But he retained his haughty aristocratic manner and the delicate elegance of his impoverished race, and as yet these strange manifestations were only, so to speak, momentary fits of vertigo overcoming a brain already sapped by play and by debauchery.

One night as he lay beside her he had frightened her with a dreadful story.

He had told her he contemplated shutting himself up in his stable and setting fire to himself and his horses at such time as he should have devoured all his substance.

His only hope at that period was a horse, Lusignan by name, which he was training for the Prix de Paris.

He was living on this horse, which was the sole stay of his shaken credit, and whenever Nana grew exacting he would put her off till June and to the probability of Lusignan's winning.
"Bah! He may very likely lose," she said merrily, "since he's going to clear them all out at the races." By way of reply he contented himself by smiling a thin, mysterious smile.