Part 29

But Nana was still surprised to find Gaga in her carriage, with Bijou and Louiset on her lap; Gaga had made up her mind, in order to be near Faloise, while telling everyone she had simply wanted to kiss the baby. She adored children.

— By the way, and Lili? asked Nana. Isn't that her over there, in the old man's coupé?... I've just been told something quite proper.

Gaga put on a tearful face.

— My dear, I'm sick about it, she said with pain. Yesterday, I had to stay in bed, I'd cried so much, and today I didn't think I'd be able to come... Eh? You know what my opinion was? I was against it, I'd had her brought up in a convent, for a good marriage. Strict advice, and constant watching... Well! my dear, it was she who wanted it. Oh! a scene, tears, unpleasant words, to the point that I even boxed her ears. She was too bored, she wanted to go into it... So, when she started saying: 'It's not you, after all, who has the right to stop me,' I said to her: 'You're a wretch, you're dishonoring us, go away!' And so it happened, I consented to arrange it... But there goes my last hope, I who had dreamed, ah! of such fine things!

The sound of a quarrel made them stand up. It was Georges defending Vandeuvres against vague rumors running through the groups.

— Why say he's dropping his horse? cried the young man. Yesterday, at the racecourse salon, he backed Lusignan for a thousand louis.

— Yes, I was there, affirmed Philippe. And he didn't put a single louis on Nana... If Nana is at ten, he has nothing to do with it. It's ridiculous to credit people with so much calculation. Where would his interest be?

Labordette listened with a calm air; and, shrugging his shoulders:

— Let it be, people must talk... The count has just bet at least five hundred louis on Lusignan again, and if he asked for a hundred or so on Nana, it's because an owner must always seem to believe in his horses.

— And the hell with it! what does it matter to us! proclaimed Faloise, waving his arms. It's Spirit who's going to win... Down with France! hurrah for England!

A long shudder shook the crowd, while a fresh peal of the bell announced the arrival of the horses on the track. Then, to see well, Nana stood up on a seat of her landau, trampling the bouquets, the forget-me-nots and the roses underfoot. With a circular glance, she embraced the immense horizon. At this last hour of fever, there was first the empty track, closed by its gray barriers, where city sergeants stood aligned, two to every post; and the band of grass, muddy in front of her, went off green again, turned in the distance into a carpet of tender velvet. Then, in the center, lowering her eyes, she saw the lawn, all a-swarm with a crowd risen on tiptoe, hooked onto the carriages, lifted and jostled in a fit of passion, with the horses neighing, the tent canvas flapping, the riders launching their mounts, among the pedestrians running to lean on the barriers; while, on the other side, when she turned toward the stands, the faces shrank, the deep masses of heads were no more than a motley filling the aisles, the tiers, the terraces, where a heaping of black profiles stood out against the sky. And, beyond that again, around the Hippodrome, she towered over the plain. Behind the mill covered with ivy, to the right, there was a dip of meadows, cut by great stretches of shade; opposite, as far as the Seine, flowing at the foot of the slope, park avenues crossed, where motionless files of equipages waited; then, toward Boulogne, to the left, the country, widening once more, opened a gap onto the bluish distances of Meudon, barred by an avenue of pawlonias, whose pink heads, without a leaf, made a sheet of vivid lacquer. People kept arriving, an ant-trail came from over there, by the thin ribbon of a path, across the fields; while, very far off, on the Paris side, the public that paid nothing, a flock camping in the woods, made a moving line of dark dots, at the edge of the Bois, under the trees.

But a gaiety, all at once, warmed the hundred thousand souls who covered that patch of field with the stirring of insects, maddened beneath the vast sky. The sun, hidden for a quarter of an hour, reappeared, spread out in a lake of light. And everything blazed anew, the women's parasols were like shields of gold, innumerable, above the crowd. They applauded the sun, laughter saluted it, arms stretched out to brush away the clouds.

Meanwhile, a police officer walked alone, in the middle of the deserted track. Higher up, toward the left, a man appeared, a red flag in his hand.

— That's the starter, Baron de Mauriac, answered Labordette to a question from Nana.

