Nana - Émile Zola (good books to read for young adults txt) 📗

head of the Prince of Scots in the imperial stand.

 

“Gracious, it’s Charles!” she cried.

 

She thought him stouter than formerly. In eighteen months he had

broadened, and with that she entered into particulars. Oh yes, he

was a big, solidly built fellow!

 

All round her in the ladies’ carriages they were whispering that the

count had given her up. It was quite a long story. Since he had

been making himself noticeable, the Tuileries had grown scandalized

at the chamberlain’s conduct. Whereupon, in order ro retain his

position, he had recently broken it off with Nana. La Faloise

bluntly reported this account of matters to the young woman and,

addressing her as his Juliet, again offered himself. But she

laughed merrily and remarked:

 

“It’s idiotic! You won’t know him; I’ve only to say, ‘Come here,’

for him to chuck up everything.”

 

For some seconds past she had been examining the Countess Sabine and

Estelle. Daguenet was still at their side. Fauchery had just

arrived and was disturbing the people round him in his desire to

make his bow to them. He, too, stayed smilingly beside them. After

that Nana pointed with disdainful action at the stands and

continued:

 

“Then, you know, those people don’t fetch me any longer now! I know

‘em too well. You should see ‘em behind scenes. No more honor!

It’s all up with honor! Filth belowstairs, filth abovestairs, filth

everywhere. That’s why I won’t be bothered about ‘em!”

 

And with a comprehensive gesture she took in everybody, from the

grooms leading the horses on to the course to the sovereign lady

busy chatting with with Charles, a prince and a dirty fellow to

boot.

 

“Bravo, Nana! Awfully smart, Nana!” cried La Faloise

enthusiastically.

 

The tolling of a bell was lost in the wind; the races continued.

The Prix d’Ispahan had just been run for and Berlingot, a horse

belonging to the Mechain stable, had won. Nana recalled Labordette

in order to obtain news of the hundred louis, but he burst out

laughing and refused to let her know the horses he had chosen for

her, so as not to disturb the luck, as he phrased it. Her money was

well placed; she would see that all in good time. And when she

confessed her bets to him and told him how she had put ten louis on

Lusignan and five on Valerio II, he shrugged his shoulders, as who

should say that women did stupid things whatever happened. His

action surprised her; she was quite at sea.

 

Just then the field grew more animated than before. Open-air

lunches were arranged in the interval before the Grand Prix. There

was much eating and more drinking in all directions, on the grass,

on the high seats of the four-in-hands and mail coaches, in the

victorias, the broughams, the landaus. There was a universal spread

of cold viands and a fine disorderly display of champagne baskets

which footmen kept handing down out of the coach boots. Corks came

out with feeble pops, which the wind drowned. There was an

interchange of jests, and the sound of breaking glasses imparted a

note of discord to the high-strung gaiety of the scene. Gaga and

Clarisse, together with Blanche, were making a serious repast, for

they were eating sandwiches on the carriage rug with which they had

been covering their knees. Louise Violaine had got down from her

basket carriage and had joined Caroline Hequet. On the turf at

their feet some gentlemen had instituted a drinking bar, whither

Tatan, Maria, Simonne and the rest came to refresh themselves, while

high in air and close at hand bottles were being emptied on Lea de

Horn’s mail coach, and, with infinite bravado and gesticulation, a

whole band were making themselves tipsy in the sunshine, above the

heads of the crowd. Soon, however, there was an especially large

crowd by Nana’s landau. She had risen to her feet and had set

herself to pour out glasses of champagne for the men who came to pay

her their respects. Francois, one of the footmen, was passing up

the bottles while La Faloise, trying hard to imitate a coster’s

accents, kept pattering away:

 

“‘Ere y’re, given away, given away! There’s some for everybody!”

 

“Do be still, dear boy,” Nana ended by saying. “We look like a set

of tumblers.”

 

She thought him very droll and was greatly entertained. At one

moment she conceived the idea of sending Georges with a glass of

champagne to Rose Mignon, who was affecting temperance. Henri and

Charles were bored to distraction; they would have been glad of some

champagne, the poor little fellows. But Georges drank the glassful,

for he feared an argument. Then Nana remembered Louiset, who was

sitting forgotten behind her. Maybe he was thirsty, and she forced

him to take a drop or two of wine, which made him cough dreadfully.

 

“‘Ere y’are, ‘ere y’are, gemmen!” La Faloise reiterated. “It don’t

cost two sous; it don’t cost one. We give it away.”

 

But Nana broke in with an exclamation:

 

“Gracious, there’s Bordenave down there! Call him. Oh, run,

please, please do!”

 

It was indeed Bordenave. He was strolling about with his hands

behind his back, wearing a hat that looked rusty in the sunlight and

a greasy frock coat that was glossy at the seams. It was Bordenave

shattered by bankruptcy, yet furious despite all reverses, a

Bordenave who flaunted his misery among all the fine folks with the

hardihood becoming a man ever ready to take Dame Fortune by storm.

 

“The deuce, how smart we are!” he said when Nana extended her hand

to him like the good-natured wench she was.

