Nana, Émile Zola [reading list txt] 📗

the thick

of the carriages. Having arrived in a cab, whence she could not see

anything, the Tricon had quietly mounted the coach box. And there,

straightening up her tall figure, with her noble face enshrined in

its long curls, she dominated the crowd as though enthroned amid her

feminine subjects. All the latter smiled discreetly at her while

she, in her superiority, pretended not to know them. She wasn’t

there for business purposes: she was watching the races for the love

of the thing, as became a frantic gambler with a passion for

horseflesh.

 

“Dear me, there’s that idiot La Faloise!” said Georges suddenly.

 

It was a surprise to them all. Nana did not recognize her La

Faloise, for since he had come into his inheritance he had grown

extraordinarily up to date. He wore a low collar and was clad in a

cloth of delicate hue which fitted close to his meager shoulders.

His hair was in little bandeaux, and he affected a weary kind of

swagger, a soft tone of voice and slang words and phrases which he

did not take the trouble to finish.

 

“But he’s quite the thing!” declared Nana in perfect enchantment.

 

Gaga and Clarisse had called La Faloise and were throwing themselves

at him in their efforts to regain his allegiance, but he left them

immediately, rolling off in a chaffing, disdainful manner. Nana

dazzled him. He rushed up to her and stood on the carriage step,

and when she twitted him about Gaga he murmured:

 

“Oh dear, no! We’ve seen the last of the old lot! Mustn’t play her

off on me any more. And then, you know, it’s you now, Juliet mine!”

 

He had put his hand to his heart. Nana laughed a good deal at this

exceedingly sudden out-of-door declaration. She continued:

 

“I say, that’s not what I’m after. You’re making me forget that I

want to lay wagers. Georges, you see that bookmaker down there, a

great red-faced man with curly hair? He’s got a dirty blackguard

expression which I like. You’re to go and choose—Oh, I say, what

can one choose?”

 

“I’m not a patriotic soul—oh dear, no!” La Faloise blurted out.

“I’m all for the Englishman. It will be ripping if the Englishman

gains! The French may go to Jericho!”

 

Nana was scandalized. Presently the merits of the several horses

began to be discussed, and La Faloise, wishing to be thought very

much in the swim, spoke of them all as sorry jades. Frangipane,

Baron Verdier’s horse, was by The Truth out of Lenore. A big bay

horse he was, who would certainly have stood a chance if they hadn’t

let him get foundered during training. As to Valerio II from the

Corbreuse stable, he wasn’t ready yet; he’d had the colic in April.

Oh yes, they were keeping that dark, but he was sure of it, on his

honor! In the end he advised Nana to choose Hazard, the most

defective of the lot, a horse nobody would have anything to do with.

Hazard, by jingo—such superb lines and such an action! That horse

was going to astonish the people.

 

“No,” said Nana, “I’m going to put ten louis on Lusignan and five on

Boum.”

 

La Faloise burst forth at once:

 

“But, my dear girl, Boum’s all rot! Don’t choose him! Gasc himself

is chucking up backing his own horse. And your Lusignan—never!

Why, it’s all humbug! By Lamb and Princess—just think! By Lamb

and Princess—no, by Jove! All too short in the legs!”

 

He was choking. Philippe pointed out that, notwithstanding this,

Lusignan had won the Prix des Cars and the Grande Poule des

Produits. But the other ran on again. What did that prove?

Nothing at all. On the contrary, one ought to distrust him. And

besides, Gresham rode Lusignan; well then, let them jolly well dry

up! Gresham had bad luck; he would never get to the post.

 

And from one end of the field to the other the discussion raging in

Nana’s landau seemed to spread and increase. Voices were raised in

a scream; the passion for gambling filled the air, set faces glowing

and arms waving excitedly, while the bookmakers, perched on their

conveyances, shouted odds and jotted down amounts right furiously.

Yet these were only the small fry of the betting world; the big bets

were made in the weighing enclosure. Here, then, raged the keen

contest of people with light purses who risked their five-franc

pieces and displayed infinite covetousness for the sake of a

possible gain of a few louis. In a word, the battle would be

between Spirit and Lusignan. Englishmen, plainly recognizable as

such, were strolling about among the various groups. They were

quite at home; their faces were fiery with excitement; they were

afready triumphant. Bramah, a horse belonging to Lord Reading, had

gained the Grand Prix the previous year, and this had been a defeat

over which hearts were still bleeding. This year it would be

terrible if France were beaten anew. Accordingly all the ladies

were wild with national pride. The Vandeuvres stable became the

rampart of their honor, and Lusignan was pushed and defended and

applauded exceedingly. Gaga, Blanche, Caroline and the rest betted

on Lusignan. Lucy Stewart abstained from this on account of her

son, but it was bruited abroad that Rose Mignon had commissioned

Labordette to risk two hundred louis for her. The Tricon, as she

sat alone next her driver, waited till the last moment. Very cool,

indeed, amid all these disputes, very far above the ever-increasing

uproar in which horses’ names kept recurring and lively Parisian

phrases mingled with guttural English exclamations, she sat

listening and taking notes majestically.

 

“And Nana?” said Georges. “Does no one want her?”

