Nana: By Emile Zola - Illustrated

by Emile Zola

  “Why! she has hair the colour of mine!” exclaimed Nana, delighted. “I feel quite proud of her!”

  They all climbed on to the landau. Bordenave almost trod on little Louis, whom his mother had forgotten. He caught hold of him, grumbling in a paternal manner, and, lifting him on to his shoulder, he murmured,

  “Poor young ’un, he must see too. Wait a minute and I’ll show you your mamma. There! over there—look at the geegee.”

  And as Bijou was scratching his legs he lifted him up also, whilst Nana, delighted with the animal that bore her name, glanced at the other women to see how they took it. They were all madly jealous. At this moment old Tricon, on her cab, immovable until then, waved her hands, and shouted some instructions to a bookmaker over the crowd. Her instinct prompted her. She backed Nana.

  La Faloise was making an unbearable row, however. He was quite smitten with Frangipane. “I’ve an inspiration,” he cried. “Just look at Frangipane. See what go there is in him! I take Frangipane at eight to one. Who’ll bet?”

  “Do be quiet,” Labordette ended by saying. “You’ll only regret it all by-and-by.”

  “Frangipane’s a jade,” declared Philippe. “He is already wet with perspiration. Look! they’re going to canter.”

  The horses had turned to the right, and they started on their preliminary canter, passing in front of the grand stand in a disordered crowd. Then the excited remarks broke out again; every one spoke at the same time.

  “Lusignan is in good condition, but he is too long in the back.”

  —“You know, not a farthing on Valerio II. He is nervous; he holds his head too high—it’s a bad sign.”—“Hallo! it’s Burne who is riding Spirit.”—“I tell you he has no shoulder. A good shoulder means everything.—”No, Spirit is decidedly too quiet.—“Listen, I saw Nana after the race for the Grande Poule des Produits. She was soaking her coat as though dead, and breathing fit to burst. Twenty louis she isn’t placed!”—“Enough! enough! what a confounded nuisance he is with his Frangipane! It’s too late; they’re going to start.”

  La Faloise, almost crying, was struggling to get to a bookmaker. The others had to reason with him. All the necks were stretched out. But the first start was not a good one; the starter, who in the distance looked like a thin black stick, had not lowered his red flag. The horses returned to the post after a short gallop. There were two other false starts. At length the starter, getting the horses all well together, sent them off with a skill that won admiration on all sides.

  “Magnificent start!”—“No, it is chance!”—“Never mind, they’re off!”

  The noise died away in the anxiety which filled every breast. Now, the betting ceased; the game was being played on the immense course. Complete silence reigned at last, as though all breathing was suspended. Faces were raised, white and trembling. At the start Hasard and Cosinus had made the running, leading all the others. Valerio II. followed close behind them; the rest came on in a confused mass. When they passed in front of the stands, shaking the earth, and with the sudden gust of wind caused by their immense speed, the group had stretched out to fully forty lengths. Frangipane was last. Nana was a little behind Lusignan and Spirit.

  “The deuce!” murmured Labordette; “the English one is picking his way well through them!”

  Everyone in the landau had something to say—some excla mation to utter. All stood upon tiptoe, and watched intently the bright colours of the jockeys borne along in the sunshine. As they ascended the incline, Valerio II. took the lead. Cosinus and Hasard were losing ground, whilst Lusignan and Spirit, neck and neck, were still followed closely by Nana.

  “Damn it! the English horse has won, that’s quite plain,” said Bordenave. “Lusignan is tiring, and Valerio II. can’t stay.”

  “Well! it is disgusting if the English horse wins!” exclaimed Philippe, in a burst of patriotic grief.

  A feeling of anguish gradually overwhelmed that mob of people. Another defeat! And a wish of extraordinary ardour, amounting almost to a prayer, for Lusignan’s success was inwardly expressed by all; whilst they abused Spirit and his funereal-looking jockey. The crowd, scattered over the grass, broke up into bands who were running with all their might. Horsemen galloped swiftly over the ground. And Nana, turning slowly round, beheld at her feet that surging mob of men and animals—that sea of heads looking as though dashed about and carried along the course by the vortex of the race, streaking the bright horizon of the jockeys. She watched the fast-stepping legs, which, as the distance increased, assumed the slenderness of hairs. Now, at the farthest limit of the circle, she saw them sideways, looking so small and slight against the green background of the Bois. Then suddenly they disappeared behind a large cluster of trees close to the course.

