"Has Nana a chance?"
A sudden, unreasonable burst of anger overpowered him.
"Won't you deuced well let me be, eh? Every horse has a chance. The odds
are shortening because, by Jove, people have taken the horse. Who, I
don't know. I should prefer leaving you if you must needs badger me with
your idiotic questions."
Such a tone was not germane either to his temperament or his habits,
and Nana was rather surprised than wounded. Besides, he was ashamed of
himself directly afterward, and when she begged him in a dry voice to
behave politely he apologized. For some time past he had suffered from
such sudden changes of temper. No one in the Paris of pleasure or of
society was ignorant of the fact that he was playing his last trump
card today. If his horses did not win, if, moreover, they lost him the
considerable sums wagered upon them, it would mean utter disaster and
collapse for him, and the bulwark of his credit and the lofty appearance
which, though undermined, he still kept up, would come ruining noisily
down. Moreover, no one was ignorant of the fact that Nana was the
devouring siren who had finished him off, who had been the last to
attack his crumbling fortunes and to sweep up what remained of them.
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