Around the young woman, among the men who pressed even onto the steps of her carriage, exclamations rose, a conversation continued, without sequence, in words thrown out under the immediate blow of impressions. Philippe and Georges, Bordenave, Faloise could not keep quiet.

— Don't push!... Let me see... Ah! the judge is going into his booth... You say that's Monsieur de Souvigny?... Eh? you need good eyes to catch a length of nose, in such a contraption!... Do be quiet, the oriflamme is going up... Here they are, look out!... It's Cosinus who's first.

A yellow and red oriflamme fluttered in the air, at the end of the mast. The horses arrived one by one, led by stable boys, with the jockeys in the saddle, arms relaxed, making bright patches in the sun. After Cosinus, Hasard and Boum appeared. Then, a murmur welcomed Spirit, a superb great brown bay, whose hard colors, lemon and black, had a British sadness. Valerio II met with a success on entrance, small, very lively, in pale green, edged with pink. The two Vandeuvres horses were making them wait. At last, behind Frangipane, the blue and white colors showed. But Lusignan, a very dark bay, of irreproachable shape, was almost forgotten in the surprise caused by Nana. She had not been seen like this, the sunlight gilded the sorrel filly with the blondness of a red-haired girl. She shone in the light like a new louis, deep-chested, light of head and neck, in the nervous and fine outreaching of her long back.

— Well! she has my hair! cried Nana, delighted. I say, you know I'm proud of it!

They were climbing onto the landau, Bordenave nearly stepped on Louiset, whom his mother had forgotten. He took him with paternal grumblings, hoisted him onto his shoulder, murmuring:

— This poor little mite, he's got to be in on it... Wait, I'll show you mama... Eh? over there, look at the nag.

And, as Bijou scratched his legs, he took charge of her as well; while Nana, happy about this beast that bore her name, threw a glance at the other women, to see their faces. They were all furious. At that moment, on her fiacre, Tricon, motionless until then, was waving her hands, giving orders to a bookmaker, over the heads of the crowd. Her instinct had just spoken, she was taking Nana.

Faloise, meanwhile, was making an unbearable noise. He was stuck on Frangipane.

— I have an inspiration, he repeated. Just look at Frangipane. Eh? what action!... I'm taking Frangipane at eight. Who's got some?

— Do keep still, Labordette finally said. You're storing up regrets for yourself.

— A nag, Frangipane, declared Philippe. He's already all sweaty... You'll see the canter.

The horses had gone back to the right, and they set off for the trial gallop, passing broken-loose in front of the stands. Then, there was a passionate outburst, all spoke at once.

— Too long in the back, Lusignan, but well prepared... You know, not a penny on Valerio II; he's nervous, he gallops head high, that's a bad sign... Look! it's Burne riding Spirit... I tell you he has no shoulder. The well-built shoulder, that's everything... No, decidedly, Spirit is too calm... Listen, I saw her, Nana, after the Grande Poule des Produits, soaked, dead coat, a flank beating fit to burst. Twenty louis she isn't placed!... Enough! is he going to bore us, that one, with his Frangipane! It's too late, there's the start.

It was Faloise who, nearly in tears, was struggling to find a bookmaker. They had to reason with him. All necks stretched out. But the first start was not good, the starter, glimpsed in the distance like a thin black line, had not lowered his red flag. The horses came back, after a spell of galloping. There were two more false starts. At last, the starter, gathering the horses, launched them with a skill that drew cries.

— Superb!... No, it's luck!... No matter, there it is!

The clamor stifled in the anxiety that gripped chests. Now, betting stopped, the throw was played out on the immense track. A silence reigned at first, as if breath were suspended. Faces lifted, pale, with twitchings. At the start, Hasard and Cosinus had made the running, taking the lead; Valerio II followed close, the others came in a confused pack. When they passed in front of the stands, in a shaking of the ground, with the sudden storm-wind of their course, the pack was already stretching out over some forty lengths. Frangipane was last, Nana found herself a little behind Lusignan and Spirit.

— Damn! murmured Labordette, how the Englishman is clearing up in there!

