. He laughed, and refused to tell her which horses he had backed, so as not to change the luck, he said. Her money was well invested, as she would see by-and-by. And as she told him of her two bets-ten louis on Lusignan and five on Valerio II.—he shrugged his shoulders with an air of saying that women would make fools of themselves, in spite of everything. This surprised her a great deal; she could no longer understand anything.
At this moment the animation increased around. Luncheons were spread in the open air to help to pass the time until the race for the Grand Prize was run. Everyone ate, and drank still more, anywhere—on the grass, on the high seats of the stage-coaches and the drags, in the victorias, the broughams, and the landaus. There was a general spread of cold meats, an unpacking of hampers of champagne, which the footmen brought from under box seats. The corks flew out with feeble detonations, which were carried away by the wind; jokes were bandied about; the sound of breaking glasses introduced cracked notes into the nervous gaiety. Gaga and Clarisse were making quite a meal with Blanche, devouring sandwiches on a cloth which they had spread over their knees. Louise Violaine had alighted from her basket chaise and joined Caroline Héquet; and on the grass, at their feet, some gentlemen had set up an imitation bar, where Tatan, Maria, Simone, and the others came to drink; whilst close by, up aloft, there was quite a band on a stage-coach with Léa de Horn, all emptying bottles as fast as they could, and getting quite tipsy in the sunshine, shouting and gesticulating above the crowd. But soon everyone pressed round Nana’s landau. She was standing up filling glasses of champagne for the men who came to shake hands with her. One of the footmen, François, handed up the bottle, whilst La Faloise, imitating the voice of a mountebank, called out,
“Walk up, gentlemen. It’s all for nothing. There’s some for everyone.”
“Do be quiet, my dear fellow,” Nana ended by saying. “We look like a lot of buffoons.”
She thought him very funny, however, and was immensely amused. One moment she had the idea of sending George with a glass of champagne to Rose Mignon, who pretended she did not drink. Henri and Charles looked bored to death. The youngsters would have liked some champagne; but George, being afraid of a row, drank the wine himself. Then Nana recollected little Louis, whom she had forgotten behind her. Perhaps he was thirsty; and she got him to take a few drops of wine, which made him cough frightfully.
“Walk up, walk up, gentlemen,” repeated La Faloise. “It doesn’t cost two sous, it doesn’t cost one sou. We give it for nothing.”
But Nana interrupted him, exclaiming: “Look! there’s Bordenave over there! Call him, oh! please run and fetch him!”
It was indeed Bordenave, who was walking about with his hands behind his back, and a hat that looked rusty in the sunshine, and a greasy frock-coat, all whitened at the seams; a Bordenave disfigured by bankruptcy, but still as furious as ever, displaying his misery amongst the world of fashion, with the cheek of a man ever ready to violate fortune.
“The devil! what style!” said he, when Nana, like the good-natured girl she was, held out her hand to him. Then, after tossing off a glass of champagne, he uttered this remark full of deep regret, “Ah! if I was only a woman! But, damn it all! it doesn’t matter! Will you return to the stage? I’ve an idea. I’ll take the Gaiety Theatre, and between us we will carry Paris by storm. What do you say? You at least owe me that.”
And he remained standing, grumbling to himself, though happy at seeing her again; for, as he said, that confounded Nana was balm to his heart, merely by living before him. She was his daughter, his very blood.
The circle increased. Now, La Faloise was pouring out, whilst Philippe and George went in search of more friends. Slowly but surely everyone was attracted to the spot. Nana had a laugh and a witty remark for everyone. The different bands of drinkers drew nearer, all the champagne scattered about, came towards her, there was soon but one crowd, but one uproar, around her landau; and she reigned among the glasses held towards her, with her yellow hair flying in the breeze, and her snow white face bathed with sunshine. Then, to crown all, and to finally settle the other women, who were enraged at her triumph, she filled her glass and raised it on high, in her old posture of Venus victorious.
