Nana (Barnes & Noble Classics) - Emile Zola [191]
For some seconds that was the general opinion. But the filly slowly continued to gain ground in a continued effort. Then an immense emotion seized upon all. The horses in the rear no longer excited the smallest interest. A last struggle began between Spirit, Nana, Lusignan, and Valerio II. Their names were on the lips of everyone, their progress or their falling off was proclaimed in short disconnected sentences. And Nana, who had climbed on to the coachman’s seat, as though lifted up by some invisible power, was all pale and trembling, and so deeply moved that she could not say a word. Labordette, close beside her, was once more smiling.
“Well, the English horse is in difficulties,” said Philippe, joyfully. “He is not going so well.”
“Anyhow, Lusignan is done for,” cried La Faloise. “Valerio II. leads the way. Look! there they are, the whole four of them, close together.”
The same words came from every throat: “What a rate they’re going at! Oh! what a frightful rate!”
Nana now beheld the group coming towards her like a flash of lightning. You could feel their approach, and almost their breathing, a distant roar which grew louder and louder every second. The whole crowd impetuously rushed to the barriers, and, preceding the horses, a heavy clamour escaped from every chest, coming nearer and nearer, with a sound like the ocean breaking on the shore. It was the final outburst of brutal passion aroused by a colossal venture, a hundred thousand spectators with one fixed idea, burning with the same hankering for luck, following with their eyes those animals whose gallop carried off millions. They shoved and trampled on one another, with clinched fists and open mouths, each one for himself, and urging on his favourite with his voice and gestures. And the cry of this vast multitude, which was like the roar of some savage beast, became more and more distinct.
“Here they come!—here they come!—here they come!”
But Nana continued to gain ground; now Valerio II. was distanced, and she led with Spirit by two or three necks. The rumbling noise resembling thunder increased. As they came on, a tempest of oaths greeted them from the landau.
“Gee up, Lusignan! you big coward, you sorry beast!”—“Look at the English one! isn’t he grand? Go it, old fellow, go it!—”And that Valerio, it’s disgusting!“—”Ah! the carrion! my ten louis are nowhere now!“—”There’s only Nana in it! Bravo, Nana! bravo, little slut!”
And Nana, on the coachman’s box, was swinging her hips and thighs, without knowing she did so, as though she herself was running. She kept protruding her body, under the notion that it helped the filly along; and each time she did so she sighed wearily, and said, in a low, painful tone of voice,
“Go it—go it—go it.”
A grand sight was then beheld. Price, erect in the stirrups, his whip raised, flogged Nana with an iron arm. That old, dried-up child, that long figure, usually looking so hard and dead, seemed shooting sparks of fire; and, in a burst of furious audacity, of triumphant will, he instilled some of his own spirit into the filly. He kept her up, he carried her along, covered with foam, and with eyes all bloody. The cluster of horses passed like a flash of lightning, sweeping the air, taking away the breath of all who saw them; whilst the judge, on the lookout, calmly awaited. Then there arose an immense cheer. With a final effort Price had lifted Nana to the post, beating Spirit by a head.
The clamour that burst forth was like the roar of the rising tide. “Nana! Nana! Nana!” The cry rolled and grew with the violence of a tempest, gradually filling the air, from the innermost recesses of the Bois to Mount Valérien, from the meadows of Longchamps to the plain of Boulogne. Around Nana’s landau a mad enthusiasm was displayed. “Long Live Nana! Long Live France! Down with England!” The women waved their parasols. Some men sprung