Four Short Stories

By Émile Zola


Contents

 NANA
 CHAPTER I
 CHAPTER II
 CHAPTER III
 CHAPTER IV
 CHAPTER V
 CHAPTER VI
 CHAPTER VII
 CHAPTER VIII
 CHAPTER IX
 CHAPTER X
 CHAPTER XI
 CHAPTER XII
 CHAPTER XIII
 CHAPTER XIV

 THE MILLER’S DAUGHTER
 CHAPTER I
 CHAPTER II
 CHAPTER III
 CHAPTER IV
 CHAPTER V

 CAPTAIN BURLE
 CHAPTER I
 CHAPTER II
 CHAPTER III
 CHAPTER IV

 THE DEATH OF OLIVIER BECAILLE
 CHAPTER I
 CHAPTER II
 CHAPTER III
 CHAPTER IV
 CHAPTER V




 NANA

 by Émile Zola




 CHAPTER I


At nine o’clock in the evening the body of the house at the Theatres
des Variétés was still all but empty. A few individuals, it is true,
were sitting quietly waiting in the balcony and stalls, but these were
lost, as it were, among the ranges of seats whose coverings of cardinal
velvet loomed in the subdued light of the dimly burning luster. A
shadow enveloped the great red splash of the curtain, and not a sound
came from the stage, the unlit footlights, the scattered desks of the
orchestra. It was only high overhead in the third gallery, round the
domed ceiling where nude females and children flew in heavens which had
turned green in the gaslight, that calls and laughter were audible
above a continuous hubbub of voices, and heads in women’s and workmen’s
caps were ranged, row above row, under the wide-vaulted bays with their
gilt-surrounding adornments. Every few seconds an attendant would make
her appearance, bustling along with tickets in her hand and piloting in
front of her a gentleman and a lady, who took their seats, he in his
evening dress, she sitting slim and undulant beside him while her eyes
wandered slowly round the house.

Two young men appeared in the stalls; they kept standing and looked
about them.

“Didn’t I say so, Hector?” cried the elder of the two, a tall fellow
with little black mustaches. “We’re too early! You might quite well
have allowed me to finish my cigar.”

An attendant was passing.

“Oh, Monsieur Fauchery,” she said familiarly, “it won’t begin for half
an hour yet!”

“Then why do they advertise for nine o’clock?” muttered Hector, whose
long thin face assumed an expression of vexation. “Only this morning
Clarisse, who’s in the piece, swore that they’d begin at nine o’clock
punctually.”

For a moment they remained silent and, looking upward, scanned the
shadowy boxes. But the green paper with which these were hung rendered
them more shadowy still. Down below, under the dress circle, the lower
boxes were buried in utter night. In those on the second tier there was
only one stout lady, who was stranded, as it were, on the
velvet-covered balustrade in front of her. On the right hand and on the
left, between lofty pilasters, the stage boxes, bedraped with
long-fringed scalloped hangings, remained untenanted. The house with
its white and gold, relieved by soft green tones, lay only half
disclosed to view, as though full of a fine dust shed from the little
jets of flame in the great glass luster.

“Did you get your stage box for Lucy?” asked Hector.

“Yes,” replied his companion, “but I had some trouble to get it. Oh,
there’s no danger of Lucy coming too early!”

He stifled a slight yawn; then after a pause:

“You’re in luck’s way, you are, since you haven’t been at a first night
before. The Blonde Venus will be the event of the year. People have
been talking about it for six months. Oh, such music, my dear boy! Such
a sly dog, Bordenave! He knows his business and has kept this for the
exhibition season.” Hector was religiously attentive. He asked a
question.

“And Nana, the new star who’s going to play Venus, d’you know her?”

“There you are; you’re beginning again!” cried Fauchery, casting up his
arms. “Ever since this morning people have been dreeing me with Nana.
I’ve met more than twenty people, and it’s Nana here and Nana there!
What do I know? Am I acquainted with all the light ladies in Paris?
Nana is an invention of Bordenave’s! It must be a fine one!”

He calmed himself, but the emptiness of the house, the dim light of the
luster, the churchlike sense of self-absorption which the place
inspired, full as it was of whispering voices and the sound of doors
banging—all these got on his nerves.

“No, by Jove,” he said all of a sudden, “one’s hair turns gray here.
I—I’m going out. Perhaps we shall find Bordenave downstairs. He’ll give
us information about things.”

Downstairs in the great marble-paved entrance hall, where the box
office was, the public were beginning to show themselves. Through the
three open gates might have been observed, passing in, the ardent life
of the boulevards, which were all astir and aflare under the fine April
night. The sound of carriage wheels kept stopping suddenly; carriage
doors were noisily shut again, and people began entering in small
groups, taking their stand before the ticket bureau and climbing the
double flight of stairs at the end of the hall, up which the women
loitered with swaying hips. Under the crude gaslight, round the pale,
naked walls of the entrance hall, which with its scanty First Empire
decorations suggested the peristyle of a toy temple, there was a
flaring display of lofty yellow posters bearing the name of “Nana” in
great black letters. Gentlemen, who seemed to be glued to the entry,
were reading them; others, standing about, were engaged in talk,
barring the doors of the house in so doing, while hard by the box
office a thickset man with an extensive, close-shaven visage was giving
rough answers to such as pressed to engage seats.

“There’s Bordenave,” said Fauchery as he came down the stairs. But the
manager had already seen him.

“Ah, ah! You’re a nice fellow!” he shouted at him from a distance.
“That’s the way you give me a notice, is it? Why, I opened my Figaro
this morning—never a word!”

“Wait a bit,” replied Fauchery. “I certainly must make the acquaintance
of your Nana before talking about her. Besides, I’ve made no promises.”

Then to put an end to the discussion, he introduced his cousin, M.
Hector de la Faloise, a young man who had come to finish his education
in Paris. The manager took the young man’s measure at a glance. But
Hector returned his scrutiny with deep interest. This, then, was that
Bordenave, that showman of the sex who treated women like a convict
overseer, that clever fellow who was always at full steam over some
advertising dodge, that shouting, spitting, thigh-slapping fellow, that
cynic with the soul of a policeman! Hector was under the impression
that he ought to discover some amiable observation for the occasion.

“Your theater—” he began in dulcet tones.

Bordenave interrupted him with a savage phrase, as becomes a man who
dotes on frank situations.

“Call it my brothel!”

At this Fauchery laughed approvingly, while La Faloise stopped with his
pretty speech strangled in his throat, feeling very much shocked and
striving to appear as though he enjoyed the phrase. The manager had
dashed off to shake hands with a dramatic critic whose column had
considerable influence. When he returned La Faloise was recovering. He
was afraid of being treated as a provincial if he showed himself too
much nonplused.

“I have been told,” he began again, longing positively to find
something to say, “that Nana has a delicious voice.”

“Nana?” cried the manager, shrugging his shoulders. “The voice of a
squirt!”

The young man made haste to add:

“Besides being a first-rate comedian!”

“She? Why she’s a lump! She has no notion what to do with her hands and
feet.”

La Faloise blushed a little. He had lost his bearings. He stammered:

“I wouldn’t have missed this first representation tonight for the
world. I was aware that your theater—”

“Call it my brothel,” Bordenave again interpolated with the frigid
obstinacy of a man convinced.

Meanwhile Fauchery, with extreme calmness, was looking at the women as
they came in. He went to his cousin’s rescue when he saw him all at sea
and doubtful whether to laugh or to be angry.

“Do be pleasant to Bordenave—call his theater what he wishes you to,
since it amuses him. And you, my dear fellow, don’t keep us waiting
about for nothing. If your Nana neither sings nor acts you’ll find
you’ve made a blunder, that’s all. It’s what I’m afraid of, if the
truth be told.”

“A blunder! A blunder!” shouted the manager, and his face grew purple.
“Must a woman know how to act and sing? Oh, my chicken, you’re too
STOOPID. Nana has other good points, by heaven!—something which is as
good as all the other things put together. I’ve smelled it out; it’s
deuced pronounced with her, or I’ve got the scent of an idiot. You’ll
see, you’ll see! She’s only got to come on, and all the house will be
gaping at her.”

He had held up his big hands which were trembling under the influence
of his eager enthusiasm, and now, having relieved his feelings, he
lowered his voice and grumbled to himself:

“Yes, she’ll go far! Oh yes, s’elp me, she’ll go far! A skin—oh, what a
skin she’s got!”

Then as Fauchery began questioning him he consented to enter into a
detailed explanation, couched in phraseology so crude that Hector de la
Faloise felt slightly disgusted. He had been thick with Nana, and he
was anxious to start her on the stage. Well, just about that time he
was in search of a Venus. He—he never let a woman encumber him for any
length of time; he preferred to let the public enjoy the benefit of her
forthwith. But there was a deuce of a row going on in his shop, which
had been turned topsy-turvy by that big damsel’s advent. Rose Mignon,
his star, a comic actress of much subtlety and an adorable singer, was
daily threatening to leave him in the lurch, for she was furious and
guessed the presence of a rival. And as for the bill, good God! What a
noise there had been about it all! It had ended by his deciding to
print the names of the two actresses in the same-sized type. But it
wouldn’t do to bother him. Whenever any of his little women, as he
called them—Simonne or Clarisse, for instance—wouldn’t go the way he
wanted her to he just up with his foot and caught her one in the rear.
Otherwise life was impossible. Oh yes, he sold ’em; HE knew what they
fetched, the wenches!

“Tut!” he cried, breaking off short. “Mignon and Steiner. Always
together. You know, Steiner’s getting sick of Rose; that’s why the
husband dogs his steps now for fear of his slipping away.”

On the pavement outside, the row of gas jets flaring on the cornice of
the theater cast a patch of brilliant light. Two small trees, violently
green, stood sharply out against it, and a column gleamed in such vivid
illumination that one could read the notices thereon at a distance, as
though in broad daylight, while the dense night of the boulevard beyond
was dotted with lights above the vague outline of an ever-moving crowd.
Many men did not enter the theater at once but stayed outside to talk
while finishing their cigars under the rays of the line of gas jets,
which shed a sallow pallor on their faces and silhouetted their short
black shadows on the asphalt. Mignon, a very tall, very broad fellow,
with the square-shaped head of a strong man at a fair, was forcing a
passage through the midst of the groups and dragging on his arm the
banker Steiner, an exceedingly small man with a corporation already in
evidence and a round face framed in a setting of beard which was
already growing gray.

“Well,” said Bordenave to the banker, “you met her yesterday in my
office.”

“Ah! It was she, was it?” ejaculated Steiner. “I suspected as much.
Only I was coming out as she was going in, and I scarcely caught a
glimpse of her.”

Mignon was listening with half-closed eyelids and nervously twisting a
great diamond ring round his finger. He had quite understood that Nana
was in question. Then as Bordenave was drawing a portrait of his new
star, which lit a flame in the eyes of the banker, he ended by joining
in the conversation.

“Oh, let her alone, my dear fellow; she’s a low lot! The public will
show her the door in quick time. Steiner, my laddie, you know that my
wife is waiting for you in her box.”

He wanted to take possession of him again. But Steiner would not quit
Bordenave. In front of them a stream of people was crowding and
crushing against the ticket office, and there was a din of voices, in
the midst of which the name of Nana sounded with all the melodious
vivacity of its two syllables. The men who stood planted in front of
the notices kept spelling it out loudly; others, in an interrogative
tone, uttered it as they passed; while the women, at once restless and
smiling, repeated it softly with an air of surprise. Nobody knew Nana.
Whence had Nana fallen? And stories and jokes, whispered from ear to
ear, went the round of the crowd. The name was a caress in itself; it
was a pet name, the very familiarity of which suited every lip. Merely
through enunciating it thus, the throng worked itself into a state of
gaiety and became highly good natured. A fever of curiosity urged it
forward, that kind of Parisian curiosity which is as violent as an
access of positive unreason. Everybody wanted to see Nana. A lady had
the flounce of her dress torn off; a man lost his hat.

“Oh, you’re asking me too many questions about it!” cried Bordenave,
whom a score of men were besieging with their queries. “You’re going to
see her, and I’m off; they want me.”

He disappeared, enchanted at having fired his public. Mignon shrugged
his shoulders, reminding Steiner that Rose was awaiting him in order to
show him the costume she was about to wear in the first act.

“By Jove! There’s Lucy out there, getting down from her carriage,” said
La Faloise to Fauchery.

It was, in fact, Lucy Stewart, a plain little woman, some forty years
old, with a disproportionately long neck, a thin, drawn face, a heavy
mouth, but withal of such brightness, such graciousness of manner, that
she was really very charming. She was bringing with her Caroline Hequet
and her mother—Caroline a woman of a cold type of beauty, the mother a
person of a most worthy demeanor, who looked as if she were stuffed
with straw.

“You’re coming with us? I’ve kept a place for you,” she said to
Fauchery. “Oh, decidedly not! To see nothing!” he made answer. “I’ve a
stall; I prefer being in the stalls.”

Lucy grew nettled. Did he not dare show himself in her company? Then,
suddenly restraining herself and skipping to another topic:

“Why haven’t you told me that you knew Nana?”

“Nana! I’ve never set eyes on her.”

“Honor bright? I’ve been told that you’ve been to bed with her.”

But Mignon, coming in front of them, his finger to his lips, made them
a sign to be silent. And when Lucy questioned him he pointed out a
young man who was passing and murmured:

“Nana’s fancy man.”

Everybody looked at him. He was a pretty fellow. Fauchery recognized
him; it was Daguenet, a young man who had run through three hundred
thousand francs in the pursuit of women and who now was dabbling in
stocks, in order from time to time to treat them to bouquets and
dinners. Lucy made the discovery that he had fine eyes.

“Ah, there’s Blanche!” she cried. “It’s she who told me that you had
been to bed with Nana.”

