He was strolling about with his hands behind his back, wearing a hat that looked rusty in the sunlight and a greasy frock coat that was glossy at the seams.

It was Bordenave shattered by bankruptcy, yet furious despite all reverses, a Bordenave who flaunted his misery among all the fine folks with the hardihood becoming a man ever ready to take Dame Fortune by storm.
"The deuce, how smart we are!" he said when Nana extended her hand to him like the good-natured wench she was.
Presently, after emptying a glass of champagne, he gave vent to the following profoundly regretful phrase: "Ah, if only I were a woman! But, by God, that's nothing! Would you like to go on the stage again?
I've a notion: I'll hire the Gaite, and we'll gobble up Paris between us.

You certainly owe it me, eh ?" And he lingered, grumbling, beside her, though glad to see her again; for, he said, that confounded Nana was balm to his feelings.

Yes, it was balm to them merely to exist in her presence! She was his daughter; she was blood of his blood! The circle increased, for now La Faloise was filling glasses, and Georges and Philippe were picking up friends.

A stealthy impulse was gradually bringing in the whole field.