But it was too late.  The five carriages which were taking Nana and her circle to the ruins of Chamont rolled on to the narrow wooden bridge.  Fauchery, Daguenet and the Muffat ladies were forced to step backward, while Mme Hugon and the others had also to stop in Indian file along the roadside.  It was a superb ride past!  The laughter in the carriages had ceased, and faces were turned with an expression of curiosity.  The rival parties took stock of each other amid a silence broken only by the measured trot of the horses.  In the first carriage Maria Blond and Tatan Nene were lolling backward like a pair of duchesses, their skirts swelling forth over the wheels, and as they passed they cast disdainful glances at the honest women who were walking afoot.  Then came Gaga, filling up a whole seat and half smothering La Faloise beside her so that little but his small anxious face was visible.  Next followed Caroline Hequet with Labordette, Lucy Stewart with Mignon and his boys and at the close of all Nana in a victoria with Steiner and on a bracket seat in front of her that poor, darling Zizi, with his knees jammed against her own.

“It’s the last of them, isn’t it?” the countess placidly asked Fauchery, pretending at the same time not to recognize Nana.

The wheel of the victoria came near grazing her, but she did not step back.  The two women had exchanged a deeply significant glance.  It was, in fact, one of those momentary scrutinies which are at once complete and definite.  As to the men, they behaved unexceptionably.  Fauchery and Daguenet looked icy and recognized no one.  The marquis, more nervous than they and afraid of some farcical ebullition on the part of the ladies, had plucked a blade of grass and was rolling it between his fingers.  Only Vandeuvres, who had stayed somewhat apart from the rest of the company, winked imperceptibly at Lucy, who smiled at him as she passed.

“Be careful!” M. Venot had whispered as he stood behind Count Muffat.

The latter in extreme agitation gazed after this illusive vision of Nana while his wife turned slowly round and scrutinized him.  Then he cast his eyes on the ground as though to escape the sound of galloping hoofs which were sweeping away both his senses and his heart.  He could have cried aloud in his agony, for, seeing Georges among Nana’s skirts, he understood it all now.  A mere child!  He was brokenhearted at the thought that she should have preferred a mere child to him!  Steiner was his equal, but that child!

Mme Hugon, in the meantime, had not at once recognized Georges.  Crossing the bridge, he was fain to jump into the river, but Nana’s knees restrained him.  Then white as a sheet and icy cold, he sat rigidly up in his place and looked at no one.  It was just possible no one would notice him.

“Oh, my God!” said the old lady suddenly.  “Georges is with her!”