Blanche de Sivry, a great fair girl, whose good-looking face showed
signs of growing fat, made her appearance in the company of a spare,
sedulously well-groomed and extremely distinguished man.

“The Count Xavier de Vandeuvres,” Fauchery whispered in his companion’s
ear.

The count and the journalist shook hands, while Blanche and Lucy
entered into a brisk, mutual explanation. One of them in blue, the
other in rose-pink, they stood blocking the way with their deeply
flounced skirts, and Nana’s name kept repeating itself so shrilly in
their conversation that people began to listen to them. The Count de
Vandeuvres carried Blanche off. But by this time Nana’s name was
echoing more loudly than ever round the four walls of the entrance hall
amid yearnings sharpened by delay. Why didn’t the play begin? The men
pulled out their watches; late-comers sprang from their conveyances
before these had fairly drawn up; the groups left the sidewalk, where
the passers-by were crossing the now-vacant space of gaslit pavement,
craning their necks, as they did so, in order to get a peep into the
theater. A street boy came up whistling and planted himself before a
notice at the door, then cried out, “Woa, Nana!” in the voice of a
tipsy man and hied on his way with a rolling gait and a shuffling of
his old boots. A laugh had arisen at this. Gentlemen of unimpeachable
appearance repeated: “Nana, woa, Nana!” People were crushing; a dispute
arose at the ticket office, and there was a growing clamor caused by
the hum of voices calling on Nana, demanding Nana in one of those
accesses of silly facetiousness and sheer animalism which pass over
mobs.

But above all the din the bell that precedes the rise of the curtain
became audible. “They’ve rung; they’ve rung!” The rumor reached the
boulevard, and thereupon followed a stampede, everyone wanting to pass
in, while the servants of the theater increased their forces. Mignon,
with an anxious air, at last got hold of Steiner again, the latter not
having been to see Rose’s costume. At the very first tinkle of the bell
La Faloise had cloven a way through the crowd, pulling Fauchery with
him, so as not to miss the opening scene. But all this eagerness on the
part of the public irritated Lucy Stewart. What brutes were these
people to be pushing women like that! She stayed in the rear of them
all with Caroline Hequet and her mother. The entrance hall was now
empty, while beyond it was still heard the long-drawn rumble of the
boulevard.

“As though they were always funny, those pieces of theirs!” Lucy kept
repeating as she climbed the stair.

In the house Fauchery and La Faloise, in front of their stalls, were
gazing about them anew. By this time the house was resplendent. High
jets of gas illumined the great glass chandelier with a rustling of
yellow and rosy flames, which rained down a stream of brilliant light
from dome to floor. The cardinal velvets of the seats were shot with
hues of lake, while all the gilding shone again, the soft green
decorations chastening its effect beneath the too-decided paintings of
the ceiling. The footlights were turned up and with a vivid flood of
brilliance lit up the curtain, the heavy purple drapery of which had
all the richness befitting a palace in a fairy tale and contrasted with
the meanness of the proscenium, where cracks showed the plaster under
the gilding. The place was already warm. At their music stands the
orchestra were tuning their instruments amid a delicate trilling of
flutes, a stifled tooting of horns, a singing of violin notes, which
floated forth amid the increasing uproar of voices. All the spectators
were talking, jostling, settling themselves in a general assault upon
seats; and the hustling rush in the side passages was now so violent
that every door into the house was laboriously admitting the
inexhaustible flood of people. There were signals, rustlings of
fabrics, a continual march past of skirts and head dresses, accentuated
by the black hue of a dress coat or a surtout. Notwithstanding this,
the rows of seats were little by little getting filled up, while here
and there a light toilet stood out from its surroundings, a head with a
delicate profile bent forward under its chignon, where flashed the
lightning of a jewel. In one of the boxes the tip of a bare shoulder
glimmered like snowy silk. Other ladies, sitting at ease, languidly
fanned themselves, following with their gaze the pushing movements of
the crowd, while young gentlemen, standing up in the stalls, their
waistcoats cut very low, gardenias in their buttonholes, pointed their
opera glasses with gloved finger tips.

It was now that the two cousins began searching for the faces of those
they knew. Mignon and Steiner were together in a lower box, sitting
side by side with their arms leaning for support on the velvet
balustrade. Blanche de Sivry seemed to be in sole possession of a stage
box on the level of the stalls. But La Faloise examined Daguenet before
anyone else, he being in occupation of a stall two rows in front of his
own. Close to him, a very young man, seventeen years old at the
outside, some truant from college, it may be, was straining wide a pair
of fine eyes such as a cherub might have owned. Fauchery smiled when he
looked at him.

“Who is that lady in the balcony?” La Faloise asked suddenly. “The lady
with a young girl in blue beside her.”

He pointed out a large woman who was excessively tight-laced, a woman
who had been a blonde and had now become white and yellow of tint, her
broad face, reddened with paint, looking puffy under a rain of little
childish curls.

“It’s Gaga,” was Fauchery’s simple reply, and as this name seemed to
astound his cousin, he added:

“You don’t know Gaga? She was the delight of the early years of Louis
Philippe. Nowadays she drags her daughter about with her wherever she
goes.”

La Faloise never once glanced at the young girl. The sight of Gaga
moved him; his eyes did not leave her again. He still found her very
good looking but he dared not say so.

Meanwhile the conductor lifted his violin bow and the orchestra
attacked the overture. People still kept coming in; the stir and noise
were on the increase. Among that public, peculiar to first nights and
never subject to change, there were little subsections composed of
intimate friends, who smilingly forgathered again. Old first-nighters,
hat on head, seemed familiar and quite at ease and kept exchanging
salutations. All Paris was there, the Paris of literature, of finance
and of pleasure. There were many journalists, several authors, a number
of stock-exchange people and more courtesans than honest women. It was
a singularly mixed world, composed, as it was, of all the talents and
tarnished by all the vices, a world where the same fatigue and the same
fever played over every face. Fauchery, whom his cousin was
questioning, showed him the boxes devoted to the newspapers and to the
clubs and then named the dramatic critics—a lean, dried-up individual
with thin, spiteful lips and, chief of all, a big fellow with a
good-natured expression, lolling on the shoulder of his neighbor, a
young miss over whom he brooded with tender and paternal eyes.

But he interrupted himself on seeing La Faloise in the act of bowing to
some persons who occupied the box opposite. He appeared surprised.

“What?” he queried. “You know the Count Muffat de Beuville?”

“Oh, for a long time back,” replied Hector. “The Muffats had a property
near us. I often go to their house. The count’s with his wife and his
father-in-law, the Marquis de Chouard.”

And with some vanity—for he was happy in his cousin’s astonishment—he
entered into particulars. The marquis was a councilor of state; the
count had recently been appointed chamberlain to the empress. Fauchery,
who had caught up his opera glass, looked at the countess, a plump
brunette with a white skin and fine dark eyes.

“You shall present me to them between the acts,” he ended by saying. “I
have already met the count, but I should like to go to them on their
Tuesdays.”

Energetic cries of “Hush” came from the upper galleries. The overture
had begun, but people were still coming in. Late arrivals were obliging
whole rows of spectators to rise; the doors of boxes were banging; loud
voices were heard disputing in the passages. And there was no cessation
of the sound of many conversations, a sound similar to the loud
twittering of talkative sparrows at close of day. All was in confusion;
the house was a medley of heads and arms which moved to and fro, their
owners seating themselves or trying to make themselves comfortable or,
on the other hand, excitedly endeavoring to remain standing so as to
take a final look round. The cry of “Sit down, sit down!” came fiercely
from the obscure depths of the pit. A shiver of expectation traversed
the house: at last people were going to make the acquaintance of this
famous Nana with whom Paris had been occupying itself for a whole week!

Little by little, however, the buzz of talk dwindled softly down among
occasional fresh outbursts of rough speech. And amid this swooning
murmur, these perishing sighs of sound, the orchestra struck up the
small, lively notes of a waltz with a vagabond rhythm bubbling with
roguish laughter. The public were titillated; they were already on the
grin. But the gang of clappers in the foremost rows of the pit
applauded furiously. The curtain rose.

“By George!” exclaimed La Faloise, still talking away. “There’s a man
with Lucy.”

He was looking at the stage box on the second tier to his right, the
front of which Caroline and Lucy were occupying. At the back of this
box were observable the worthy countenance of Caroline’s mother and the
side face of a tall young man with a noble head of light hair and an
irreproachable getup.

“Do look!” La Faloise again insisted. “There’s a man there.”

Fauchery decided to level his opera glass at the stage box. But he
turned round again directly.

“Oh, it’s Labordette,” he muttered in a careless voice, as though that
gentle man’s presence ought to strike all the world as though both
natural and immaterial.

Behind the cousins people shouted “Silence!” They had to cease talking.
A motionless fit now seized the house, and great stretches of heads,
all erect and attentive, sloped away from stalls to topmost gallery.
The first act of the Blonde Venus took place in Olympus, a pasteboard
Olympus, with clouds in the wings and the throne of Jupiter on the
right of the stage. First of all Iris and Ganymede, aided by a troupe
of celestial attendants, sang a chorus while they arranged the seats of
the gods for the council. Once again the prearranged applause of the
clappers alone burst forth; the public, a little out of their depth,
sat waiting. Nevertheless, La Faloise had clapped Clarisse Besnus, one
of Bordenave’s little women, who played Iris in a soft blue dress with
a great scarf of the seven colors of the rainbow looped round her
waist.

“You know, she draws up her chemise to put that on,” he said to
Fauchery, loud enough to be heard by those around him. “We tried the
trick this morning. It was all up under her arms and round the small of
her back.”

But a slight rustling movement ran through the house; Rose Mignon had
just come on the stage as Diana. Now though she had neither the face
nor the figure for the part, being thin and dark and of the adorable
type of ugliness peculiar to a Parisian street child, she nonetheless
appeared charming and as though she were a satire on the personage she
represented. Her song at her entrance on the stage was full of lines
quaint enough to make you cry with laughter and of complaints about
Mars, who was getting ready to desert her for the companionship of
Venus. She sang it with a chaste reserve so full of sprightly
suggestiveness that the public warmed amain. The husband and Steiner,
sitting side by side, were laughing complaisantly, and the whole house
broke out in a roar when Prullière, that great favorite, appeared as a
general, a masquerade Mars, decked with an enormous plume and dragging
along a sword, the hilt of which reached to his shoulder. As for him,
he had had enough of Diana; she had been a great deal too coy with him,
he averred. Thereupon Diana promised to keep a sharp eye on him and to
be revenged. The duet ended with a comic yodel which Prullière
delivered very amusingly with the yell of an angry tomcat. He had about
him all the entertaining fatuity of a young leading gentleman whose
love affairs prosper, and he rolled around the most swaggering glances,
which excited shrill feminine laughter in the boxes.

Then the public cooled again, for the ensuing scenes were found
tiresome. Old Bosc, an imbecile Jupiter with head crushed beneath the
weight of an immense crown, only just succeeded in raising a smile
among his audience when he had a domestic altercation with Juno on the
subject of the cook’s accounts. The march past of the gods, Neptune,
Pluto, Minerva and the rest, was well-nigh spoiling everything. People
grew impatient; there was a restless, slowly growing murmur; the
audience ceased to take an interest in the performance and looked round
at the house. Lucy began laughing with Labordette; the Count de
Vandeuvres was craning his neck in conversation behind Blanche’s sturdy
shoulders, while Fauchery, out of the corners of his eyes, took stock
of the Muffats, of whom the count appeared very serious, as though he
had not understood the allusions, and the countess smiled vaguely, her
eyes lost in reverie. But on a sudden, in this uncomfortable state of
things, the applause of the clapping contingent rattled out with the
regularity of platoon firing. People turned toward the stage. Was it
Nana at last? This Nana made one wait with a vengeance.

It was a deputation of mortals whom Ganymede and Iris had introduced,
respectable middle-class persons, deceived husbands, all of them, and
they came before the master of the gods to proffer a complaint against
Venus, who was assuredly inflaming their good ladies with an excess of
ardor. The chorus, in quaint, dolorous tones, broken by silences full
of pantomimic admissions, caused great amusement. A neat phrase went
the round of the house: “The cuckolds’ chorus, the cuckolds’ chorus,”
and it “caught on,” for there was an encore. The singers’ heads were
droll; their faces were discovered to be in keeping with the phrase,
especially that of a fat man which was as round as the moon. Meanwhile
Vulcan arrived in a towering rage, demanding back his wife who had
slipped away three days ago. The chorus resumed their plaint, calling
on Vulcan, the god of the cuckolds. Vulcan’s part was played by Fontan,
a comic actor of talent, at once vulgar and original, and he had a role
of the wildest whimsicality and was got up as a village blacksmith,
fiery red wig, bare arms tattooed with arrow-pierced hearts and all the
rest of it. A woman’s voice cried in a very high key, “Oh, isn’t he
ugly?” and all the ladies laughed and applauded.

Then followed a scene which seemed interminable. Jupiter in the course
of it seemed never to be going to finish assembling the Council of Gods
in order to submit thereto the deceived husband’s requests. And still
no Nana! Was the management keeping Nana for the fall of the curtain
then? So long a period of expectancy had ended by annoying the public.
Their murmurings began again.

“It’s going badly,” said Mignon radiantly to Steiner. “She’ll get a
pretty reception; you’ll see!”

At that very moment the clouds at the back of the stage were cloven
apart and Venus appeared. Exceedingly tall, exceedingly strong, for her
eighteen years, Nana, in her goddess’s white tunic and with her light
hair simply flowing unfastened over her shoulders, came down to the
footlights with a quiet certainty of movement and a laugh of greeting
for the public and struck up her grand ditty:

“When Venus roams at eventide.”