But some one was touching her on the back, and on turning round, she was surprised to see Mignon on the seat. She disappeared for a moment and seated herself beside him, for he had something important to say to her. Mignon was in the habit of saying everywhere, that his wife was ridiculous to have a grudge against Nana; he considered it stupid and useless.
“This is what’s the matter, my dear,” murmured he. “Be careful not to make Rose too wild. You understand, I prefer to put you on your guard. Yes, she has a weapon; and as she has never forgiven you the ‘Little Duchess’ affair—”
“A weapon?” interrupted Nana, “what the deuce do I care?”
“Listen, it’s a letter that she must have found in Fauchery’s pocket—a letter written to that wretch Fauchery by Countess Sabine. And on my word, it’s all there, in black and white. So Rose intends to send the letter to the count, to be avenged on you and him.”
“What the deuce do I care?” repeated Nana. “It’s awfully funny, though. Ah! so it’s true about Fauchery. Well! so much the better, she annoyed me immensely. What a joke it’ll be.”
“But no, I don’t want it to be done,” hastily resumed Mignon. “It would make such a scandal! Besides, it would be of no use to us—”
He stopped, afraid of saying too much. She exclaimed that she was certainly not going to pull a respectable woman out of the mire; but as he persisted she looked him full in the face. No doubt he was afraid of seeing Fauchery back in his family circle, if the countess were exposed. That was just what Rose wished, at the same time desiring vengeance, for she still entertained a tender feeling for the journalist. And Nana became thoughtful. She was thinking of M. Venot’s visit, and was forming a plan whilst Mignon was trying to convince her.
“Well, suppose Rose sends the letter; there’ll be a great scandal, won’t there? You will be mixed up in it, everyone will say it’s your fault. Then the count will at once separate from his wife—”
“Why so?” asked she. “On the contrary—”
But in her turn she interrupted herself. There was no need for
her to think out aloud. At last, she pretended to enter into Mignon’s views, so as to get rid of him; and, as he advised her to give in a bit to Rose—to pay her a little visit, for instance, there, before everyone—she replied that she would see, that she would think about it.
A sudden uproar caused her to stand up again. On the course some horses passed like a flash of lightning. It was the race for the City of Paris Prize, which fell to Cornemuse. Now the race for the Grand Prize was about to be run. The fever increased; anxiety seized on the crowd, which stamped and swayed in an endeavour to make the time pass more quickly; and at that last moment a surprise bewildered the betting-men—the continual rise in the price of Nana, the outsider of the Vandeuvres stable. Gentlemen returned every minute with a fresh quotation—Nana was at thirty, Nana was at twenty-five, then at twenty, then at fifteen. No one understood what it meant. A filly beaten on every race-course, a filly which, that very morning, could not find a backer at fifty! What could be the meaning of that sudden craze? Some laughed, and talked of the clean sweep made of all those idiots who were allowing themselves to be taken in; others, serious and anxious, were sure there was something up. All sorts of stories were recalled, of the robberies countenanced on the race-course; but this time the great name of Vandeuvres silenced all accusations, and the sceptics found most believers when they prophesied that Nana would come in a good last.
“Who rides Nana?” asked La Faloise.
Just then the real Nana reappeared. Then the gentlemen, bursting into exaggerated laughter, gave an indecent meaning to the question. Nana bowed.
“It’s Price,” she replied.
And the discussion recommenced. Price was an English celebrity unknown in France. Why had Vandeuvres engaged this jockey, when Gresham generally rode Nana? Besides, everyone was surprised to see him trust Lusignan to that Gresham, who, as La Faloise said, never came in first. But all these remarks were lost in the jokes, and the contradictions, and the extraordinary hubbub of various opinions. To pass the time everyone returned to the bottles of champagne. Then a whisper passed round, the groups made way, and Vandeuvres appeared. Nana pretended to be cross.