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.
"Well ?" she asked in a low voice.
"Bloody well smashed up!" he replied simply.
And he shrugged his shoulders.