From the second verse onward people looked at each other all over the
house. Was this some jest, some wager on Bordenave’s part? Never had a
more tuneless voice been heard or one managed with less art. Her
manager judged of her excellently; she certainly sang like a squirt.
Nay, more, she didn’t even know how to deport herself on the stage: she
thrust her arms in front of her while she swayed her whole body to and
fro in a manner which struck the audience as unbecoming and
disagreeable. Cries of “Oh, oh!” were already rising in the pit and the
cheap places. There was a sound of whistling, too, when a voice in the
stalls, suggestive of a molting cockerel, cried out with great
conviction:

“That’s very smart!”

All the house looked round. It was the cherub, the truant from the
boarding-school, who sat with his fine eyes very wide open and his fair
face glowing very hotly at sight of Nana. When he saw everybody turning
toward him he grew extremely red at the thought of having thus
unconsciously spoken aloud. Daguenet, his neighbor, smilingly examined
him; the public laughed, as though disarmed and no longer anxious to
hiss; while the young gentlemen in white gloves, fascinated in their
turn by Nana’s gracious contours, lolled back in their seats and
applauded.

“That’s it! Well done! Bravo!”

Nana, in the meantime, seeing the house laughing, began to laugh
herself. The gaiety of all redoubled itself. She was an amusing
creature, all the same, was that fine girl! Her laughter made a love of
a little dimple appear in her chin. She stood there waiting, not bored
in the least, familiar with her audience, falling into step with them
at once, as though she herself were admitting with a wink that she had
not two farthings’ worth of talent but that it did not matter at all,
that, in fact, she had other good points. And then after having made a
sign to the conductor which plainly signified, “Go ahead, old boy!” she
began her second verse:

“’Tis Venus who at midnight passes—”


Still the same acidulated voice, only that now it tickled the public in
the right quarter so deftly that momentarily it caused them to give a
little shiver of pleasure. Nana still smiled her smile: it lit up her
little red mouth and shone in her great eyes, which were of the
clearest blue. When she came to certain rather lively verses a delicate
sense of enjoyment made her tilt her nose, the rosy nostrils of which
lifted and fell, while a bright flush suffused her cheeks. She still
swung herself up and down, for she only knew how to do that. And the
trick was no longer voted ugly; on the contrary, the men raised their
opera glasses. When she came to the end of a verse her voice completely
failed her, and she was well aware that she never would get through
with it. Thereupon, rather than fret herself, she kicked up her leg,
which forthwith was roundly outlined under her diaphanous tunic, bent
sharply backward, so that her bosom was thrown upward and forward, and
stretched her arms out. Applause burst forth on all sides. In the
twinkling of an eye she had turned on her heel and was going up the
stage, presenting the nape of her neck to the spectators’ gaze, a neck
where the red-gold hair showed like some animal’s fell. Then the
plaudits became frantic.

The close of the act was not so exciting. Vulcan wanted to slap Venus.
The gods held a consultation and decided to go and hold an inquiry on
earth before granting the deceived husband satisfaction. It was then
that Diana surprised a tender conversation between Venus and Mars and
vowed that she would not take her eyes off them during the whole of the
voyage. There was also a scene where Love, played by a little
twelve-year-old chit, answered every question put to her with “Yes,
Mamma! No, Mamma!” in a winy-piny tone, her fingers in her nose. At
last Jupiter, with the severity of a master who is growing cross, shut
Love up in a dark closet, bidding her conjugate the verb “I love”
twenty times. The finale was more appreciated: it was a chorus which
both troupe and orchestra performed with great brilliancy. But the
curtain once down, the clappers tried in vain to obtain a call, while
the whole house was already up and making for the doors.

The crowd trampled and jostled, jammed, as it were, between the rows of
seats, and in so doing exchanged expressions. One phrase only went
round:

“It’s idiotic.” A critic was saying that it would be one’s duty to do a
pretty bit of slashing. The piece, however, mattered very little, for
people were talking about Nana before everything else. Fauchery and La
Faloise, being among the earliest to emerge, met Steiner and Mignon in
the passage outside the stalls. In this gaslit gut of a place, which
was as narrow and circumscribed as a gallery in a mine, one was
well-nigh suffocated. They stopped a moment at the foot of the stairs
on the right of the house, protected by the final curve of the
balusters. The audience from the cheap places were coming down the
steps with a continuous tramp of heavy boots; a stream of black dress
coats was passing, while an attendant was making every possible effort
to protect a chair, on which she had piled up coats and cloaks, from
the onward pushing of the crowd.

“Surely I know her,” cried Steiner, the moment he perceived Fauchery.
“I’m certain I’ve seen her somewhere—at the casino, I imagine, and she
got herself taken up there—she was so drunk.”

“As for me,” said the journalist, “I don’t quite know where it was. I
am like you; I certainly have come across her.”

He lowered his voice and asked, laughing:

“At the Tricons’, perhaps.”

“Egad, it was in a dirty place,” Mignon declared. He seemed
exasperated. “It’s disgusting that the public give such a reception to
the first trollop that comes by. There’ll soon be no more decent women
on the stage. Yes, I shall end by forbidding Rose to play.”

Fauchery could not restrain a smile. Meanwhile the downward shuffle of
the heavy shoes on the steps did not cease, and a little man in a
workman’s cap was heard crying in a drawling voice:

“Oh my, she ain’t no wopper! There’s some pickings there!”

In the passage two young men, delicately curled and formally
resplendent in turndown collars and the rest, were disputing together.
One of them was repeating the words, “Beastly, beastly!” without
stating any reasons; the other was replying with the words, “Stunning,
stunning!” as though he, too, disdained all argument.

La Faloise declared her to be quite the thing; only he ventured to
opine that she would be better still if she were to cultivate her
voice. Steiner, who was no longer listening, seemed to awake with a
start. Whatever happens, one must wait, he thought. Perhaps everything
will be spoiled in the following acts. The public had shown
complaisance, but it was certainly not yet taken by storm. Mignon swore
that the piece would never finish, and when Fauchery and La Faloise
left them in order to go up to the foyer he took Steiner’s arm and,
leaning hard against his shoulder, whispered in his ear:

“You’re going to see my wife’s costume for the second act, old fellow.
It IS just blackguardly.”

Upstairs in the foyer three glass chandeliers burned with a brilliant
light. The two cousins hesitated an instant before entering, for the
widely opened glazed doors afforded a view right through the gallery—a
view of a surging sea of heads, which two currents, as it were, kept in
a continuous eddying movement. But they entered after all. Five or six
groups of men, talking very loudly and gesticulating, were obstinately
discussing the play amid these violent interruptions; others were
filing round, their heels, as they turned, sounding sharply on the
waxed floor. To right and left, between columns of variegated imitation
marble, women were sitting on benches covered with red velvet and
viewing the passing movement of the crowd with an air of fatigue as
though the heat had rendered them languid. In the lofty mirrors behind
them one saw the reflection of their chignons. At the end of the room,
in front of the bar, a man with a huge corporation was drinking a glass
of fruit syrup.

But Fauchery, in order to breathe more freely, had gone to the balcony.
La Faloise, who was studying the photographs of actresses hung in
frames alternating with the mirrors between the columns, ended by
following him. They had extinguished the line of gas jets on the facade
of the theater, and it was dark and very cool on the balcony, which
seemed to them unoccupied. Solitary and enveloped in shadow, a young
man was standing, leaning his arms on the stone balustrade, in the
recess to the right. He was smoking a cigarette, of which the burning
end shone redly. Fauchery recognized Daguenet. They shook hands warmly.

“What are you after there, my dear fellow?” asked the journalist.
“You’re hiding yourself in holes and crannies—you, a man who never
leaves the stalls on a first night!”

“But I’m smoking, you see,” replied Daguenet.

Then Fauchery, to put him out of countenance:

“Well, well! What’s your opinion of the new actress? She’s being
roughly handled enough in the passages.”

“Bah!” muttered Daguenet. “They’re people whom she’ll have had nothing
to do with!”

That was the sum of his criticism of Nana’s talent. La Faloise leaned
forward and looked down at the boulevard. Over against them the windows
of a hotel and of a club were brightly lit up, while on the pavement
below a dark mass of customers occupied the tables of the Café de
Madrid. Despite the lateness of the hour the crowd were still crushing
and being crushed; people were advancing with shortened step; a throng
was constantly emerging from the Passage Jouffroy; individuals stood
waiting five or six minutes before they could cross the roadway, to
such a distance did the string of carriages extend.

“What a moving mass! And what a noise!” La Faloise kept reiterating,
for Paris still astonished him.

The bell rang for some time; the foyer emptied. There was a hurrying of
people in the passages. The curtain was already up when whole bands of
spectators re-entered the house amid the irritated expressions of those
who were once more in their places. Everyone took his seat again with
an animated look and renewed attention. La Faloise directed his first
glance in Gaga’s direction, but he was dumfounded at seeing by her side
the tall fair man who but recently had been in Lucy’s stage box.

“What IS that man’s name?” he asked.

Fauchery failed to observe him.

“Ah yes, it’s Labordette,” he said at last with the same careless
movement. The scenery of the second act came as a surprise. It
represented a suburban Shrove Tuesday dance at the Boule Noire.
Masqueraders were trolling a catch, the chorus of which was accompanied
with a tapping of their heels. This ’Arryish departure, which nobody
had in the least expected, caused so much amusement that the house
encored the catch. And it was to this entertainment that the divine
band, let astray by Iris, who falsely bragged that he knew the Earth
well, were now come in order to proceed with their inquiry. They had
put on disguises so as to preserve their incognito. Jupiter came on the
stage as King Dagobert, with his breeches inside out and a huge tin
crown on his head. Phoebus appeared as the Postillion of Lonjumeau and
Minerva as a Norman nursemaid. Loud bursts of merriment greeted Mars,
who wore an outrageous uniform, suggestive of an Alpine admiral. But
the shouts of laughter became uproarious when Neptune came in view,
clad in a blouse, a high, bulging workman’s cap on his head, lovelocks
glued to his temples. Shuffling along in slippers, he cried in a thick
brogue.

“Well, I’m blessed! When ye’re a masher it’ll never do not to let ’em
love yer!”

There were some shouts of “Oh! Oh!” while the ladies held their fans
one degree higher. Lucy in her stage box laughed so obstreperously that
Caroline Hequet silenced her with a tap of her fan.

From that moment forth the piece was saved—nay, more, promised a great
success. This carnival of the gods, this dragging in the mud of their
Olympus, this mock at a whole religion, a whole world of poetry,
appeared in the light of a royal entertainment. The fever of
irreverence gained the literary first-night world: legend was trampled
underfoot; ancient images were shattered. Jupiter’s make-up was
capital. Mars was a success. Royalty became a farce and the army a
thing of folly. When Jupiter, grown suddenly amorous of a little
laundress, began to knock off a mad cancan, Simonne, who was playing
the part of the laundress, launched a kick at the master of the
immortals’ nose and addressed him so drolly as “My big daddy!” that an
immoderate fit of laughter shook the whole house. While they were
dancing Phoebus treated Minerva to salad bowls of negus, and Neptune
sat in state among seven or eight women who regaled him with cakes.
Allusions were eagerly caught; indecent meanings were attached to them;
harmless phrases were diverted from their proper significations in the
light of exclamations issuing from the stalls. For a long time past the
theatrical public had not wallowed in folly more irreverent. It rested
them.

Nevertheless, the action of the piece advanced amid these fooleries.
Vulcan, as an elegant young man clad, down to his gloves, entirely in
yellow and with an eyeglass stuck in his eye, was forever running after
Venus, who at last made her appearance as a fishwife, a kerchief on her
head and her bosom, covered with big gold trinkets, in great evidence.
Nana was so white and plump and looked so natural in a part demanding
wide hips and a voluptuous mouth that she straightway won the whole
house. On her account Rose Mignon was forgotten, though she was made up
as a delicious baby, with a wicker-work burlet on her head and a short
muslin frock and had just sighed forth Diana’s plaints in a sweetly
pretty voice. The other one, the big wench who slapped her thighs and
clucked like a hen, shed round her an odor of life, a sovereign
feminine charm, with which the public grew intoxicated. From the second
act onward everything was permitted her. She might hold herself
awkwardly; she might fail to sing some note in tune; she might forget
her words—it mattered not: she had only to turn and laugh to raise
shouts of applause. When she gave her famous kick from the hip the
stalls were fired, and a glow of passion rose upward, upward, from
gallery to gallery, till it reached the gods. It was a triumph, too,
when she led the dance. She was at home in that: hand on hip, she
enthroned Venus in the gutter by the pavement side. And the music
seemed made for her plebeian voice—shrill, piping music, with
reminiscences of Saint-Cloud Fair, wheezings of clarinets and playful
trills on the part of the little flutes.

Two numbers were again encored. The opening waltz, that waltz with the
naughty rhythmic beat, had returned and swept the gods with it. Juno,
as a peasant woman, caught Jupiter and his little laundress cleverly
and boxed his ears. Diana, surprising Venus in the act of making an
assignation with Mars, made haste to indicate hour and place to Vulcan,
who cried, “I’ve hit on a plan!” The rest of the act did not seem very
clear. The inquiry ended in a final galop after which Jupiter,
breathless, streaming with perspiration and minus his crown, declared
that the little women of Earth were delicious and that the men were all
to blame.

The curtain was falling, when certain voices, rising above the storm of
bravos, cried uproariously:

“All! All!”

Thereupon the curtain rose again; the artistes reappeared hand in hand.
In the middle of the line Nana and Rose Mignon stood side by side,
bowing and curtsying. The audience applauded; the clappers shouted
acclamations. Then little by little the house emptied.

“I must go and pay my respects to the Countess Muffat,” said La
Faloise. “Exactly so; you’ll present me,” replied Fauchery; “we’ll go
down afterward.”