The whole landau found words again, exclamations. They stood taller, followed with their eyes the blazing patches of the jockeys flashing in the sun. On the rise, Valerio II took the lead, Cosinus and Hasard lost ground, while Lusignan and Spirit, nose to nose, still had Nana behind them.

— By God! the Englishman has won, it's plain to see, said Bordenave. Lusignan is tiring and Valerio II can't hold.

— Well! that's a fine state of affairs, if the Englishman wins! cried Philippe, in a burst of patriotic pain.

It was a feeling of anguish that was beginning to strangle all those heaped-up people. Another defeat! and an extraordinary, almost religious ardor of wishing rose for Lusignan; while they cursed Spirit, with his jockey of a gravedigger's cheerfulness. Among the crowd scattered on the grass, a gust lifted bands of them, soles in the air. Riders cut across the lawn at a furious gallop. And Nana, who was slowly turning on herself, saw at her feet this swell of beasts and people, this sea of heads beaten and as if carried away around the track by the whirlwind of the race, streaking the horizon with the live flash of the jockeys. She had followed them from behind, in the flight of the rumps, in the stretched speed of the legs, which were lost and took on the fineness of hair. Now, in the distance, they flashed by sideways, very small, delicate, against the greenish distances of the Bois. Then, abruptly, they disappeared, behind a great clump of trees, planted in the middle of the Hippodrome.

— Let it be! cried Georges, still full of hope. It's not over... The Englishman is touched.

But Faloise, seized again by his national disdain, became scandalous, acclaiming Spirit. Bravo! it served them right! France needed that! Spirit first, and Frangipane second! that would annoy his country! Labordette, whom he exasperated, seriously threatened to throw him down from the carriage.

— Let's see how many minutes they'll take, Bordenave said placidly, who, while holding up Louiset, had pulled out his watch.

One by one, behind the clump of trees, the horses reappeared. It was a stupor, the crowd gave a long murmur. Valerio II still held the lead; but Spirit was gaining on him, and behind him Lusignan had dropped, while another horse took his place. They did not understand at once, they confused the silks. Exclamations broke out.

— But it's Nana!... Come now, Nana! I tell you Lusignan hasn't moved... Eh! yes, it's Nana. You can tell her well, by her gold color... Do you see her now! She's on fire... Bravo, Nana! what a minx!... Bah! it means nothing. She's making the running for Lusignan.

For a few seconds, that was everyone's opinion. But, slowly, the filly kept gaining, in a continuous effort. Then, an immense emotion declared itself. The tails of the horses, behind, no longer interested. A supreme struggle was engaging between Spirit, Nana, Lusignan and Valerio II. They named them, noted their progress or their failing, in disconnected phrases, stammered. And Nana, who had just climbed onto her coachman's seat, as if lifted, remained all white, seized with a trembling, so gripped that she was silent. Near her, Labordette had recovered his smile.

— Eh? the Englishman is having a hard time, Philippe said joyfully. He's not doing well.

— At any rate, Lusignan is done, cried Faloise. It's Valerio II coming up... Look! there are the four in a pack.

The same word came from every mouth.

— What a pace, children!... A rough pace, sacristi!

Now, the pack was arriving head-on, in a thunderclap. One felt its approach and as its breath, a distant roaring, growing second by second. The whole crowd, impetuously, had thrown itself at the barriers; and, preceding the horses, a deep clamor escaped from chests, gained from near to near, with the noise of a breaking sea. It was the final brutality of a colossal stake, a hundred thousand spectators turned to the fixed idea, burning with the same need of chance, behind those beasts whose gallop was carrying off millions. They pushed, they crushed, fists closed, mouth open, each for himself, each whipping his horse with voice and gesture. And the cry of all that people, a cry of a wild beast reappeared under the frock coats, rolled more and more distinct:

— There they are! there they are!... There they are!

But Nana was still gaining ground; now, Valerio II was distanced, she held the lead with Spirit, by two or three lengths. The thundering roll had grown. They were arriving, a tempest of curses welcomed them in the landau.