  “Don’t despair!” cried George, still full of hope. “It’s not over yet. The English horse is caught.”

  But La Faloise, again overcome by his disdain for the national cause, became quite scandalous in his applause of Spirit. Bravo! it served them right! France was in need of the lesson! Spirit first, and Frangipane second! it would aggravate his fatherland! Labordette, whom he thoroughly exasperated, seriously threatened to throw him out of the carriage.

  “We’ll see how long they take,” quietly observed Bordenave, who, with little Louis on his shoulder, had pulled out his watch.

  One by one the horses reappeared from behind the clump of trees. Then the crowd uttered a long murmur of amazement. Valerio II. still had the lead, but Spirit was gaining on him, and Lusignan, who was next, had given way, whilst another horse was taking his place. The spectators could not understand it at first; they mixed up the colours. Exclamations arose on all sides.

  “But it is Nana!”—“Nana? absurd! I tell you Lusignan still keeps his place.”—“Yes, it is, though, it is Nana! It is easy to recognise her by her golden colour.”—“There! look at her now! She seems all on fire.”—“Bravo, Nana! there’s an artful minx for you!”—“Bah! it’s nothing. She’s only making the running for Lusignan.”

  For some seconds that was the general opinion. But the filly slowly continued to gain ground in a continued effort. Then an immense emotion seized upon all. The horses in the rear no longer excited the smallest interest. A last struggle began between Spirit, Nana, Lusignan, and Valerio II. Their names were on the lips of everyone, their progress or their falling off was proclaimed in short disconnected sentences. And Nana, who had climbed on to the coachman’s seat, as though lifted up by some invisible power, was all pale and trembling, and so deeply moved that she could not say a word. Labordette, close beside her, was once more smiling.

  “Well, the English horse is in difficulties,” said Philippe, joyfully. “He is not going so well.”

  “Anyhow, Lusignan is done for,” cried La Faloise. “Valerio II. leads the way. Look! there they are, the whole four of them, close together.”

  The same words came from every throat: “What a rate they’re going at! Oh! what a frightful rate!”

  Nana now beheld the group coming towards her like a flash of lightning. You could feel their approach, and almost their breathing, a distant roar which grew louder and louder every second. The whole crowd impetuously rushed to the barriers, and, preceding the horses, a heavy clamour escaped from every chest, coming nearer and nearer, with a sound like the ocean breaking on the shore. It was the final outburst of brutal passion aroused by a colossal venture, a hundred thousand spectators with one fixed idea, burning with the same hankering for luck, following with their eyes those animals whose gallop carried off millions. They shoved and trampled on one another, with clinched fists and open mouths, each one for himself, and urging on his favourite with his voice and gestures. And the cry of this vast multitude, which was like the roar of some savage beast, became more and more distinct.

  “Here they come!—here they come!—here they come!”

  But Nana continued to gain ground; now Valerio II. was distanced, and she led with Spirit by two or three necks. The rumb
ling noise resembling thunder increased. As they came on, a tempest of oaths greeted them from the landau.

  “Gee up, Lusignan! you big coward, you sorry beast!”—“Look at the English one! isn’t he grand? Go it, old fellow, go it!—”And that Valerio, it’s disgusting!“—”Ah! the carrion! my ten louis are nowhere now!“—”There’s only Nana in it! Bravo, Nana! bravo, little slut!”

  And Nana, on the coachman’s box, was swinging her hips and thighs, without knowing she did so, as though she herself was running. She kept protruding her body, under the notion that it helped the filly along; and each time she did so she sighed wearily, and said, in a low, painful tone of voice,

  “Go it—go it—go it.”