But it was not easy to get to the first-tier boxes. In the passage at
the top of the stairs there was a crush. In order to get forward at all
among the various groups you had to make yourself small and to slide
along, using your elbows in so doing. Leaning under a copper lamp,
where a jet of gas was burning, the bulky critic was sitting in
judgment on the piece in presence of an attentive circle. People in
passing mentioned his name to each other in muttered tones. He had
laughed the whole act through—that was the rumor going the round of the
passages—nevertheless, he was now very severe and spoke of taste and
morals. Farther off the thin-lipped critic was brimming over with a
benevolence which had an unpleasant aftertaste, as of milk turned sour.

Fauchery glanced along, scrutinizing the boxes through the round
openings in each door. But the Count de Vandeuvres stopped him with a
question, and when he was informed that the two cousins were going to
pay their respects to the Muffats, he pointed out to them box seven,
from which he had just emerged. Then bending down and whispering in the
journalist’s ear:

“Tell me, my dear fellow,” he said, “this Nana—surely she’s the girl we
saw one evening at the corner of the Rue de Provence?”

“By Jove, you’re right!” cried Fauchery. “I was saying that I had come
across her!”

La Faloise presented his cousin to Count Muffat de Beuville, who
appeared very frigid. But on hearing the name Fauchery the countess
raised her head and with a certain reserve complimented the
paragraphist on his articles in the Figaro. Leaning on the
velvet-covered support in front of her, she turned half round with a
pretty movement of the shoulders. They talked for a short time, and the
Universal Exhibition was mentioned.

“It will be very fine,” said the count, whose square-cut,
regular-featured face retained a certain gravity.

“I visited the Champ de Mars today and returned thence truly
astonished.”

“They say that things won’t be ready in time,” La Faloise ventured to
remark. “There’s infinite confusion there—”

But the count interrupted him in his severe voice:

“Things will be ready. The emperor desires it.”

Fauchery gaily recounted how one day, when he had gone down thither in
search of a subject for an article, he had come near spending all his
time in the aquarium, which was then in course of construction. The
countess smiled. Now and again she glanced down at the body of the
house, raising an arm which a white glove covered to the elbow and
fanning herself with languid hand. The house dozed, almost deserted.
Some gentlemen in the stalls had opened out newspapers, and ladies
received visits quite comfortably, as though they were at their own
homes. Only a well-bred whispering was audible under the great
chandelier, the light of which was softened in the fine cloud of dust
raised by the confused movements of the interval. At the different
entrances men were crowding in order to talk to ladies who remained
seated. They stood there motionless for a few seconds, craning forward
somewhat and displaying the great white bosoms of their shirt fronts.

“We count on you next Tuesday,” said the countess to La Faloise, and
she invited Fauchery, who bowed.

Not a word was said of the play; Nana’s name was not once mentioned.
The count was so glacially dignified that he might have been supposed
to be taking part at a sitting of the legislature. In order to explain
their presence that evening he remarked simply that his father-in-law
was fond of the theater. The door of the box must have remained open,
for the Marquis de Chouard, who had gone out in order to leave his seat
to the visitors, was back again. He was straightening up his tall, old
figure. His face looked soft and white under a broad-brimmed hat, and
with his restless eyes he followed the movements of the women who
passed.

The moment the countess had given her invitation Fauchery took his
leave, feeling that to talk about the play would not be quite the
thing. La Faloise was the last to quit the box. He had just noticed the
fair-haired Labordette, comfortably installed in the Count de
Vandeuvres’s stage box and chatting at very close quarters with Blanche
de Sivry.

“Gad,” he said after rejoining his cousin, “that Labordette knows all
the girls then! He’s with Blanche now.”

“Doubtless he knows them all,” replied Fauchery quietly. “What d’you
want to be taken for, my friend?”

The passage was somewhat cleared of people, and Fauchery was just about
to go downstairs when Lucy Stewart called him. She was quite at the
other end of the corridor, at the door of her stage box. They were
getting cooked in there, she said, and she took up the whole corridor
in company with Caroline Hequet and her mother, all three nibbling
burnt almonds. A box opener was chatting maternally with them. Lucy
fell out with the journalist. He was a pretty fellow; to be sure! He
went up to see other women and didn’t even come and ask if they were
thirsty! Then, changing the subject:

“You know, dear boy, I think Nana very nice.”

She wanted him to stay in the stage box for the last act, but he made
his escape, promising to catch them at the door afterward. Downstairs
in front of the theater Fauchery and La Faloise lit cigarettes. A great
gathering blocked the sidewalk, a stream of men who had come down from
the theater steps and were inhaling the fresh night air in the
boulevards, where the roar and battle had diminished.

Meanwhile Mignon had drawn Steiner away to the Café des Variétés.
Seeing Nana’s success, he had set to work to talk enthusiastically
about her, all the while observing the banker out of the corners of his
eyes. He knew him well; twice he had helped him to deceive Rose and
then, the caprice being over, had brought him back to her, faithful and
repentant. In the cafe the too numerous crowd of customers were
squeezing themselves round the marble-topped tables. Several were
standing up, drinking in a great hurry. The tall mirrors reflected this
thronging world of heads to infinity and magnified the narrow room
beyond measure with its three chandeliers, its moleskin-covered seats
and its winding staircase draped with red. Steiner went and seated
himself at a table in the first saloon, which opened full on the
boulevard, its doors having been removed rather early for the time of
year. As Fauchery and La Faloise were passing the banker stopped them.

“Come and take a bock with us, eh?” they said.

But he was too preoccupied by an idea; he wanted to have a bouquet
thrown to Nana. At last he called a waiter belonging to the cafe, whom
he familiarly addressed as Auguste. Mignon, who was listening, looked
at him so sharply that he lost countenance and stammered out:

“Two bouquets, Auguste, and deliver them to the attendant. A bouquet
for each of these ladies! Happy thought, eh?”

At the other end of the saloon, her shoulders resting against the frame
of a mirror, a girl, some eighteen years of age at the outside, was
leaning motionless in front of her empty glass as though she had been
benumbed by long and fruitless waiting. Under the natural curls of her
beautiful gray-gold hair a virginal face looked out at you with velvety
eyes, which were at once soft and candid.

She wore a dress of faded green silk and a round hat which blows had
dinted. The cool air of the night made her look very pale.

“Egad, there’s Satin,” murmured Fauchery when his eye lit upon her.

La Faloise questioned him. Oh dear, yes, she was a streetwalker—she
didn’t count. But she was such a scandalous sort that people amused
themselves by making her talk. And the journalist, raising his voice:

“What are you doing there, Satin?”

“I’m bogging,” replied Satin quietly without changing position.

The four men were charmed and fell a-laughing. Mignon assured them that
there was no need to hurry; it would take twenty minutes to set up the
scenery for the third act. But the two cousins, having drunk their
beer, wanted to go up into the theater again; the cold was making
itself felt. Then Mignon remained alone with Steiner, put his elbows on
the table and spoke to him at close quarters.

“It’s an understood thing, eh? We are to go to her house, and I’m to
introduce you. You know the thing’s quite between ourselves—my wife
needn’t know.”

Once more in their places, Fauchery and La Faloise noticed a pretty,
quietly dressed woman in the second tier of boxes. She was with a
serious-looking gentleman, a chief clerk at the office of the Ministry
of the Interior, whom La Faloise knew, having met him at the Muffats’.
As to Fauchery, he was under the impression that her name was Madame
Robert, a lady of honorable repute who had a lover, only one, and that
always a person of respectability.

But they had to turn round, for Daguenet was smiling at them. Now that
Nana had had a success he no longer hid himself: indeed, he had just
been scoring triumphs in the passages. By his side was the young truant
schoolboy, who had not quitted his seat, so stupefying was the state of
admiration into which Nana had plunged him. That was it, he thought;
that was the woman! And he blushed as he thought so and dragged his
gloves on and off mechanically. Then since his neighbor had spoken of
Nana, he ventured to question him.

“Will you pardon me for asking you, sir, but that lady who is acting—do
you know her?”

“Yes, I do a little,” murmured Daguenet with some surprise and
hesitation.

“Then you know her address?”

The question, addressed as it was to him, came so abruptly that he felt
inclined to respond with a box on the ear.

“No,” he said in a dry tone of voice.

And with that he turned his back. The fair lad knew that he had just
been guilty of some breach of good manners. He blushed more hotly than
ever and looked scared.

The traditional three knocks were given, and among the returning
throng, attendants, laden with pelisses and overcoats, bustled about at
a great rate in order to put away people’s things. The clappers
applauded the scenery, which represented a grotto on Mount Etna,
hollowed out in a silver mine and with sides glittering like new money.
In the background Vulcan’s forge glowed like a setting star. Diana,
since the second act, had come to a good understanding with the god,
who was to pretend that he was on a journey, so as to leave the way
clear for Venus and Mars. Then scarcely was Diana alone than Venus made
her appearance. A shiver of delight ran round the house. Nana was nude.
With quiet audacity she appeared in her nakedness, certain of the
sovereign power of her flesh. Some gauze enveloped her, but her rounded
shoulders, her Amazonian bosom, her wide hips, which swayed to and fro
voluptuously, her whole body, in fact, could be divined, nay discerned,
in all its foamlike whiteness of tint beneath the slight fabric she
wore. It was Venus rising from the waves with no veil save her tresses.
And when Nana lifted her arms the golden hairs in her armpits were
observable in the glare of the footlights. There was no applause.
Nobody laughed any more. The men strained forward with serious faces,
sharp features, mouths irritated and parched. A wind seemed to have
passed, a soft, soft wind, laden with a secret menace. Suddenly in the
bouncing child the woman stood discovered, a woman full of restless
suggestion, who brought with her the delirium of sex and opened the
gates of the unknown world of desire. Nana was smiling still, but her
smile was now bitter, as of a devourer of men.

“By God,” said Fauchery quite simply to La Faloise.

Mars in the meantime, with his plume of feathers, came hurrying to the
trysting place and found himself between the two goddesses. Then ensued
a passage which Prullière played with great delicacy. Petted by Diana,
who wanted to make a final attack upon his feelings before delivering
him up to Vulcan, wheedled by Venus, whom the presence of her rival
excited, he gave himself up to these tender delights with the beatified
expression of a man in clover. Finally a grand trio brought the scene
to a close, and it was then that an attendant appeared in Lucy
Stewart’s box and threw on the stage two immense bouquets of white
lilacs. There was applause; Nana and Rose Mignon bowed, while Prullière
picked up the bouquets. Many of the occupants of the stalls turned
smilingly toward the ground-floor occupied by Steiner and Mignon. The
banker, his face blood-red, was suffering from little convulsive
twitchings of the chin, as though he had a stoppage in his throat.

What followed took the house by storm completely. Diana had gone off in
a rage, and directly afterward, Venus, sitting on a moss-clad seat,
called Mars to her. Never yet had a more glowing scene of seduction
been ventured on. Nana, her arms round Prullière’s neck, was drawing
him toward her when Fontan, with comically furious mimicry and an
exaggerated imitation of the face of an outraged husband who surprises
his wife in FLAGRANTE DELICTO, appeared at the back of the grotto. He
was holding the famous net with iron meshes. For an instant he poised
and swung it, as a fisherman does when he is going to make a cast, and
by an ingenious twist Venus and Mars were caught in the snare; the net
wrapped itself round them and held them motionless in the attitude of
happy lovers.

A murmur of applause swelled and swelled like a growing sigh. There was
some hand clapping, and every opera glass was fixed on Venus. Little by
little Nana had taken possession of the public, and now every man was
her slave.

A wave of lust had flowed from her as from an excited animal, and its
influence had spread and spread and spread till the whole house was
possessed by it. At that moment her slightest movement blew the flame
of desire: with her little finger she ruled men’s flesh. Backs were
arched and quivered as though unseen violin bows had been drawn across
their muscles; upon men’s shoulders appeared fugitive hairs, which flew
in air, blown by warm and wandering breaths, breathed one knew not from
what feminine mouth. In front of him Fauchery saw the truant schoolboy
half lifted from his seat by passion. Curiosity led him to look at the
Count de Vandeuvres—he was extremely pale, and his lips looked
pinched—at fat Steiner, whose face was purple to the verge of apoplexy;
at Labordette, ogling away with the highly astonished air of a horse
dealer admiring a perfectly shaped mare; at Daguenet, whose ears were
blood-red and twitching with enjoyment. Then a sudden idea made him
glance behind, and he marveled at what he saw in the Muffats’ box.
Behind the countess, who was white and serious as usual, the count was
sitting straight upright, with mouth agape and face mottled with red,
while close by him, in the shadow, the restless eyes of the Marquis de
Chouard had become catlike phosphorescent, full of golden sparkles. The
house was suffocating; people’s very hair grew heavy on their
perspiring heads. For three hours back the breath of the multitude had
filled and heated the atmosphere with a scent of crowded humanity.
Under the swaying glare of the gas the dust clouds in mid-air had grown
constantly denser as they hung motionless beneath the chandelier. The
whole house seemed to be oscillating, to be lapsing toward dizziness in
its fatigue and excitement, full, as it was, of those drowsy midnight
desires which flutter in the recesses of the bed of passion. And Nana,
in front of this languorous public, these fifteen hundred human beings
thronged and smothered in the exhaustion and nervous exasperation which
belong to the close of a spectacle, Nana still triumphed by right of
her marble flesh and that sexual nature of hers, which was strong
enough to destroy the whole crowd of her adorers and yet sustain no
injury.

