Эмиль Золя
Four Short Stories By Emile Zola
“Let’s see, what horses ought I to choose?” said the young woman. “What’s the betting on the Englishman?”
“Spirit? Three to one against. Valerio II, the same. As to the others, they’re laying twenty-five to one against Cosinus, forty to one against Hazard, thirty to one against Bourn, thirty-five to one against Pichenette, ten to one against Frangipane.”
“No, I don’t bet on the Englishman, I don’t. I’m a patriot. Perhaps Valerio II would do, eh? The Duc de Corbreuse was beaming a little while ago. Well, no, after all! Fifty louis on Lusignan; what do you say to that?”
Labordette looked at her with a singular expression. She leaned forward and asked him questions in a low voice, for she was aware that Vandeuvres commissioned him to arrange matters with the bookmakers so as to be able to bet the more easily. Supposing him to have got to know something, he might quite well tell it her. But without entering into explanations Labordette persuaded her to trust to his sagacity. He would put on her fifty louis for her as he might think best, and she would not repent of his arrangement.
“All the horses you like!” she cried gaily, letting him take his departure, “but no Nana; she’s a jade!”
There was a burst of uproarious laughter in the carriage. The young men thought her sally very amusing, while Louiset in his ignorance lifted his pale eyes to his mother’s face, for her loud exclamations surprised him. However, there was no escape for Labordette as yet. Rose Mignon had made a sign to him and was now giving him her commands while he wrote figures in a notebook. Then Clarisse and Gaga called him back in order to change their bets, for they had heard things said in the crowd, and now they didn’t want to have anything more to do with Valerio II and were choosing Lusignan. He wrote down their wishes with an impassible expression and at length managed to escape. He could be seen disappearing between two of the stands on the other side of the course.
Carriages were still arriving. They were by this time drawn up five rows deep, and a dense mass of them spread along the barriers, checkered by the light coats of white horses. Beyond them other carriages stood about in comparative isolation, looking as though they had stuck fast in the grass. Wheels and harness were here, there and everywhere, according as the conveyances to which they belonged were side by side, at an angle, across and across or head to head. Over such spaces of turf as still remained unoccupied cavaliers kept trotting, and black groups of pedestrians moved continually. The scene resembled the field where a fair is being held, and above it all, amid the confused motley of the crowd, the drinking booths raised their gray canvas roofs which gleamed white in the sunshine. But a veritable tumult, a mob, an eddy of hats, surged round the several bookmakers, who stood in open carriages gesticulating like itinerant dentists while their odds were pasted up on tall boards beside them.
“All the same, it’s stupid not to know on what horse one’s betting,” Nana was remarking. “I really must risk some louis in person.”
She had stood up to select a bookmaker with a decent expression of face but forgot what she wanted on perceiving a perfect crowd of her acquaintance. Besides the Mignons, besides Gaga, Clarisse and Blanche, there were present, to the right and left, behind and in the middle of the mass of carriages now hemming in her landau, the following ladies: Tatan Nene and Maria Blond in a victoria, Caroline Hequet with her mother and two gentlemen in an open carriage, Louise Violaine quite alone, driving a little basket chaise decked with orange and green ribbons, the colors of the Mechain stables, and finally, Lea de Horn on the lofty seat of a mail coach, where a band of young men were making a great din. Farther off, in a HUIT RESSORTS of aristocratic appearance, Lucy Stewart, in a very simple black silk dress, sat, looking distinguished beside a tall young man in the uniform of a naval cadet. But what most astounded Nana was the arrival of Simonne in a tandem which Steiner was driving, while a footman sat motionless, with folded arms, behind them. She looked dazzling in white satin striped with yellow and was covered with diamonds from waist to hat. The banker, on his part, was handling a tremendous whip and sending along his two horses, which were harnessed tandemwise, the leader being a little warm-colored chestnut with a mouselike trot, the shaft horse a big brown bay, a stepper, with a fine action.
“Deuce take it!” said Nana. “So that thief Steiner has cleared the Bourse again, has he? I say, isn’t Simonne a swell! It’s too much of a good thing; he’ll get into the clutches of the law!”
Nevertheless, she exchanged greetings at a distance. Indeed, she kept waving her hand and smiling, turning round and forgetting no one in her desire to be seen by everybody. At the same time she continued chatting.
“It’s her son Lucy’s got in tow! He’s charming in his uniform. That’s why she’s looking so grand, of course! You know she’s afraid of him and that she passes herself off as an actress. Poor young man, I pity him all the same! He seems quite unsuspicious.”
“Bah,” muttered Philippe, laughing, “she’ll be able to find him an heiress in the country when she likes.”
Nana was silent, for she had just noticed the Tricon amid 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 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 to 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 following 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 ordinarily rode Nana? Besides, they were astonished to see him confiding Lusignan to this man Gresham, who, according to La Faloise, never got a place. But all these remarks were swallowed up in jokes, contradictions and an extraordinarily noisy confusion of opinions. In order to kill time the company once more set themselves to drain bottles of champagne. Presently a whisper ran round, and the different groups opened outward. It was Vandeuvres. Nana affected vexation.
“Dear me, you’re a nice fellow to come at this time of day! Why, I’m burning to see the enclosure.”
“Well, come along then,” he said; “there’s still time. You’ll take a stroll round with me. I just happen to have a permit for a lady about me.”
And he led her off on his arm while she enjoyed the jealous glances with which Lucy, Caroline and the others followed her. The young Hugons and La Faloise remained in the landau behind her retreating figure and continued to do the honors of her champagne. She shouted to them that she would return immediately.
But Vandeuvres caught sight of Labordette and called him, and there was an interchange of brief sentences.
“You’ve scraped everything up?”
“Yes.”
“To what amount?”
“Fifteen hundred louis – pretty well all over the place.”
As Nana was visibly listening, and that with much curiosity, they held their tongues. Vandeuvres was very nervous, and he had those same clear eyes, shot with little flames, which so frightened her the night he spoke of burning himself and his horses together. As they crossed over the course she spoke low and familiarly.
“I say, do explain this to me. Why are the odds on your filly changing?”
He trembled, and this sentence escaped him:
“Ah, they’re talking, are they? What a set those betting men are! When I’ve got the favorite they all throw themselves upon him, and there’s no chance for me. After that, when an outsider’s asked for, they give tongue and yell as though they were being skinned.”
“You ought to tell me what’s going to happen – I’ve made my bets,” she rejoined. “Has Nana a chance?”
A sudden, unreasonable burst of anger overpowered him.
“Won’t you deuced well let me be, eh? Every horse has a chance. The odds are shortening because, by Jove, people have taken the horse. Who, I don’t know. I should prefer leaving you if you must needs badger me with your idiotic questions.”
