Nana, Émile Zola [reading list txt] 📗

her less than this unforeseen

victory, the fame of which made her queen of Paris. All the other

ladies were losers. With a raging movement Rose Mignon had snapped

her sunshade, and Caroline Hequet and Clarisse and Simonne—nay,

Lucy Stewart herself, despite the presence of her son—were swearing

low in their exasperation at that great wench’s luck, while the

Tricon, who had made the sign of the cross at both start and finish,

straightened up her tall form above them, went into an ecstasy over

her intuition and damned Nana admiringly as became an experienced

matron.

 

Meanwhile round the landau the crush of men increased. The band of

Nana’s immediate followers had made a fierce uproar, and now

Georges, choking with emotion, continued shouting all by himself in

breaking tones. As the champagne had given out, Philippe, taking

the footmen with him, had run to the wine bars. Nana’s court was

growing and growing, and her present triumph caused many loiterers

to join her. Indeed, that movement which had made her carriage a

center of attraction to the whole field was now ending in an

apotheosis, and Queen Venus was enthroned amid suddenly maddened

subjects. Bordenave, behind her, was muttering oaths, for he

yearned to her as a father. Steiner himself had been reconquered—

he had deserted Simonne and had hoisted himself upon one of Nana’s

carriage steps. When the champagne had arrived, when she lifted her

brimming glass, such applause burst forth, and “Nana! Nana! Nana!”

was so loudly repeated that the crowd looked round in astonishment

for the filly, nor could any tell whether it was the horse or the

woman that filled all hearts.

 

While this was going on Mignon came hastening up in defiance of

Rose’s terrible frown. That confounded girl simply maddened him,

and he wanted to kiss her. Then after imprinting a paternal salute

on both her cheeks:

 

“What bothers me,” he said, “is that now Rose is certainly going to

send the letter. She’s raging, too, fearfully.”

 

“So much the better! It’ll do my business for me!” Nana let slip.

 

But noting his utter astonishment, she hastily continued:

 

“No, no, what am I saying? Indeed, I don’t rightly know what I’m

saying now! I’m drunk.”

 

And drunk, indeed, drunk with joy, drunk with sunshine, she still

raised her glass on high and applauded herself.

 

“To Nana! To Nana!” she cried amid a redoubled uproar of laughter

and bravoes, which little by little overspread the whole Hippodrome.

 

The races were ending, and the Prix Vaublanc was run for. Carriages

began driving off one by one. Meanwhile, amid much disputing, the

name of Vandeuvres was again mentioned. It was quite evident now:

for two years past Vandeuvres had been preparing his final stroke

and had accordingly told Gresham to hold Nana in, while he had only

brought Lusignan forward in order to make play for the filly. The

losers were vexed; the winners shrugged their shoulders. After all,

wasn’t the thing permissible? An owner was free to run his stud in

his own way. Many others had done as he had! In fact, the majority

thought Vandeuvres had displayed great skill in raking in all he

could get about Nana through the agency of friends, a course of

action which explained the sudden shortening of the odds. People

spoke of his having laid two thousand louis on the horse, which,

supposing the odds to be thirty to one against, gave him twelve

hundred thousand francs, an amount so vast as to inspire respect and

to excuse everything.

 

But other rumors of a very serious nature were being whispered

about: they issued in the first instance from the enclosure, and the

men who returned thence were full of exact particulars. Voices were

raised; an atrocious scandal began to be openly canvassed. That

poor fellow Vandeuvres was done for; he had spoiled his splendid hit

with a piece of flat stupidity, an idiotic robbery, for he had

commissioned Marechal, a shady bookmaker, to lay two thousand louis

on his account against Lusignan, in order thereby to get back his

thousand and odd openly wagered louis. It was a miserable business,

and it proved to be the last rift necessary to the utter breakup of

his fortune. The bookmaker being thus warned that the favorite

would not win, had realized some sixty thousand francs over the

horse. Only Labordette, for lack of exact and detailed

instructions, had just then gone to him to put two hundred louis on

Nana, which the bookmaker, in his ignorance of the stroke actually

intended, was still quoting at fifty to one against. Cleared of one

hundred thousand francs over the filly and a loser to the tune of

forty thousand, Marechal, who felt the world crumbling under his

feet, had suddenly divined the situation when he saw the count and

Labordette talking together in front of the enclosure just after the

race was over. Furious, as became an ex-coachman of the count’s,

and brutally frank as only a cheated man can be, he had just made a

frightful scene in public, had told the whole story in atrocious

terms and had thrown everyone into angry excitement. It was further

stated that the stewards were about to meet.