The piece drew to a close. In answer to Vulcan’s triumphant summons all
the Olympians defiled before the lovers with ohs and ahs of
stupefaction and gaiety. Jupiter said, “I think it is light conduct on
your part, my son, to summon us to see such a sight as this.” Then a
reaction took place in favor of Venus. The chorus of cuckolds was again
ushered in by Iris and besought the master of the gods not to give
effect to its petition, for since women had lived at home, domestic
life was becoming impossible for the men: the latter preferred being
deceived and happy. That was the moral of the play. Then Venus was set
at liberty, and Vulcan obtained a partial divorce from her. Mars was
reconciled with Diana, and Jove, for the sake of domestic peace, packed
his little laundress off into a constellation. And finally they
extricated Love from his black hole, where instead of conjugating the
verb AMO he had been busy in the manufacture of “dollies.” The curtain
fell on an apotheosis, wherein the cuckolds’ chorus knelt and sang a
hymn of gratitude to Venus, who stood there with smiling lips, her
stature enhanced by her sovereign nudity.

The audience, already on their feet, were making for the exits. The
authors were mentioned, and amid a thunder of applause there were two
calls before the curtain. The shout of “Nana! Nana!” rang wildly forth.
Then no sooner was the house empty than it grew dark: the footlights
went out; the chandelier was turned down; long strips of gray canvas
slipped from the stage boxes and swathed the gilt ornamentation of the
galleries, and the house, lately so full of heat and noise, lapsed
suddenly into a heavy sleep, while a musty, dusty odor began to pervade
it. In the front of her box stood the Countess Muffat. Very erect and
closely wrapped up in her furs, she stared at the gathering shadows and
waited for the crowd to pass away.

In the passages the people were jostling the attendants, who hardly
knew what to do among the tumbled heaps of outdoor raiment. Fauchery
and La Faloise had hurried in order to see the crowd pass out. All
along the entrance hall men formed a living hedge, while down the
double staircase came slowly and in regular, complete formation two
interminable throngs of human beings. Steiner, in tow of Mignon, had
left the house among the foremost. The Count de Vandeuvres took his
departure with Blanche de Sivry on his arm. For a moment or two Gaga
and her daughter seemed doubtful how to proceed, but Labordette made
haste to go and fetch them a conveyance, the door whereof he gallantly
shut after them. Nobody saw Daguenet go by. As the truant schoolboy,
registering a mental vow to wait at the stage door, was running with
burning cheeks toward the Passage des Panoramas, of which he found the
gate closed, Satin, standing on the edge of the pavement, moved forward
and brushed him with her skirts, but he in his despair gave her a
savage refusal and vanished amid the crowd, tears of impotent desire in
his eyes. Members of the audience were lighting their cigars and
walking off, humming:

When Venus roams at eventide.


Satin had gone back in front of the Café des Variétés, where Auguste
let her eat the sugar that remained over from the customers’ orders. A
stout man, who came out in a very heated condition, finally carried her
off in the shadow of the boulevard, which was now gradually going to
sleep.

Still people kept coming downstairs. La Faloise was waiting for
Clarisse; Fauchery had promised to catch up Lucy Stewart with Caroline
Hequet and her mother. They came; they took up a whole corner of the
entrance hall and were laughing very loudly when the Muffats passed by
them with an icy expression. Bordenave had just then opened a little
door and, peeping out, had obtained from Fauchery the formal promise of
an article. He was dripping with perspiration, his face blazed, as
though he were drunk with success.

“You’re good for two hundred nights,” La Faloise said to him with
civility. “The whole of Paris will visit your theater.”

But Bordenave grew annoyed and, indicating with a jerk of his chin the
public who filled the entrance hall—a herd of men with parched lips and
ardent eyes, still burning with the enjoyment of Nana—he cried out
violently:

“Say ‘my brothel,’ you obstinate devil!”




 CHAPTER II


At ten o’clock the next morning Nana was still asleep. She occupied the
second floor of a large new house in the Boulevard Haussmann, the
landlord of which let flats to single ladies in order by their means to
dry the paint. A rich merchant from Moscow, who had come to pass a
winter in Paris, had installed her there after paying six months’ rent
in advance. The rooms were too big for her and had never been
completely furnished. The vulgar sumptuosity of gilded consoles and
gilded chairs formed a crude contrast therein to the bric-a-brac of a
secondhand furniture shop—to mahogany round tables, that is to say, and
zinc candelabras, which sought to imitate Florentine bronze. All of
which smacked of the courtesan too early deserted by her first serious
protector and fallen back on shabby lovers, of a precarious first
appearance of a bad start, handicapped by refusals of credit and
threats of eviction.

Nana was sleeping on her face, hugging in her bare arms a pillow in
which she was burying cheeks grown pale in sleep. The bedroom and the
dressing room were the only two apartments which had been properly
furnished by a neighboring upholsterer. A ray of light, gliding in
under a curtain, rendered visible rosewood furniture and hangings and
chairbacks of figured damask with a pattern of big blue flowers on a
gray ground. But in the soft atmosphere of that slumbering chamber Nana
suddenly awoke with a start, as though surprised to find an empty place
at her side. She looked at the other pillow lying next to hers; there
was the dint of a human head among its flounces: it was still warm. And
groping with one hand, she pressed the knob of an electric bell by her
bed’s head.

“He’s gone then?” she asked the maid who presented herself.

“Yes, madame, Monsieur Paul went away not ten minutes back. As Madame
was tired, he did not wish to wake her. But he ordered me to tell
Madame that he would come tomorrow.”

As she spoke Zoé, the lady’s maid, opened the outer shutter. A flood of
daylight entered. Zoé, a dark brunette with hair in little plaits, had
a long canine face, at once livid and full of seams, a snub nose, thick
lips and two black eyes in continual movement.

“Tomorrow, tomorrow,” repeated Nana, who was not yet wide awake, “is
tomorrow the day?”

“Yes, madame, Monsieur Paul has always come on the Wednesday.”

“No, now I remember,” said the young woman, sitting up. “It’s all
changed. I wanted to tell him so this morning. He would run against the
nigger! We should have a nice to-do!”

“Madame did not warn me; I couldn’t be aware of it,” murmured Zoé.
“When Madame changes her days she will do well to tell me so that I may
know. Then the old miser is no longer due on the Tuesday?”

Between themselves they were wont thus gravely to nickname as “old
miser” and “nigger” their two paying visitors, one of whom was a
tradesman of economical tendencies from the Faubourg Saint-Denis, while
the other was a Walachian, a mock count, whose money, paid always at
the most irregular intervals, never looked as though it had been
honestly come by. Daguenet had made Nana give him the days subsequent
to the old miser’s visits, and as the trader had to be at home by eight
o’clock in the morning, the young man would watch for his departure
from Zoés kitchen and would take his place, which was still quite warm,
till ten o’clock. Then he, too, would go about his business. Nana and
he were wont to think it a very comfortable arrangement.

“So much the worse,” said Nana; “I’ll write to him this afternoon. And
if he doesn’t receive my letter, then tomorrow you will stop him coming
in.”

In the meantime Zoé was walking softly about the room. She spoke of
yesterday’s great hit. Madame had shown such talent; she sang so well!
Ah! Madame need not fret at all now!

Nana, her elbow dug into her pillow, only tossed her head in reply. Her
nightdress had slipped down on her shoulders, and her hair, unfastened
and entangled, flowed over them in masses.

“Without doubt,” she murmured, becoming thoughtful; “but what’s to be
done to gain time? I’m going to have all sorts of bothers today. Now
let’s see, has the porter come upstairs yet this morning?”

Then both the women talked together seriously. Nana owed three
quarters’ rent; the landlord was talking of seizing the furniture.
Then, too, there was a perfect downpour of creditors; there was a
livery-stable man, a needlewoman, a ladies’ tailor, a charcoal dealer
and others besides, who came every day and settled themselves on a
bench in the little hall. The charcoal dealer especially was a dreadful
fellow—he shouted on the staircase. But Nana’s greatest cause of
distress was her little Louis, a child she had given birth to when she
was sixteen and now left in charge of a nurse in a village in the
neighborhood of Rambouillet. This woman was clamoring for the sum of
three hundred francs before she would consent to give the little Louis
back to her. Nana, since her last visit to the child, had been seized
with a fit of maternal love and was desperate at the thought that she
could not realize a project, which had now become a hobby with her.
This was to pay off the nurse and to place the little man with his
aunt, Mme Lerat, at the Batignolles, whither she could go and see him
as often as she liked.

Meanwhile the lady’s maid kept hinting that her mistress ought to have
confided her necessities to the old miser.

“To be sure, I told him everything,” cried Nana, “and he told me in
answer that he had too many big liabilities. He won’t go beyond his
thousand francs a month. The nigger’s beggared just at present; I
expect he’s lost at play. As to that poor Mimi, he stands in great need
of a loan himself; a fall in stocks has cleaned him out—he can’t even
bring me flowers now.”

She was speaking of Daguenet. In the self-abandonment of her awakening
she had no secrets from Zoé, and the latter, inured to such
confidences, received them with respectful sympathy. Since Madame
condescended to speak to her of her affairs she would permit herself to
say what she thought. Besides, she was very fond of Madame; she had
left Mme Blanche for the express purpose of taking service with her,
and heaven knew Mme Blanche was straining every nerve to have her
again! Situations weren’t lacking; she was pretty well known, but she
would have stayed with Madame even in narrow circumstances, because she
believed in Madame’s future. And she concluded by stating her advice
with precision. When one was young one often did silly things. But this
time it was one’s duty to look alive, for the men only thought of
having their fun. Oh dear, yes! Things would right themselves. Madame
had only to say one word in order to quiet her creditors and find the
money she stood in need of.

“All that doesn’t help me to three hundred francs,” Nana kept repeating
as she plunged her fingers into the vagrant convolutions of her back
hair. “I must have three hundred francs today, at once! It’s stupid not
to know anyone who’ll give you three hundred francs.”

She racked her brains. She would have sent Mme Lerat, whom she was
expecting that very morning, to Rambouillet. The counteraction of her
sudden fancy spoiled for her the triumph of last night. Among all those
men who had cheered her, to think that there wasn’t one to bring her
fifteen louis! And then one couldn’t accept money in that way! Dear
heaven, how unfortunate she was! And she kept harking back again to the
subject of her baby—he had blue eyes like a cherub’s; he could lisp
“Mamma” in such a funny voice that you were ready to die of laughing!

But at this moment the electric bell at the outer door was heard to
ring with its quick and tremulous vibration. Zoé returned, murmuring
with a confidential air:

“It’s a woman.”

She had seen this woman a score of times, only she made believe never
to recognize her and to be quite ignorant of the nature of her
relations with ladies in difficulties.

“She has told me her name—Madame Tricon.”

“The Tricon,” cried Nana. “Dear me! That’s true. I’d forgotten her.
Show her in.”

Zoé ushered in a tall old lady who wore ringlets and looked like a
countess who haunts lawyers’ offices. Then she effaced herself,
disappearing noiselessly with the lithe, serpentine movement wherewith
she was wont to withdraw from a room on the arrival of a gentleman.
However, she might have stayed. The Tricon did not even sit down. Only
a brief exchange of words took place.

“I have someone for you today. Do you care about it?”

“Yes. How much?”

“Twenty louis.”

“At what o’clock?”

“At three. It’s settled then?”

“It’s settled.”

Straightway the Tricon talked of the state of the weather. It was dry
weather, pleasant for walking. She had still four or five persons to
see. And she took her departure after consulting a small memorandum
book. When she was once more alone Nana appeared comforted. A slight
shiver agitated her shoulders, and she wrapped herself softly up again
in her warm bedclothes with the lazy movements of a cat who is
susceptible to cold. Little by little her eyes closed, and she lay
smiling at the thought of dressing Louiset prettily on the following
day, while in the slumber into which she once more sank last night’s
long, feverish dream of endlessly rolling applause returned like a
sustained accompaniment to music and gently soothed her lassitude.

At eleven o’clock, when Zoé showed Mme Lerat into the room, Nana was
still asleep. But she woke at the noise and cried out at once:

“It’s you. You’ll go to Rambouillet today?”

“That’s what I’ve come for,” said the aunt. “There’s a train at twenty
past twelve. I’ve got time to catch it.”

“No, I shall only have the money by and by,” replied the young woman,
stretching herself and throwing out her bosom. “You’ll have lunch, and
then we’ll see.”

Zoé brought a dressing jacket.

“The hairdresser’s here, madame,” she murmured.

But Nana did not wish to go into the dressing room. And she herself
cried out:

“Come in, Francis.”

A well-dressed man pushed open the door and bowed. Just at that moment
Nana was getting out of bed, her bare legs in full view. But she did
not hurry and stretched her hands out so as to let Zoé draw on the
sleeves of the dressing jacket. Francis, on his part, was quite at his
ease and without turning away waited with a sober expression on his
face.

“Perhaps Madame has not seen the papers. There’s a very nice article in
the Figaro.”

He had brought the journal. Mme Lerat put on her spectacles and read
the article aloud, standing in front of the window as she did so. She
had the build of a policeman, and she drew herself up to her full
height, while her nostrils seemed to compress themselves whenever she
uttered a gallant epithet. It was a notice by Fauchery, written just
after the performance, and it consisted of a couple of very glowing
columns, full of witty sarcasm about the artist and of broad admiration
for the woman.

“Excellent!” Francis kept repeating.

Nana laughed good-humoredly at his chaffing her about her voice! He was
a nice fellow, was that Fauchery, and she would repay him for his
charming style of writing. Mme Lerat, after having reread the notice,
roundly declared that the men all had the devil in their shanks, and
she refused to explain her self further, being fully satisfied with a
brisk allusion of which she alone knew the meaning. Francis finished
turning up and fastening Nana’s hair. He bowed and said:

“I’ll keep my eye on the evening papers. At half-past five as usual,
eh?”

“Bring me a pot of pomade and a pound of burnt almonds from
Boissier’s,” Nana cried to him across the drawing room just as he was
shutting the door after him.

