And drunk, indeed, drunk with joy, drunk with sunshine, she still raised her glass on high and applauded herself.

“To Nana!  To Nana!” she cried amid a redoubled uproar of laughter and bravoes, which little by little overspread the whole Hippodrome.

The races were ending, and the Prix Vaublanc was run for.  Carriages began driving off one by one.  Meanwhile, amid much disputing, the name of Vandeuvres was again mentioned.  It was quite evident now:  for two years past Vandeuvres had been preparing his final stroke and had accordingly told Gresham to hold Nana in, while he had only brought Lusignan forward in order to make play for the filly.  The losers were vexed; the winners shrugged their shoulders.  After all, wasn’t the thing permissible?  An owner was free to run his stud in his own way.  Many others had done as he had!  In fact, the majority thought Vandeuvres had displayed great skill in raking in all he could get about Nana through the agency of friends, a course of action which explained the sudden shortening of the odds.  People spoke of his having laid two thousand louis on the horse, which, supposing the odds to be thirty to one against, gave him twelve hundred thousand francs, an amount so vast as to inspire respect and to excuse everything.

But other rumors of a very serious nature were being whispered about:  they issued in the first instance from the enclosure, and the men who returned thence were full of exact particulars.  Voices were raised; an atrocious scandal began to be openly canvassed.  That poor fellow Vandeuvres was done for; he had spoiled his splendid hit with a piece of flat stupidity, an idiotic robbery, for he had commissioned Marechal, a shady bookmaker, to lay two thousand louis on his account against Lusignan, in order thereby to get back his thousand and odd openly wagered louis.  It was a miserable business, and it proved to be the last rift necessary to the utter breakup of his fortune.  The bookmaker being thus warned that the favorite would not win, had realized some sixty thousand francs over the horse.  Only Labordette, for lack of exact and detailed instructions, had just then gone to him to put two hundred louis on Nana, which the bookmaker, in his ignorance of the stroke actually intended, was still quoting at fifty to one against.  Cleared of one hundred thousand francs over the filly and a loser to the tune of forty thousand, Marechal, who felt the world crumbling under his feet, had suddenly divined the situation when he saw the count and Labordette talking together in front of the enclosure just after the race was over.  Furious, as became an ex-coachman of the count’s, and brutally frank as only a cheated man can be, he had just made a frightful scene in public, had told the whole story in atrocious terms and had thrown everyone into angry excitement.  It was further stated that the stewards were about to meet.

Nana, whom Philippe and Georges were whisperingly putting in possession of the facts, gave vent to a series of reflections and yet ceased not to laugh and drink.  After all, it was quite likely; she remembered such things, and then that Marechal had a dirty, hangdog look.  Nevertheless, she was still rather doubtful when Labordette appeared.  He was very white.