  A grand sight was then beheld. Price, erect in the stirrups, his whip raised, flogged Nana with an iron arm. That old, dried-up child, that long figure, usually looking so hard and dead, seemed shooting sparks of fire; and, in a burst of furious audacity, of triumphant will, he instilled some of his own spirit into the filly. He kept her up, he carried her along, covered with foam, and with eyes all bloody. The cluster of horses passed like a flash of lightning, sweeping the air, taking away the breath of all who saw them; whilst the judge, on the lookout, calmly awaited. Then there arose an immense cheer. With a final effort Price had lifted Nana to the post, beating Spirit by a head.

  The clamour that burst forth was like the roar of the rising tide. “Nana! Nana! Nana!” The cry rolled and grew with the violence of a tempest, gradually filling the air, from the innermost recesses of the Bois to Mount Valérien, from the meadows of Longchamps to the plain of Boulogne. Around Nana’s landau a mad enthusiasm was displayed. “Long Live Nana! Long Live France! Down with England!” The women waved their parasols. Some men sprung into the air, and turned round vociferating; others, laughing nervously, flung up their hats. And on the other side of the course the crowd in the enclosure responded. An agitation passed through the stands, without one being able to discern anything distinctly, beyond a commotion of the air (like the invisible flame of a brazier) above that living heap of little chaotic figures, twisting their arms about, with black specks indicating their eyes and open mouths. The cry continued unceasingly, growing in intensity, caught up in the distance by the people camping beneath the trees, to spread again and increase itself with the emotion of the imperial stand, where the Empress joined in the applause. “Nana! Nana! Nana!” The shout rose beneath the glorious sun, which stimulated the delirium of the crowd with a shower of gold.

  Then Nana, standing on the box-seat of her landau, stretched to her full height, thought it was she that they were applauding. For an instant she stood immovable in the astonishment of her triumph, watching the course invaded by a host so compact, by such a sea of black hats, that the grass could no longer be seen. Then, when all that mob had taken up its position, leaving a narrow passage to the entrance of the course, acclaiming Nana again as she retired with Price, broken in appearance, lifeless, and as though empty, the young woman violently slapped her thighs, forgetting everything as she gave vent to her triumph in the coarsest language.

  “Ah! damn it all! it’s me, though. Ah! damn it all! what luck!”

  And not knowing how to show the joy that was overwhelming her, she seized hold of and kissed little Louis, whom she had just caught sight of on Bordenave’s shoulder.

  “Three minutes and fourteen seconds,” said the latter, putting his watch back into his pocket.

  Nana still listened to her name with which the whole plain resounded. It was her people who applauded her, whilst, in a straight line with the sun, she throned over them, with her hair shining like a star, and her blue and white dress of the colour of the heavens. Labordette, before hastening away, told her that she had won two thousand louis, for he had placed her fifty louis on Nana at forty to one. But the money affected her less than that unexpected victory, the splendour of which made her queen of Paris. The other women had all lost. Rose Mignon, in a fit of passion, had broken her parasol; and Caroline Héquet, and Clarisse, and Simone, and even Lucy Stewart, in spite of her son’s presence, all swore in an undertone, exasperated by that big girl’s luck; whilst old Tricon, who had crossed herself both at the start and the finish of the race, towered above them to the full height of her tall body, delighted at her discernment, and like an experienced matron canonizing Nana.

  Around the landau, however, the rush of men increased. The band had uttered the most ferocious yells. George, almost choked, continued to shout by himself in a broken voice. As the champagne ran short, Philippe, taking the two grooms with him, hastened off to the refreshment tents. And Nana’s court grew larger and larger; her triumph determined the laggards. The movement which had made her landau the central object ended in an apotheosis—Queen Venus surrounded by her delirious subjects. Behind her, Bordenave was muttering oaths with the tender feelings of a father. Steiner himself, reconquered, had left Simone, and was hanging on to one of the carriage steps. When the champagne arrived, when she raised her glass full of wine, the applause was so deafening—the cries of “Nana! Nana! Nana!” were so loud—that the amazed multitude looked around, expecting to see the filly; and one no longer knew whether it was the animal or the woman who most filled the men’s hearts.

  Mignon hastened to her, in spite of Rose’s black looks. The confounded girl put him quite beside himself; he must embrace her. Then after he had kissed her on both cheeks, he said paternally,

  “What bothers me is that Rose will now, for certain, send the letter. She’s in such a rage.”