Then the two women, once more alone, recollected that they had not
embraced, and they planted big kisses on each other’s cheeks. The
notice warmed their hearts. Nana, who up till now had been half asleep,
was again seized with the fever of her triumph. Dear, dear, ’twas Rose
Mignon that would be spending a pleasant morning! Her aunt having been
unwilling to go to the theater because, as she averred, sudden emotions
ruined her stomach, Nana set herself to describe the events of the
evening and grew intoxicated at her own recital, as though all Paris
had been shaken to the ground by the applause. Then suddenly
interrupting herself, she asked with a laugh if one would ever have
imagined it all when she used to go traipsing about the Rue de la
Goutte-d’Or. Mme Lerat shook her head. No, no, one never could have
foreseen it! And she began talking in her turn, assuming a serious air
as she did so and calling Nana “daughter.” Wasn’t she a second mother
to her since the first had gone to rejoin Papa and Grandmamma? Nana was
greatly softened and on the verge of tears. But Mme Lerat declared that
the past was the past—oh yes, to be sure, a dirty past with things in
it which it was as well not to stir up every day. She had left off
seeing her niece for a long time because among the family she was
accused of ruining herself along with the little thing. Good God, as
though that were possible! She didn’t ask for confidences; she believed
that Nana had always lived decently, and now it was enough for her to
have found her again in a fine position and to observe her kind
feelings toward her son. Virtue and hard work were still the only
things worth anything in this world.

“Who is the baby’s father?” she said, interrupting herself, her eyes
lit up with an expression of acute curiosity.

Nana was taken by surprise and hesitated a moment.

“A gentleman,” she replied.

“There now!” rejoined the aunt. “They declared that you had him by a
stonemason who was in the habit of beating you. Indeed, you shall tell
me all about it someday; you know I’m discreet! Tut, tut, I’ll look
after him as though he were a prince’s son.”

She had retired from business as a florist and was living on her
savings, which she had got together sou by sou, till now they brought
her in an income of six hundred francs a year. Nana promised to rent
some pretty little lodgings for her and to give her a hundred francs a
month besides. At the mention of this sum the aunt forgot herself and
shrieked to her niece, bidding her squeeze their throats, since she had
them in her grasp. She was meaning the men, of course. Then they both
embraced again, but in the midst of her rejoicing Nana’s face, as she
led the talk back to the subject of Louiset, seemed to be overshadowed
by a sudden recollection.

“Isn’t it a bore I’ve got to go out at three o’clock?” she muttered.
“It IS a nuisance!”

Just then Zoé came in to say that lunch was on the table. They went
into the dining room, where an old lady was already seated at table.
She had not taken her hat off, and she wore a dark dress of an
indecisive color midway between puce and goose dripping. Nana did not
seem surprised at sight of her. She simply asked her why she hadn’t
come into the bedroom.

“I heard voices,” replied the old lady. “I thought you had company.”

Mme Maloir, a respectable-looking and mannerly woman, was Nana’s old
friend, chaperon and companion. Mme Lerat’s presence seemed to fidget
her at first. Afterward, when she became aware that it was Nana’s aunt,
she looked at her with a sweet expression and a die-away smile. In the
meantime Nana, who averred that she was as hungry as a wolf, threw
herself on the radishes and gobbled them up without bread. Mme Lerat
had become ceremonious; she refused the radishes as provocative of
phlegm. By and by when Zoé had brought in the cutlets Nana just chipped
the meat and contented herself with sucking the bones. Now and again
she scrutinized her old friend’s hat out of the corners of her eyes.

“It’s the new hat I gave you?” she ended by saying.

“Yes, I made it up,” murmured Mme Maloir, her mouth full of meat.

The hat was smart to distraction. In front it was greatly exaggerated,
and it was adorned with a lofty feather. Mme Maloir had a mania for
doing up all her hats afresh; she alone knew what really became her,
and with a few stitches she could manufacture a toque out of the most
elegant headgear. Nana, who had bought her this very hat in order not
to be ashamed of her when in her company out of doors, was very near
being vexed.

“Push it up, at any rate,” she cried.

“No, thank you,” replied the old lady with dignity. “It doesn’t get in
my way; I can eat very comfortably as it is.”

After the cutlets came cauliflowers and the remains of a cold chicken.
But at the arrival of each successive dish Nana made a little face,
hesitated, sniffed and left her plateful untouched. She finished her
lunch with the help of preserve.

Dessert took a long time. Zoé did not remove the cloth before serving
the coffee. Indeed, the ladies simply pushed back their plates before
taking it. They talked continually of yesterday’s charming evening.
Nana kept rolling cigarettes, which she smoked, swinging up and down on
her backward-tilted chair. And as Zoé had remained behind and was
lounging idly against the sideboard, it came about that the company
were favored with her history. She said she was the daughter of a
midwife at Bercy who had failed in business. First of all she had taken
service with a dentist and after that with an insurance agent, but
neither place suited her, and she thereupon enumerated, not without a
certain amount of pride, the names of the ladies with whom she had
served as lady’s maid. Zoé spoke of these ladies as one who had had the
making of their fortunes. It was very certain that without her more
than one would have had some queer tales to tell. Thus one day, when
Mme Blanche was with M. Octave, in came the old gentleman. What did Zoé
do? She made believe to tumble as she crossed the drawing room; the old
boy rushed up to her assistance, flew to the kitchen to fetch her a
glass of water, and M. Octave slipped away.

“Oh, she’s a good girl, you bet!” said Nana, who was listening to her
with tender interest and a sort of submissive admiration.

“Now I’ve had my troubles,” began Mme Lerat. And edging up to Mme
Maloir, she imparted to her certain confidential confessions. Both
ladies took lumps of sugar dipped in cognac and sucked them. But Mme
Maloir was wont to listen to other people’s secrets without even
confessing anything concerning herself. People said that she lived on a
mysterious allowance in a room whither no one ever penetrated.

All of a sudden Nana grew excited.

“Don’t play with the knives, Aunt. You know it gives me a turn!”

Without thinking about it Mme Lerat had crossed two knives on the table
in front of her. Notwithstanding this, the young woman defended herself
from the charge of superstition. Thus, if the salt were upset, it meant
nothing, even on a Friday; but when it came to knives, that was too
much of a good thing; that had never proved fallacious. There could be
no doubt that something unpleasant was going to happen to her. She
yawned, and then with an air, of profound boredom:

“Two o’clock already. I must go out. What a nuisance!”

The two old ladies looked at one another. The three women shook their
heads without speaking. To be sure, life was not always amusing. Nana
had tilted her chair back anew and lit a cigarette, while the others
sat pursing up their lips discreetly, thinking deeply philosophic
thoughts.

“While waiting for you to return we’ll play a game of bezique,” said
Mme Maloir after a short silence. “Does Madame play bezique?”

Certainly Mme Lerat played it, and that to perfection. It was no good
troubling Zoé, who had vanished—a corner of the table would do quite
well. And they pushed back the tablecloth over the dirty plates. But as
Mme Maloir was herself going to take the cards out of a drawer in the
sideboard, Nana remarked that before she sat down to her game it would
be very nice of her if she would write her a letter. It bored Nana to
write letters; besides, she was not sure of her spelling, while her old
friend could turn out the most feeling epistles. She ran to fetch some
good note paper in her bedroom. An inkstand consisting of a bottle of
ink worth about three sous stood untidily on one of the pieces of
furniture, with a pen deep in rust beside it. The letter was for
Daguenet. Mme Maloir herself wrote in her bold English hand, “My
darling little man,” and then she told him not to come tomorrow because
“that could not be” but hastened to add that “she was with him in
thought at every moment of the day, whether she were near or far away.”

“And I end with ‘a thousand kisses,’” she murmured.

Mme Lerat had shown her approval of each phrase with an emphatic nod.
Her eyes were sparkling; she loved to find herself in the midst of love
affairs. Nay, she was seized with a desire to add some words of her own
and, assuming a tender look and cooing like a dove, she suggested:

“A thousand kisses on thy beautiful eyes.”

“That’s the thing: ‘a thousand kisses on thy beautiful eyes’!” Nana
repeated, while the two old ladies assumed a beatified expression.

Zoé was rung for and told to take the letter down to a commissionaire.
She had just been talking with the theater messenger, who had brought
her mistress the day’s playbill and rehearsal arrangements, which he
had forgotten in the morning. Nana had this individual ushered in and
got him to take the latter to Daguenet on his return. Then she put
questions to him. Oh yes! M. Bordenave was very pleased; people had
already taken seats for a week to come; Madame had no idea of the
number of people who had been asking her address since morning. When
the man had taken his departure Nana announced that at most she would
only be out half an hour. If there were any visitors Zoé would make
them wait. As she spoke the electric bell sounded. It was a creditor in
the shape of the man of whom she jobbed her carriages. He had settled
himself on the bench in the anteroom, and the fellow was free to
twiddle his thumbs till night—there wasn’t the least hurry now.

“Come, buck up!” said Nana, still torpid with laziness and yawning and
stretching afresh. “I ought to be there now!”

Yet she did not budge but kept watching the play of her aunt, who had
just announced four aces. Chin on hand, she grew quite engrossed in it
but gave a violent start on hearing three o’clock strike.

“Good God!” she cried roughly.

Then Mme Maloir, who was counting the tricks she had won with her tens
and aces, said cheeringly to her in her soft voice:

“It would be better, dearie, to give up your expedition at once.”

“No, be quick about it,” said Mme Lerat, shuffling the cards. “I shall
take the half-past four o’clock train if you’re back here with the
money before four o’clock.”

“Oh, there’ll be no time lost,” she murmured.

Ten minutes after Zoé helped her on with a dress and a hat. It didn’t
matter much if she were badly turned out. Just as she was about to go
downstairs there was a new ring at the bell. This time it was the
charcoal dealer. Very well, he might keep the livery-stable keeper
company—it would amuse the fellows. Only, as she dreaded a scene, she
crossed the kitchen and made her escape by the back stairs. She often
went that way and in return had only to lift up her flounces.

“When one is a good mother anything’s excusable,” said Mme Maloir
sententiously when left alone with Mme Lerat.

“Four kings,” replied this lady, whom the play greatly excited.

And they both plunged into an interminable game.

The table had not been cleared. The smell of lunch and the cigarette
smoke filled the room with an ambient, steamy vapor. The two ladies had
again set to work dipping lumps of sugar in brandy and sucking the
same. For twenty minutes at least they played and sucked simultaneously
when, the electric bell having rung a third time, Zoé bustled into the
room and roughly disturbed them, just as if they had been her own
friends.

“Look here, that’s another ring. You can’t stay where you are. If many
folks call I must have the whole flat. Now off you go, off you go!”

Mme Maloir was for finishing the game, but Zoé looked as if she was
going to pounce down on the cards, and so she decided to carry them off
without in any way altering their positions, while Mme Lerat undertook
the removal of the brandy bottle, the glasses and the sugar. Then they
both scudded to the kitchen, where they installed themselves at the
table in an empty space between the dishcloths, which were spread out
to dry, and the bowl still full of dishwater.

“We said it was three hundred and forty. It’s your turn.”

“I play hearts.”

When Zoé returned she found them once again absorbed. After a silence,
as Mme Lerat was shuffling, Mme Maloir asked who it was.

“Oh, nobody to speak of,” replied the servant carelessly; “a slip of a
lad! I wanted to send him away again, but he’s such a pretty boy with
never a hair on his chin and blue eyes and a girl’s face! So I told him
to wait after all. He’s got an enormous bouquet in his hand, which he
never once consented to put down. One would like to catch him one—a
brat like that who ought to be at school still!”

Mme Lerat went to fetch a water bottle to mix herself some brandy and
water, the lumps of sugar having rendered her thirsty. Zoé muttered
something to the effect that she really didn’t mind if she drank
something too. Her mouth, she averred, was as bitter as gall.

“So you put him—?” continued Mme Maloir.

“Oh yes, I put him in the closet at the end of the room, the little
unfurnished one. There’s only one of my lady’s trunks there and a
table. It’s there I stow the lubbers.”

And she was putting plenty of sugar in her grog when the electric bell
made her jump. Oh, drat it all! Wouldn’t they let her have a drink in
peace? If they were to have a peal of bells things promised well.
Nevertheless, she ran off to open the door. Returning presently, she
saw Mme Maloir questioning her with a glance.

“It’s nothing,” she said, “only a bouquet.”

All three refreshed themselves, nodding to each other in token of
salutation. Then while Zoé was at length busy clearing the table,
bringing the plates out one by one and putting them in the sink, two
other rings followed close upon one another. But they weren’t serious,
for while keeping the kitchen informed of what was going on she twice
repeated her disdainful expression:

“Nothing, only a bouquet.”

Notwithstanding which, the old ladies laughed between two of their
tricks when they heard her describe the looks of the creditors in the
anteroom after the flowers had arrived. Madame would find her bouquets
on her toilet table. What a pity it was they cost such a lot and that
you could only get ten sous for them! Oh dear, yes, plenty of money was
wasted!

“For my part,” said Mme Maloir, “I should be quite content if every day
of my life I got what the men in Paris had spent on flowers for the
women.”

“Now, you know, you’re not hard to please,” murmured Mme Lerat. “Why,
one would have only just enough to buy thread with. Four queens, my
dear.”

It was ten minutes to four. Zoé was astonished, could not understand
why her mistress was out so long. Ordinarily when Madame found herself
obliged to go out in the afternoons she got it over in double-quick
time. But Mme Maloir declared that one didn’t always manage things as
one wished. Truly, life was beset with obstacles, averred Mme Lerat.
The best course was to wait. If her niece was long in coming it was
because her occupations detained her; wasn’t it so? Besides, they
weren’t overworked—it was comfortable in the kitchen. And as hearts
were out, Mme Lerat threw down diamonds.