 

Presently, after emptying a glass of champagne, he gave vent to the

followmg profoundly regretful phrase:

 

“Ah, if only I were a woman! But, by God, that’s nothing! Would

you like to go on the stage again? I’ve a notion: I’ll hire the

Gaite, and we’ll gobble up Paris between us. You certainly owe it

me, eh?”

 

And he lingered, grumbling, beside her, though glad to see her

again; for, he said, that confounded Nana was balm to his feelings.

Yes, it was balm to them merely to exist in her presence! She was

his daughter; she was blood of his blood!

 

The circle increased, for now La Faloise was filling glasses, and

Georges and Philippe were picking up friends. A stealthy impulse

was gradually bringing in the whole field. Nana would fling

everyone a laughing smile or an amusing phrase. The groups of

tipplers were drawing near, and all the champagne scattered over the

place was moving in her direction. Soon there was only one noisy

crowd, and that was round her landau, where she queened it among

outstretched glasses, her yellow hair floating on the breeze and her

snowy face bathed in the sunshine. Then by way of a finishing touch

and to make the other women, who were mad at her triumph, simply

perish of envy, she lifted a brimming glass on high and assumed her

old pose as Venus Victrix.

 

But somebody touched her shoulder, and she was surprised, on turning

round, to see Mignon on the seat. She vanished from view an instant

and sat herself down beside him, for he had come to communicate a

matter of importance. Mignon had everywhere declared that it was

ridiculous of his wife to bear Nana a grudge; he thought her

attitude stupid and useless.

 

“Look here, my dear,” he whispered. “Be careful: don’t madden Rose

too much. You understand, I think it best to warn you. Yes, she’s

got a weapon in store, and as she’s never forgiven you the Petite

Duchesse business—”

 

“A weapon,” said Nana; “what’s that blooming well got to do with

me?”

 

“Just listen: it’s a letter she must have found in Fauchery’s

pocket, a letter written to that screw Fauchery by the Countess

Muffat. And, by Jove, it’s clear the whole story’s in it. Well

then, Rose wants to send the letter to the count so as to be

revenged on him and on you.”

 

“What the deuce has that got to do with me?” Nana repeated. “It’s a

funny business. So the whole story about Fauchery’s in it! Very

well, so much the better; the woman has been exasperating me! We

shall have a good laugh!”

 

“No, I don’t wish it,” Mignon briskly rejoined. “There’ll be a

pretty scandal! Besides, we’ve got nothing to gain.”

 

He paused, fearing lest he should say too much, while she loudly

averred that she was most certainly not going to get a chaste woman

into trouble.

 

But when he still insisted on his refusal she looked steadily at

him. Doubtless he was afraid of seeing Fauchery again introduced

into his family in case he broke with the countess. While avenging

her own wrongs, Rose was anxious for that to happen, since she still

felt a kindness toward the journalist. And Nana waxed meditative

and thought of M. Venot’s call, and a plan began to take shape in

her brain, while Mignon was doing his best to talk her over.

 

“Let’s suppose that Rose sends the letter, eh? There’s food for

scandal: you’re mixed up in the business, and people say you’re the

cause of it all. Then to begin with, the count separates from his

wife.”

 

“Why should he?” she said. “On the contrary—”

 

She broke off, in her turn. There was no need for her to think

aloud. So in order to be rid of Mignon she looked as though she

entered into his view of the case, and when he advised her to give

Rose some proof of her submission—to pay her a short visit on the

racecourse, for instance, where everybody would see her—she replied

that she would see about it, that she would think the matter over.

 

A commotion caused her to stand up again. On the course the horses

were coming in amid a sudden blast of wind. The prize given by the

city of Paris had just been run for, and Cornemuse had gained it.

Now the Grand Prix was about to be run, and the fever of the crowd

increased, and they were tortured by anxiety and stamped and swayed

as though they wanted to make the minutes fly faster. At this

ultimate moment the betting world was surprised and startled by the

continued shortening of the odds against Nana, the outsider of the

Vandeuvres stables. Gentlemen kept returning every few moments with

a new quotation: the betting was thirty to one against Nana; it was

twenty-five to one against Nana, then twenty to one, then fifteen to

one. No one could understand it. A filly beaten on all the

racecourses! A filly which that same morning no single sportsman

would take at fifty to one against! What did this sudden madness

betoken? Some laughed at it and spoke of the pretty doing awaiting

the duffers who were being taken in by the joke. Others looked

serious and uneasy and sniffed out something ugly under it all.

Perhaps there was a “deal” in the offing. Allusion was made to

well-known stories about the robberies which are winked at on

racecourses, but on this occasion the great name of Vandeuvres put a

stop to all such accusations, and the skeptics in the end prevailed

when they prophesied that Nana would come in last of all.

 

“Who’s riding Nana?” queried La Faloise.

 

Just then the real Nana reappeared, whereat the gentlemen lent his

question an indecent meaning and burst into an uproarious fit of

laughter. Nana bowed.

 

“Price is up,” she replied.

 

And with that the discussion began again. Price was an English

celebrity. Why had Vandeuvres got this jockey to come over, seeing

that Gresham