  “So much the better! That’s just what I want!” said Nana, forgetting herself. But seeing him lost in astonishment at her words, she hastened to add, “No, no, whatever am I saying? Really, I no longer know what I say! I’m tipsy.”

  And indeed, she was intoxicated with joy and with the sunshine, as with her glass raised on high, she applauded herself.

  “To Nana! to Nana!” cried she, in the midst of a still greater increase of uproar, laughter and cheers, which little by little, gained the entire race-course.

  The races were drawing to a close; they were now running for the Vaublanc Prize. Vehicles were departing one by one. Vandeuvres’s name was frequently uttered in the midst of squabbles. Now, it was clear. For two years past, Vandeuvres had been preparing for this exploit by always instructing Gresham to pull Nana; and he had only produced Lusignan to make the running for the filly The losers lost their tempers, whilst the winners shrugged their shoulders. What next? it was all right. An owner could manage his stable as he chose. There had been much queerer things done than that! The greater number of people considered Vandeuvres very smart, to have secured through his friends all he could possibly get on Nana, which had explained the sudden rise in her price; they talked of two thousand louis, at an average of thirty to one, which meant a gain of twelve hundred thousand francs, a sum so large that it commanded respect, and excused everything.

  But other rumours, very grave ones, which were whispered about, came from the enclosure. The men who returned from there brought details. Voices were raised as they related the particulars of a frightful scandal—that poor Vandeuvres was done for. He had spoilt his superb hit by a piece of arrant stupidity, an idiotic robbery, in commissioning Maréchal, a bookmaker, whose affairs were in a very queer state, to place on his account two thousand louis against Lusignan, just for the sake of getting back his thousand and odd louis, which he had openly bet on the horse, a mere nothing; and that was the fatal crack in the midst of his already tottering fortunes. The bookmaker, warned that the favourite would not win, had made about sixty thousand francs by the horse; only, Labordette, not having received exact and detailed instructions, had gone and placed with him two hundred louis on Nana, which he, in his ignorance of what was going to be done, continued to lay at fifty to one against. Done out of one hundred thousand francs by the filly, with a clear loss of forty thousand, Maréchal, who felt everything giving way beneath him, had suddenly understood all on seeing Lab
ordette and the count conversing together after the race in front of the weighing place; and with the fury of an old coachman, and the rough manner of a man who has been robbed, he had just created a frightful disturbance before every one, telling the story in most atrocious language, and gathering a mob around him. It was added that the stewards were about to inquire into the matter.

  Nana, whom Philippe and George were quietly informing of what had happened, kept making reflections, without, however, ceasing to laugh and to drink. It was, after all, very likely, she recollected certain things, and then, that Maréchal was a horrid fellow. Yet she still doubted, when Labordette appeared. He was very pale.

  “Well?” queried she, in a low voice.

  “It’s all up with him!” he replied, simply.

  And he shrugged his shoulders. He had acted like a child, this Vandeuvres! She made a gesture of being bored.

  That night, at Mabille, Nana met with a colossal success. When she arrived, towards ten o’clock, the uproar was already formidable. This classic night of folly gathered together all the gallant youth of the capital, an aristocratic company indulging in horse-play and a stupidity worthy of lackeys. There was quite a crush beneath the garlands of flaring gas-jets, a mass of dress suits, of extravagant costumes; women with bare shoulders in old dresses only fit for soiling, walked round and yelled, stimulated by drinking on a gigantic scale. At thirty paces one could no longer hear the brass instruments of the orchestra. No one danced. Idiotic remarks, repeated no one knew why, circulated among the groups. They all exerted themselves, but without succeeding in being funny. Seven women, shut up in the cloak-room, cried to be delivered. A shallot, picked up and sold by auction, fetched two louis. Just then Nana arrived, still dressed in the blue and white costume that she wore at the races. The shallot was presented to her in the midst of a thunder of applause. They seized hold of her in spite of her struggles, and three gentlemen carried her in triumph into the garden, across the ruined lawns and the damaged beds of flowers and shrubs, and as the orchestra was in the way, they took it by assault, and smashed the chairs and desks. A paternal police organized the riot.