The bell began again, and when Zoé reappeared she was burning with
excitement.

“My children, it’s fat Steiner!” she said in the doorway, lowering her
voice as she spoke. “I’ve put HIM in the little sitting room.”

Thereupon Mme Maloir spoke about the banker to Mme Lerat, who knew no
such gentleman. Was he getting ready to give Rose Mignon the go-by? Zoé
shook her head; she knew a thing or two. But once more she had to go
and open the door.

“Here’s bothers!” she murmured when she came back. “It’s the nigger!
’Twasn’t any good telling him that my lady’s gone out, and so he’s
settled himself in the bedroom. We only expected him this evening.”

At a quarter past four Nana was not in yet. What could she be after? It
was silly of her! Two other bouquets were brought round, and Zoé,
growing bored looked to see if there were any coffee left. Yes, the
ladies would willingly finish off the coffee; it would waken them up.
Sitting hunched up on their chairs, they were beginning to fall asleep
through dint of constantly taking their cards between their fingers
with the accustomed movement. The half-hour sounded. Something must
decidedly have happened to Madame. And they began whispering to each
other.

Suddenly Mme Maloir forgot herself and in a ringing voice announced:
“I’ve the five hundred! Trumps, Major Quint!”

“Oh, do be quiet!” said Zoé angrily. “What will all those gentlemen
think?” And in the silence which ensued and amid the whispered
muttering of the two old women at strife over their game, the sound of
rapid footsteps ascended from the back stairs. It was Nana at last.
Before she had opened the door her breathlessness became audible. She
bounced abruptly in, looking very red in the face. Her skirt, the
string of which must have been broken, was trailing over the stairs,
and her flounces had just been dipped in a puddle of something
unpleasant which had oozed out on the landing of the first floor, where
the servant girl was a regular slut.

“Here you are! It’s lucky!” said Mme Lerat, pursing up her lips, for
she was still vexed at Mme Maloir’s “five hundred.” “You may flatter
yourself at the way you keep folks waiting.”

“Madame isn’t reasonable; indeed, she isn’t!” added Zoé.

Nana was already harassed, and these reproaches exasperated her. Was
that the way people received her after the worry she had gone through?

“Will you blooming well leave me alone, eh?” she cried.

“Hush, ma’am, there are people in there,” said the maid.

Then in lower tones the young Woman stuttered breathlessly:

“D’you suppose I’ve been having a good time? Why, there was no end to
it. I should have liked to see you there! I was boiling with rage! I
felt inclined to smack somebody. And never a cab to come home in!
Luckily it’s only a step from here, but never mind that; I did just run
home.”

“You have the money?” asked the aunt.

“Dear, dear! That question!” rejoined Nana.

She had sat herself down on a chair close up against the stove, for her
legs had failed her after so much running, and without stopping to take
breath she drew from behind her stays an envelope in which there were
four hundred-franc notes. They were visible through a large rent she
had torn with savage fingers in order to be sure of the contents. The
three women round about her stared fixedly at the envelope, a big,
crumpled, dirty receptacle, as it lay clasped in her small gloved
hands.

It was too late now—Mme Lerat would not go to Rambouillet till
tomorrow, and Nana entered into long explanations.

“There’s company waiting for you,” the lady’s maid repeated.

But Nana grew excited again. The company might wait: she’d go to them
all in good time when she’d finished. And as her aunt began putting her
hand out for the money:

“Ah no! Not all of it,” she said. “Three hundred francs for the nurse,
fifty for your journey and expenses, that’s three hundred and fifty.
Fifty francs I keep.”

The big difficulty was how to find change. There were not ten francs in
the house. But they did not even address themselves to Mme Maloir who,
never having more than a six-sou omnibus fair upon her, was listening
in quite a disinterested manner. At length Zoé went out of the room,
remarking that she would go and look in her box, and she brought back a
hundred francs in hundred-sou pieces. They were counted out on a corner
of the table, and Mme Lerat took her departure at once after having
promised to bring Louiset back with her the following day.

“You say there’s company there?” continued Nana, still sitting on the
chair and resting herself.

“Yes, madame, three people.”

And Zoé mentioned the banker first. Nana made a face. Did that man
Steiner think she was going to let herself be bored because he had
thrown her a bouquet yesterday evening?

“Besides, I’ve had enough of it,” she declared. “I shan’t receive
today. Go and say you don’t expect me now.”

“Madame will think the matter over; Madame will receive Monsieur
Steiner,” murmured Zoé gravely, without budging from her place. She was
annoyed to see her mistress on the verge of committing another foolish
mistake.

Then she mentioned the Walachian, who ought by now to find time hanging
heavy on his hands in the bedroom. Whereupon Nana grew furious and more
obstinate than ever. No, she would see nobody, nobody! Who’d sent her
such a blooming leech of a man?

“Chuck ’em all out! I—I’m going to play a game of bezique with Madame
Maloir. I prefer doing that.”

The bell interrupted her remarks. That was the last straw. Another of
the beggars yet! She forbade Zoé to go and open the door, but the
latter had left the kitchen without listening to her, and when she
reappeared she brought back a couple of cards and said authoritatively:

“I told them that Madame was receiving visitors. The gentlemen are in
the drawing room.”

Nana had sprung up, raging, but the names of the Marquis de Chouard and
of Count Muffat de Beuville, which were inscribed on the cards, calmed
her down. For a moment or two she remained silent.

“Who are they?” she asked at last. “You know them?”

“I know the old fellow,” replied Zoé, discreetly pursing up her lips.

And her mistress continuing to question her with her eyes, she added
simply:

“I’ve seen him somewhere.”

This remark seemed to decide the young woman. Regretfully she left the
kitchen, that asylum of steaming warmth, where you could talk and take
your ease amid the pleasant fumes of the coffeepot which was being kept
warm over a handful of glowing embers. She left Mme Maloir behind her.
That lady was now busy reading her fortune by the cards; she had never
yet taken her hat off, but now in order to be more at her ease she
undid the strings and threw them back over her shoulders.

In the dressing room, where Zoé rapidly helped her on with a tea gown,
Nana revenged herself for the way in which they were all boring her by
muttering quiet curses upon the male sex. These big words caused the
lady’s maid not a little distress, for she saw with pain that her
mistress was not rising superior to her origin as quickly as she could
have desired. She even made bold to beg Madame to calm herself.

“You bet,” was Nana’s crude answer; “they’re swine; they glory in that
sort of thing.”

Nevertheless, she assumed her princesslike manner, as she was wont to
call it. But just when she was turning to go into the drawing room Zoé
held her back and herself introduced the Marquis de Chouard and the
Count Muffat into the dressing room. It was much better so.

“I regret having kept you waiting, gentlemen,” said the young woman
with studied politeness.

The two men bowed and seated themselves. A blind of embroidered tulle
kept the little room in twilight. It was the most elegant chamber in
the flat, for it was hung with some light-colored fabric and contained
a cheval glass framed in inlaid wood, a lounge chair and some others
with arms and blue satin upholsteries. On the toilet table the
bouquets—roses, lilacs and hyacinths—appeared like a very ruin of
flowers. Their perfume was strong and penetrating, while through the
dampish air of the place, which was full of the spoiled exhalations of
the washstand, came occasional whiffs of a more pungent scent, the
scent of some grains or dry patchouli ground to fine powder at the
bottom of a cup. And as she gathered herself together and drew up her
dressing jacket, which had been ill fastened, Nana had all the
appearance of having been surprised at her toilet: her skin was still
damp; she smiled and looked quite startled amid her frills and laces.

“Madame, you will pardon our insistence,” said the Count Muffat
gravely. “We come on a quest. Monsieur and I are members of the
Benevolent Organization of the district.”

The Marquis de Chouard hastened gallantly to add:

“When we learned that a great artiste lived in this house we promised
ourselves that we would put the claims of our poor people before her in
a very special manner. Talent is never without a heart.”

Nana pretended to be modest. She answered them with little assenting
movements of her head, making rapid reflections at the same time. It
must be the old man that had brought the other one: he had such wicked
eyes. And yet the other was not to be trusted either: the veins near
his temples were so queerly puffed up. He might quite well have come by
himself. Ah, now that she thought of it, it was this way: the porter
had given them her name, and they had egged one another on, each with
his own ends in view.

“Most certainly, gentlemen, you were quite right to come up,” she said
with a very good grace.

But the electric bell made her tremble again. Another call, and that
Zoé always opening the door! She went on:

“One is only too happy to be able to give.”

At bottom she was flattered.

“Ah, madame,” rejoined the marquis, “if only you knew about it! there’s
such misery! Our district has more than three thousand poor people in
it, and yet it’s one of the richest. You cannot picture to yourself
anything like the present distress—children with no bread, women ill,
utterly without assistance, perishing of the cold!”

“The poor souls!” cried Nana, very much moved.

Such was her feeling of compassion that tears flooded her fine eyes. No
longer studying deportment, she leaned forward with a quick movement,
and under her open dressing jacket her neck became visible, while the
bent position of her knees served to outline the rounded contour of the
thigh under the thin fabric of her skirt. A little flush of blood
appeared in the marquis’s cadaverous cheeks. Count Muffat, who was on
the point of speaking, lowered his eyes. The air of that little room
was too hot: it had the close, heavy warmth of a greenhouse. The roses
were withering, and intoxicating odors floated up from the patchouli in
the cup.

“One would like to be very rich on occasions like this,” added Nana.
“Well, well, we each do what we can. Believe me, gentlemen, if I had
known—”

She was on the point of being guilty of a silly speech, so melted was
she at heart. But she did not end her sentence and for a moment was
worried at not being able to remember where she had put her fifty
francs on changing her dress. But she recollected at last: they must be
on the corner of her toilet table under an inverted pomatum pot. As she
was in the act of rising the bell sounded for quite a long time.
Capital! Another of them still! It would never end. The count and the
marquis had both risen, too, and the ears of the latter seemed to be
pricked up and, as it were, pointing toward the door; doubtless he knew
that kind of ring. Muffat looked at him; then they averted their gaze
mutually. They felt awkward and once more assumed their frigid bearing,
the one looking square-set and solid with his thick head of hair, the
other drawing back his lean shoulders, over which fell his fringe of
thin white locks.

“My faith,” said Nana, bringing the ten big silver pieces and quite
determined to laugh about it, “I am going to entrust you with this,
gentlemen. It is for the poor.”

And the adorable little dimple in her chin became apparent. She assumed
her favorite pose, her amiable baby expression, as she held the pile of
five-franc pieces on her open palm and offered it to the men, as though
she were saying to them, “Now then, who wants some?” The count was the
sharper of the two. He took fifty francs but left one piece behind and,
in order to gain possession of it, had to pick it off the young woman’s
very skin, a moist, supple skin, the touch of which sent a thrill
through him. She was thoroughly merry and did not cease laughing.

“Come, gentlemen,” she continued. “Another time I hope to give more.”

The gentlemen no longer had any pretext for staying, and they bowed and
went toward the door. But just as they were about to go out the bell
rang anew. The marquis could not conceal a faint smile, while a frown
made the count look more grave than before. Nana detained them some
seconds so as to give Zoé time to find yet another corner for the
newcomers. She did not relish meetings at her house. Only this time the
whole place must be packed! She was therefore much relieved when she
saw the drawing room empty and asked herself whether Zoé had really
stuffed them into the cupboards.

“Au revoir, gentlemen,” she said, pausing on the threshold of the
drawing room.

It was as though she lapped them in her laughing smile and clear,
unclouded glance. The Count Muffat bowed slightly. Despite his great
social experience he felt that he had lost his equilibrium. He needed
air; he was overcome with the dizzy feeling engendered in that dressing
room with a scent of flowers, with a feminine essence which choked him.
And behind his back, the Marquis de Chouard, who was sure that he could
not be seen, made so bold as to wink at Nana, his whole face suddenly
altering its expression as he did so, and his tongue nigh lolling from
his mouth.

When the young woman re-entered the little room, where Zoé was awaiting
her with letters and visiting cards, she cried out, laughing more
heartily than ever:

“There are a pair of beggars for you! Why, they’ve got away with my
fifty francs!”

She wasn’t vexed. It struck her as a joke that MEN should have got
money out of her. All the same, they were swine, for she hadn’t a sou
left. But at sight of the cards and the letters her bad temper
returned. As to the letters, why, she said “pass” to them. They were
from fellows who, after applauding her last night, were now making
their declarations. And as to the callers, they might go about their
business!

Zoé had stowed them all over the place, and she called attention to the
great capabilities of the flat, every room in which opened on the
corridor. That wasn’t the case at Mme Blanche’s, where people had all
to go through the drawing room. Oh yes, Mme Blanche had had plenty of
bothers over it!

“You will send them all away,” continued Nana in pursuance of her idea.
“Begin with the nigger.”

“Oh, as to him, madame, I gave him his marching orders a while ago,”
said Zoé with a grin. “He only wanted to tell Madame that he couldn’t
come to-night.”

There was vast joy at this announcement, and Nana clapped her hands. He
wasn’t coming, what good luck! She would be free then! And she emitted
sighs of relief, as though she had been let off the most abominable of
tortures. Her first thought was for Daguenet. Poor duck, why, she had
just written to tell him to wait till Thursday! Quick, quick, Mme
Maloir should write a second letter! But Zoé announced that Mme Maloir
had slipped away unnoticed, according to her wont. Whereupon Nana,
after talking of sending someone to him, began to hesitate. She was
very tired. A long night’s sleep—oh, it would be so jolly! The thought
of such a treat overcame her at last. For once in a way she could allow
herself that!

“I shall go to bed when I come back from the theater,” she murmured
greedily, “and you won’t wake me before noon.”

Then raising her voice:

“Now then, gee up! Shove the others downstairs!”