— Go on then, Lusignan, great coward, dirty nag!... Very chic, the Englishman! Again, again, old fellow!... And that Valerio, it's disgusting!... Ah! the carrion! my ten louis are done for!... There's only Nana! Bravo, Nana! Bravo, bitch!

And, on the seat, Nana, without knowing it, had taken a swaying of the thighs and loins, as if she herself had been running. She gave belly-thrusts, it seemed to her it helped the filly. At each thrust, she let out a sigh of fatigue, she said in a painful, low voice:

— Go on... go on... go on...

Then they saw a superb thing. Price, standing on the stirrups, the whip high, was flailing Nana with an iron arm. That dried-up old child, that long face, hard and dead, was throwing off flames. And, in a surge of furious daring, of triumphant will, he gave of his heart to the filly, he sustained her, he carried her, soaked in foam, eyes bloodshot. The whole train passed with its thunder-roll, cutting off breath, sweeping the air; while the judge, very cold, eye to the sight, waited. Then, an immense acclamation rang out. With a supreme effort, Price had just thrown Nana at the post, beating Spirit by a length of head.

It was like the rising clamor of a tide. Nana! Nana! Nana! The cry rolled, grew, with a storm's violence, little by little filling the horizon, from the depths of the Bois to Mont Valérien, from the meadows of Longchamp to the plain of Boulogne. On the lawn, a mad enthusiasm had declared itself. Long live Nana! long live France! down with England! The women brandished their parasols; men jumped, turned, vociferating; others, with nervous laughter, threw their hats. And, on the other side of the track, the enclosure of the weighing-in answered, an agitation moved the stands, without one seeing distinctly anything but a trembling of the air, like the invisible flame of a brazier, above that living heap of little unhinged faces, arms twisted, with the black dots of eyes and open mouth. It did not cease, swelled, began again in the depths of the distant aisles, among the people camping under the trees, to spread and widen in the emotion of the imperial tribune, where the empress had applauded. Nana! Nana! Nana! The cry rose in the glory of the sun, whose rain of gold beat the dizziness of the crowd.

Then, Nana, standing on the seat of her landau, grown tall, believed it was she they acclaimed. She had remained a moment motionless, in the stupor of her triumph, looking at the track invaded by so thick a flood that the grass was no longer seen, covered with a sea of black hats. Then, when all that world had ranged itself, making a hedge to the exit, saluting Nana anew, who was leaving with Price, broken over the neck, spent and as if empty, she slapped her thighs violently, forgetting all, triumphing in crude phrases:

— Ah! goddamn! it's me, though... Ah! goddamn! what luck!

And, not knowing how to translate the joy that overturned her, she grabbed and kissed Louiset, whom she had just found in the air, on Bordenave's shoulder.

— Three minutes and fourteen seconds, said the latter, putting his watch back in his pocket.

Nana still listened to her name, whose echo the whole plain sent back to her. It was her people who applauded her, while, upright in the sun, she towered, with her star-hair and her white and blue dress, color of the sky. Labordette, slipping away, had just announced to her a win of two thousand louis, for he had placed his fifty louis on Nana, at forty. But this money touched her less than this unexpected victory, whose splendor made her queen of Paris. All those ladies were losing. Rose Mignon, in a fit of rage, had broken her parasol; and Caroline Héquet, and Clarisse, and Simonne, and Lucy Stewart herself despite her son, swore under their breath, exasperated by the luck of that big girl; while Tricon, who had crossed herself at the departure and arrival of the horses, straightened her tall figure above them, delighted with her instinct, blessing Nana, as an experienced matron.

Around the landau, however, the press of men kept growing. The band had thrown fierce clamors. Georges, strangled, continued alone to cry, in a voice that broke. As the champagne ran short, Philippe, taking the footmen with him, had just run to the refreshment booths. And Nana's court kept widening, her triumph decided the latecomers; the movement that had made her carriage the center of the lawn completed itself in apotheosis, the queen Venus in the mad fit of her subjects. Bordenave, behind her, chewed curses, with a father's tenderness. Steiner himself, won back, had dropped Simonne and was hauling himself onto one of the steps. When the champagne arrived, when she raised her full glass, such applause broke out, they took up so strongly: Nana! Nana! Nana! that the astonished crowd looked for the filly; and one no longer knew if it was the beast or the woman who filled the hearts.