 

Nana, whom Philippe and Georges were whisperingly putting in

possession of the facts, gave vent to a series of reflections and

yet ceased not to laugh and drink. After all, it was quite likely;

she remembered such things, and then that Marechal had a dirty,

hangdog look. Nevertheless, she was still rather doubtful when

Labordette appeared. He was very white.

 

“Well?” she asked in a low voice.

 

“Bloody well smashed up!” he replied simply.

 

And he shrugged his shoulders. That Vandeuvres was a mere child!

She made a bored little gesture.

 

That evening at the Bal Mabille Nana obtained a colossal success.

When toward ten o’clock she made her appearance, the uproar was

afready formidable. That classic night of madness had brought

together all that was young and pleasure loving, and now this smart

world was wallowing in the coarseness and imbecility of the

servants’ hall. There was a fierce crush under the festoons of gas

lamps, and men in evening coats and women in outrageous low-necked

old toilets, which they did not mind soiling, were howling and

surging to and fro under the maddening influence of a vast drunken

fit. At a distance of thirty paces the brass instruments of the

orchestra were inaudible. Nobody was dancing. Stupid witticisms,

repeated no one knew why, were going the round of the various

groups. People were straining after wit without succeeding in being

funny. Seven women, imprisoned in the cloakroom, were crying to be

set free. A shallot had been found, put up to auction and knocked

down at two louis. Just then Nana arrived, still wearing her blue-and-white racecourse costume, and amid a thunder of applause the

shallot was presented to her. People caught hold of her in her own

despite, and three gentlemen bore her triumphantly into the garden,

across ruined grassplots and ravaged masses of greenery. As the

bandstand presented an obstacle to her advance, it was taken by

storm, and chairs and music stands were smashed. A paternal police

organized the disorder.

 

It was only on Tuesday that Nana recovered from the excitements of

victory. That morning she was chatting with Mme Lerat, the old lady

having come in to bring her news of Louiset, whom the open air had

upset. A long story, which was occupying the attention of all

Paris, interested her beyond measure. Vandeuvres, after being

warned off all racecourses and posted at the Cercle Imperial on the

very evening after the disaster, had set fire to his stable on the

morrow and had burned himself and his horses to death.

 

“He certainly told me he was going to,” the young woman kept saying.

“That man was a regular maniac! Oh, how they did frighten me when

they told me about it yesterday evening! You see, he might easily

have murdered me some fine night. And besides, oughtn’t he to have

given me a hint about his horse? I should at any rate have made my

fortune! He said to Labordette that if I knew about the matter I

would immediately inform my hairdresser and a whole lot of other

men. How polite, eh? Oh dear, no, I certainly can’t grieve much

for him.”

 

After some reflection she had grown very angry. Just then

Labordette came in; he had seen about her bets and was now the

bearer of some forty thousand francs. This only added to her bad

temper, for she ought to have gained a million. Labordette, who

during the whole of this episode had been pretending entire

innocence, abandoned Vandeuvres in decisive terms. Those old

families, he opined, were worn out and apt to make a stupid ending.

 

“Oh dear no!” said Nana. “It isn’t stupid to burn oneself in one’s

stable as he did. For my part, I think he made a dashing finish;

but, oh, you know, I’m not defending that story about him and

Marechal. It’s too silly. Just to think that Blanche has had the

cheek to want to lay the blame of it on me! I said to her: ‘Did I

tell him to steal?’ Don’t you think one can ask a man for money

without urging him to commit crime? If he had said to me, ‘I’ve got

nothing left,’ I should have said to him, ‘All right, let’s part.’

And the matter wouldn’t have gone further.”

 

“Just so,” said the aunt gravely “When men are obstinate about a

thing, so much the worse for them!”

 

“But as to the merry little finish up, oh, that was awfully smart!”

continued Nana. “It appears to have been terrible enough to give

you the shudders! He sent everybody away and boxed himself up in

the place with a lot of petroleum. And it blazed! You should have

seen it! Just think, a great big affair, almost all made of wood

and stuffed with hay and straw! The flames simply towered up, and

the finest part of the business was that the horses didn’t want to

be roasted. They could be heard plunging, throwing themselves

against the doors, crying aloud just like human beings. Yes, people

haven’t got rid of the horror of it yet.”

 

Labordette let a low, incredulous whistle escape him. For his part,

he did not believe in the death of Vandeuvres. Somebody had sworn

he had seen him escaping through a window. He had set fire to his

stable in a fit of aberration, but when it had begun to grow too

warm it must have sobered him. A man so besotted about the women

and so utterly worn out could not possibly die so pluckily.

 

Nana listened in her disillusionment and could only remark:

 

“Oh, the poor wretch, it was so beautiful!”