“By the by,” Nana resumed, “d’you know a little old man who’s very clean and neat and has bad teeth—­a Monsieur Venot?  He came to see me this morning.”

“Monsieur Venot?” said Georges in great astonishment.  “It’s impossible!  Why, the man’s a Jesuit!”

“Precisely; I spotted that.  Oh, you have no idea what our conversation was like!  It was just funny!  He spoke to me about the count, about his divided house, and begged me to restore a family its happiness.  He was very polite and very smiling for the matter of that.  Then I answered to the effect that I wanted nothing better, and I undertook to reconcile the count and his wife.  You know it’s not humbug.  I should be delighted to see them all happy again, the poor things!  Besides, it would be a relief to me for there are days—­yes, there are days—­when he bores me to death.”

The weariness of the last months escaped her in this heartfelt outburst.  Moreover, the count appeared to be in big money difficulties; he was anxious and it seemed likely that the bill which Labordette had put his name to would not be met.

“Dear me, the countess is down yonder,” said Georges, letting his gaze wander over the stands.

“Where, where?” cried Nana.  “What eyes that baby’s got!  Hold my sunshade, Philippe.”

But with a quick forward dart Georges had outstripped his brother.  It enchanted him to be holding the blue silk sunshade with its silver fringe.  Nana was scanning the scene through a huge pair of field glasses.

“Ah yes!  I see her,” she said at length.  “In the right-hand stand, near a pillar, eh?  She’s in mauve, and her daughter in white by her side.  Dear me, there’s Daguenet going to bow to them.”

Thereupon Philippe talked of Daguenet’s approaching marriage with that lath of an Estelle.  It was a settled matter—­the banns were being published.  At first the countess had opposed it, but the count, they said, had insisted.  Nana smiled.

“I know, I know,” she murmured.  “So much the better for Paul.  He’s a nice boy—­he deserves it.”

And leaning toward Louiset: 

“You’re enjoying yourself, eh?  What a grave face!”

The child never smiled.  With a very old expression he was gazing at all those crowds, as though the sight of them filled him with melancholy reflections.  Bijou, chased from the skirts of the young woman who was moving about a great deal, had come to nestle, shivering, against the little fellow.

Meanwhile the field was filling up.  Carriages, a compact, interminable file of them, were continually arriving through the Porte de la Cascade.  There were big omnibuses such as the Pauline, which had started from the Boulevard des Italiens, freighted with its fifty passengers, and was now going to draw up to the right of the stands.  Then there were dogcarts, victorias, landaus, all superbly well turned out, mingled with lamentable cabs which jolted along behind sorry