Meanwhile, Mignon came running, despite Rose's terrible looks. That damned girl drove him out of his mind, he wanted to kiss her. Then, after kissing her on both cheeks, paternally:

— What bothers me is that, for sure, now Rose is going to send the letter... She's too furious.

— So much the better! it suits me! let slip Nana.

But, seeing him stupefied, she hastened to take it back:

— Ah! no, what am I saying?... Truly, I no longer know what I'm saying!... I'm drunk.

And drunk, indeed, drunk with joy, drunk with sun, the glass still raised, she acclaimed herself.

— To Nana! to Nana! she cried, amid a redoubling of noise, of laughter, of bravos, which little by little had gained the whole Hippodrome.

The races were ending, they were running the Prix Vaublanc. Carriages were leaving, one by one. However, Vandeuvres's name kept coming back, amid quarrels. Now, it was clear: Vandeuvres, for two years, had been nursing his coup, having Gresham hold back Nana; and he had produced Lusignan only to make the running for the filly. The losers grew angry, while the winners shrugged their shoulders. So what? wasn't it allowed? An owner ran his stable as he pleased. They had seen worse! The greatest number found Vandeuvres very clever to have had friends gather all he could take on Nana, which explained the sudden rise of the odds; they spoke of two thousand louis, at thirty on average, twelve hundred thousand francs of gain, a figure whose breadth struck with respect and excused all.

But other rumors, very grave, which were whispered, arrived from the weighing enclosure. The men coming back from it gave precise details; voices rose, they told aloud a frightful scandal. That poor Vandeuvres was finished; he had spoiled his superb coup by a flat stupidity, an idiotic theft, having charged Maréchal, a crooked bookmaker, to give for his account two thousand louis against Lusignan, a story of recovering his thousand and some louis openly bet, a pittance; and that proved the crack, in the midst of the final crashing of his fortune. The bookmaker, warned that the favorite would not win, had realized some sixty thousand francs on that horse. Only, Labordette, for want of exact and detailed instructions, had just gone to take two hundred louis from him on Nana, which the other kept giving at fifty, in his ignorance of the true coup. Cleaned out of a hundred thousand francs on the filly, at a loss of forty thousand, Maréchal, who felt everything crumbling under his feet, had suddenly understood, seeing Labordette and the count talking together, after the race, in front of the weighing room; and in a fury of an old coachman, in the brutality of a robbed man, he had just publicly made an awful scene, telling the story with atrocious words, rousing the crowd. They added that the racing jury was going to assemble.

Nana, whom Philippe and Georges were quietly putting in the know, let fall reflections, without ceasing to laugh and drink. It was possible, after all; she remembered things; then, that Maréchal had a nasty face. Yet, she still doubted, when Labordette appeared. He was very pale.

— Well? she asked him half-voice.

— Done for! he answered simply.

And he shrugged his shoulders. A child, that Vandeuvres! She made a gesture of annoyance.

In the evening, at Mabille, Nana obtained a colossal success. When she appeared, toward ten o'clock, the uproar was already tremendous. That classic evening of madness reunited all the gallant youth, a fine world hurling itself into a brutality and imbecility of lackeys. They crushed one another under the garlanded gaslights; black coats, excessive dresses, women come décolleté, in old gowns fit to soil, turned, howled, whipped by an enormous drunkenness. At thirty paces, one no longer heard the brass of the orchestra. Nobody danced. Stupid words, repeated no one knew why, circulated among the groups. They slapped their sides without managing to be funny. Seven women, locked in the cloakroom, wept to be let out. A shallot found and put up for auction was pushed to two louis. Just then, Nana arrived, still dressed in her racing toilette, blue and white. They gave her the shallot, amid a thunder of bravos. They seized her despite herself, three gentlemen carried her in triumph through the garden, across the wrecked lawns, the gutted green thickets; and, as the orchestra was in the way, they took it by assault, breaking the chairs and music stands. A paternal police organized the disorder.

“Stories of the world, in your language.”