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.