 

Indeed, nobody was asking for the filly; she was not even being

mentioned. The outsider of the Vandeuvres’s stud was swamped by

Lusignan’s popularity. But La Faloise flung his arms up, crying:

 

“I’ve an inspiration. I’ll bet a louis on Nana.”

 

“Bravo! I bet a couple,” said Georges.

 

“And I three,” added Philippe.

 

And they mounted up and up, bidding against one another good-humoredly and naming prices as though they had been haggling over

Nana at an auction. La Faloise said he would cover her with gold.

Besides, everybody was to be made to back her; they would go and

pick up backers. But as the three young men were darting off to

propagandize, Nana shouted after them:

 

“You know I don’t want to have anything to do with her; I don’t for

the world! Georges, ten louis on Lusignan and five on Valerio II.”

 

Meanwhile they had started fairly off, and she watched them gaily as

they slipped between wheels, ducked under horses’ heads and scoured

the whole field. The moment they recognized anyone in a carriage

they rushed up and urged Nana’s claims. And there were great bursts

of laughter among the crowd when sometimes they turned back,

triumphantly signaling amounts with their fingers, while the young

woman stood and waved her sunshade. Nevertheless, they made poor

enough work of it. Some men let themselves be persuaded; Steiner,

for instance, ventured three louis, for the sight of Nana stirred

him. But the women refused point-blank. “Thanks,” they said; “to

lose for a certainty!” Besides, they were in no hurry to work for

the benefit of a dirty wench who was overwhelming them all with her

four white horses, her postilions and her outrageous assumption of

side. Gaga and Clarisse looked exceedingly prim and asked La

Faloise whether he was jolly well making fun of them. When Georges

boldly presented himself before the Mignons’ carriage Rose turned

her head away in the most marked manner and did not answer him. One

must be a pretty foul sort to let one’s name be given to a horse!

Mignon, on the contrary, followed the young man’s movements with a

look of amusement and declared that the women always brought luck.

 

“Well?” queried Nana when the young men returned after a prolonged

visit to the bookmakers.

 

“The odds are forty to one against you,” said La Faloise.

 

“What’s that? Forty to one!” she cried, astounded. “They were

fifty to one against me. What’s happened?”

 

Labordette had just then reappeared. The course was being cleared,

and the pealing of a bell announced the first race. Amid the

expectant murmur of the bystanders she questioned him about this

sudden rise in her value. But he replied evasively; doubtless a

demand for her had arisen. She had to content herself with this

explanation. Moreover, Labordette announced with a preoccupied

expression that Vandeuvres was coming if he could get away.

 

The race was ending unnoticed; people were all waiting for the Grand

Prix to be run—when a storm burst over the Hippodrome. For some

minutes past the sun had disappeared, and a wan twilight had

darkened over the multitude. Then the wind rose, and there ensued a

sudden deluge. Huge drops, perfect sheets of water, fell. There

was a momentary confusion, and people shouted and joked and swore,

while those on foot scampered madly off to find refuge under the

canvas of the drinking booths. In the carriages the women did their

best to shelter themselves, grasping their sunshades with both

hands, while the bewildered footmen ran to the hoods. But the

shower was already nearly over, and the sun began shining

brilliantly through escaping clouds of fine rain. A blue cleft

opened in the stormy mass, which was blown off over the Bois, and

the skies seemed to smile again and to set the women laughing in a

reassured manner, while amid the snorting of horses and the disarray

and agitation of the drenched multitude that was shaking itself dry

a broad flush of golden light lit up the field, still dripping and

glittering with crystal drops.

 

“Oh, that poor, dear Louiset!” said Nana. “Are you very drenched,

my darling?”

 

The little thing silently allowed his hands to be wiped. The young

woman had taken out her handkerchief. Then she dabbed it over

Bijou, who was trembling more violently than ever. It would not

matter in the least; there were a few drops on the white satin of

her dress, but she didn’t care a pin for them. The bouquets,

refreshed by the rain, glowed like snow, and she smelled one

ecstatically, drenching her lips in it as though it were wet with

dew.

 

Meanwhile the burst of rain had suddenly filled the stands. Nana

looked at them through her field glasses. At that distance you

could only distinguish a compact, confused mass of people, heaped

up, as it were, on the ascending ranges of steps, a dark background

relieved by light dots which were human faces. The sunlight

filtered in through openings near the roof at each end of the stand

and detached and illumined portions of the seated multitude, where

the ladies’ dresses seemed to lose their distinguishing colors. But

Nana was especially amused by the ladies whom the shower had driven

from the rows of chairs ranged on the sand at the base of the

stands. As courtesans were absolutely forbidden to enter the

enclosure, she began making exceedingly bitter remarks about all the

fashionable women therein assembled. She thought them fearfully

dressed up, and such guys!

 

There was a rumor that the empress was entering the little central

stand, a pavilion built like a chalet, with a wide balcony furnished

with red armchairs.

 

“Why, there he is!” said Georges. “I didn’t think he was on duty

this week.”

 

The stiff and solemn form of the Count Muffat had appeared behind

the empress. Thereupon the young men jested and were sorry that

Satin wasn’t there to go and dig him in the ribs. But Nana’s field

glass focused the