Zoé did not move. She would never have dreamed of giving her mistress
overt advice, only now she made shift to give Madame the benefit of her
experience when Madame seemed to be running her hot head against a
wall.

“Monsieur Steiner as well?” she queried curtly.

“Why, certainly!” replied Nana. “Before all the rest.”

The maid still waited, in order to give her mistress time for
reflection. Would not Madame be proud to get such a rich gentleman away
from her rival Rose Mignon—a man, moreover, who was known in all the
theaters?

“Now make haste, my dear,” rejoined Nana, who perfectly understood the
situation, “and tell him he pesters me.”

But suddenly there was a reversion of feeling. Tomorrow she might want
him. Whereupon she laughed, winked once or twice and with a naughty
little gesture cried out:

“After all’s said and done, if I want him the best way even now is to
kick him out of doors.”

Zoé seemed much impressed. Struck with a sudden admiration, she gazed
at her mistress and then went and chucked Steiner out of doors without
further deliberation.

Meanwhile Nana waited patiently for a second or two in order to give
her time to sweep the place out, as she phrased it. No one would ever
have expected such a siege! She craned her head into the drawing room
and found it empty. The dining room was empty too. But as she continued
her visitation in a calmer frame of mind, feeling certain that nobody
remained behind, she opened the door of a closet and came suddenly upon
a very young man. He was sitting on the top of a trunk, holding a huge
bouquet on his knees and looking exceedingly quiet and extremely well
behaved.

“Goodness gracious me!” she cried. “There’s one of ’em in there even
now!” The very young man had jumped down at sight of her and was
blushing as red as a poppy. He did not know what to do with his
bouquet, which he kept shifting from one hand to the other, while his
looks betrayed the extreme of emotion. His youth, his embarrassment and
the funny figure he cut in his struggles with his flowers melted Nana’s
heart, and she burst into a pretty peal of laughter. Well, now, the
very children were coming, were they? Men were arriving in long
clothes. So she gave up all airs and graces, became familiar and
maternal, tapped her leg and asked for fun:

“You want me to wipe your nose; do you, baby?”

“Yes,” replied the lad in a low, supplicating tone.

This answer made her merrier than ever. He was seventeen years old, he
said. His name was Georges Hugon. He was at the Variétés last night and
now he had come to see her.

“These flowers are for me?”

“Yes.”

“Then give ’em to me, booby!”

But as she took the bouquet from him he sprang upon her hands and
kissed them with all the gluttonous eagerness peculiar to his charming
time of life. She had to beat him to make him let go. There was a
dreadful little dribbling customer for you! But as she scolded him she
flushed rosy-red and began smiling. And with that she sent him about
his business, telling him that he might call again. He staggered away;
he could not find the doors.

Nana went back into her dressing room, where Francis made his
appearance almost simultaneously in order to dress her hair for the
evening. Seated in front of her mirror and bending her head beneath the
hairdresser’s nimble hands, she stayed silently meditative. Presently,
however, Zoé entered, remarking:

“There’s one of them, madame, who refuses to go.”

“Very well, he must be left alone,” she answered quietly.

“If that comes to that they still keep arriving.”

“Bah! Tell ’em to wait. When they begin to feel too hungry they’ll be
off.” Her humor had changed, and she was now delighted to make people
wait about for nothing. A happy thought struck her as very amusing; she
escaped from beneath Francis’ hands and ran and bolted the doors. They
might now crowd in there as much as they liked; they would probably
refrain from making a hole through the wall. Zoé could come in and out
through the little doorway leading to the kitchen. However, the
electric bell rang more lustily than ever. Every five minutes a clear,
lively little ting-ting recurred as regularly as if it had been
produced by some well-adjusted piece of mechanism. And Nana counted
these rings to while the time away withal. But suddenly she remembered
something.

“I say, where are my burnt almonds?”

Francis, too, was forgetting about the burnt almonds. But now he drew a
paper bag from one of the pockets of his frock coat and presented it to
her with the discreet gesture of a man who is offering a lady a
present. Nevertheless, whenever his accounts came to be settled, he
always put the burnt almonds down on his bill. Nana put the bag between
her knees and set to work munching her sweetmeats, turning her head
from time to time under the hairdresser’s gently compelling touch.

“The deuce,” she murmured after a silence, “there’s a troop for you!”

Thrice, in quick succession, the bell had sounded. Its summonses became
fast and furious. There were modest tintinnabulations which seemed to
stutter and tremble like a first avowal; there were bold rings which
vibrated under some rough touch and hasty rings which sounded through
the house with shivering rapidity. It was a regular peal, as Zoé said,
a peal loud enough to upset the neighborhood, seeing that a whole mob
of men were jabbing at the ivory button, one after the other. That old
joker Bordenave had really been far too lavish with her address. Why,
the whole of yesterday’s house was coming!

“By the by, Francis, have you five louis?” said Nana.

He drew back, looked carefully at her headdress and then quietly
remarked:

“Five louis, that’s according!”

“Ah, you know if you want securities . . .” she continued.

And without finishing her sentence, she indicated the adjoining rooms
with a sweeping gesture. Francis lent the five louis. Zoé, during each
momentary respite, kept coming in to get Madame’s things ready. Soon
she came to dress her while the hairdresser lingered with the intention
of giving some finishing touches to the headdress. But the bell kept
continually disturbing the lady’s maid, who left Madame with her stays
half laced and only one shoe on. Despite her long experience, the maid
was losing her head. After bringing every nook and corner into
requisition and putting men pretty well everywhere, she had been driven
to stow them away in threes and fours, which was a course of procedure
entirely opposed to her principles. So much the worse for them if they
ate each other up! It would afford more room! And Nana, sheltering
behind her carefully bolted door, began laughing at them, declaring
that she could hear them pant. They ought to be looking lovely in there
with their tongues hanging out like a lot of bowwows sitting round on
their behinds. Yesterday’s success was not yet over, and this pack of
men had followed up her scent.

“Provided they don’t break anything,” she murmured.

She began to feel some anxiety, for she fancied she felt their hot
breath coming through chinks in the door. But Zoé ushered Labordette
in, and the young woman gave a little shout of relief. He was anxious
to tell her about an account he had settled for her at the justice of
peace’s court. But she did not attend and said:

“I’ll take you along with me. We’ll have dinner together, and afterward
you shall escort me to the Variétés. I don’t go on before half-past
nine.”

Good old Labordette, how lucky it was he had come! He was a fellow who
never asked for any favors. He was only the friend of the women, whose
little bits of business he arranged for them. Thus on his way in he had
dismissed the creditors in the anteroom. Indeed, those good folks
really didn’t want to be paid. On the contrary, if they HAD been
pressing for payment it was only for the sake of complimenting Madame
and of personally renewing their offers of service after her grand
success of yesterday.

“Let’s be off, let’s be off,” said Nana, who was dressed by now.

But at that moment Zoé came in again, shouting:

“I refuse to open the door any more. They’re waiting in a crowd all
down the stairs.”

A crowd all down the stairs! Francis himself, despite the English
stolidity of manner which he was wont to affect, began laughing as he
put up his combs. Nana, who had already taken Labordette’s arm, pushed
him into the kitchen and effected her escape. At last she was delivered
from the men and felt happily conscious that she might now enjoy his
society anywhere without fear of stupid interruptions.

“You shall see me back to my door,” she said as they went down the
kitchen stairs. “I shall feel safe, in that case. Just fancy, I want to
sleep a whole night quite by myself—yes, a whole night! It’s sort of
infatuation, dear boy!”




 CHAPTER III


The Countess Sabine, as it had become customary to call Mme Muffat de
Beuville in order to distinguish her from the count’s mother, who had
died the year before, was wont to receive every Tuesday in her house in
the Rue Miromesnil at the corner of the Rue de Pentièvre. It was a
great square building, and the Muffats had lived in it for a hundred
years or more. On the side of the street its frontage seemed to
slumber, so lofty was it and dark, so sad and convent-like, with its
great outer shutters, which were nearly always closed. And at the back
in a little dark garden some trees had grown up and were straining
toward the sunlight with such long slender branches that their tips
were visible above the roof.

This particular Tuesday, toward ten o’clock in the evening, there were
scarcely a dozen people in the drawing room. When she was only
expecting intimate friends the countess opened neither the little
drawing room nor the dining room. One felt more at home on such
occasions and chatted round the fire. The drawing room was very large
and very lofty; its four windows looked out upon the garden, from
which, on this rainy evening of the close of April, issued a sensation
of damp despite the great logs burning on the hearth. The sun never
shone down into the room; in the daytime it was dimly lit up by a faint
greenish light, but at night, when the lamps and the chandelier were
burning, it looked merely a serious old chamber with its massive
mahogany First Empire furniture, its hangings and chair coverings of
yellow velvet, stamped with a large design. Entering it, one was in an
atmosphere of cold dignity, of ancient manners, of a vanished age, the
air of which seemed devotional.

Opposite the armchair, however, in which the count’s mother had died—a
square armchair of formal design and inhospitable padding, which stood
by the hearthside—the Countess Sabine was seated in a deep and cozy
lounge, the red silk upholsteries of which were soft as eider down. It
was the only piece of modern furniture there, a fanciful item
introduced amid the prevailing severity and clashing with it.

“So we shall have the shah of Persia,” the young woman was saying.

They were talking of the crowned heads who were coming to Paris for the
exhibition. Several ladies had formed a circle round the hearth, and
Mme du Joncquoy, whose brother, a diplomat, had just fulfilled a
mission in the East, was giving some details about the court of
Nazr-ed-Din.

“Are you out of sorts, my dear?” asked Mme Chantereau, the wife of an
ironmaster, seeing the countess shivering slightly and growing pale as
she did so.

“Oh no, not at all,” replied the latter, smiling. “I felt a little
cold. This drawing room takes so long to warm.”

And with that she raised her melancholy eyes and scanned the walls from
floor to ceiling. Her daughter Estelle, a slight, insignificant-looking
girl of sixteen, the thankless period of life, quitted the large
footstool on which she was sitting and silently came and propped up one
of the logs which had rolled from its place. But Mme de Chezelles, a
convent friend of Sabine’s and her junior by five years, exclaimed:

“Dear me, I would gladly be possessed of a drawing room such as yours!
At any rate, you are able to receive visitors. They only build boxes
nowadays. Oh, if I were in your place!”

She ran giddily on and with lively gestures explained how she would
alter the hangings, the seats—everything, in fact. Then she would give
balls to which all Paris should run. Behind her seat her husband, a
magistrate, stood listening with serious air. It was rumored that she
deceived him quite openly, but people pardoned her offense and received
her just the same, because, they said, “she’s not answerable for her
actions.”

“Oh that Leonide!” the Countess Sabine contented herself by murmuring,
smiling her faint smile the while.

With a languid movement she eked out the thought that was in her. After
having lived there seventeen years she certainly would not alter her
drawing room now. It would henceforth remain just such as her
mother-in-law had wished to preserve it during her lifetime. Then
returning to the subject of conversation:

“I have been assured,” she said, “that we shall also have the king of
Prussia and the emperor of Russia.”

“Yes, some very fine fêtes are promised,” said Mme du Joncquoy.

The banker Steiner, not long since introduced into this circle by
Leonide de Chezelles, who was acquainted with the whole of Parisian
society, was sitting chatting on a sofa between two of the windows. He
was questioning a deputy, from whom he was endeavoring with much
adroitness to elicit news about a movement on the stock exchange of
which he had his suspicions, while the Count Muffat, standing in front
of them, was silently listening to their talk, looking, as he did so,
even grayer than was his wont.

Four or five young men formed another group near the door round the
Count Xavier de Vandeuvres, who in a low tone was telling them an
anecdote. It was doubtless a very risky one, for they were choking with
laughter. Companionless in the center of the room, a stout man, a chief
clerk at the Ministry of the Interior, sat heavily in an armchair,
dozing with his eyes open. But when one of the young men appeared to
doubt the truth of the anecdote Vandeuvres raised his voice.

“You are too much of a skeptic, Foucarmont; you’ll spoil all your
pleasures that way.”

And he returned to the ladies with a laugh. Last scion of a great
family, of feminine manners and witty tongue, he was at that time
running through a fortune with a rage of life and appetite which
nothing could appease. His racing stable, which was one of the best
known in Paris, cost him a fabulous amount of money; his betting losses
at the Imperial Club amounted monthly to an alarming number of pounds,
while taking one year with another, his mistresses would be always
devouring now a farm, now some acres of arable land or forest, which
amounted, in fact, to quite a respectable slice of his vast estates in
Picardy.

“I advise you to call other people skeptics! Why, you don’t believe a
thing yourself,” said Leonide, making shift to find him a little space
in which to sit down at her side.

“It’s you who spoil your own pleasures.”

“Exactly,” he replied. “I wish to make others benefit by my
experience.”

But the company imposed silence on him: he was scandalizing M. Venot.
And, the ladies having changed their positions, a little old man of
sixty, with bad teeth and a subtle smile, became visible in the depths
of an easy chair. There he sat as comfortably as in his own house,
listening to everybody’s remarks and making none himself. With a slight
gesture he announced himself by no means scandalized. Vandeuvres once
more assumed his dignified bearing and added gravely:

“Monsieur Venot is fully aware that I believe what it is one’s duty to
believe.”

It was an act of faith, and even Leonide appeared satisfied. The young
men at the end of the room no longer laughed; the company were old
fogies, and amusement was not to be found there. A cold breath of wind
had passed over them, and amid the ensuing silence Steiner’s nasal
voice became audible. The deputy’s discreet answers were at last
driving him to desperation. For a second or two the Countess Sabine
looked at the fire; then she resumed the conversation.

“I saw the king of Prussia at Baden-Baden last year. He’s still full of
vigor for his age.”

“Count Bismarck is to accompany him,” said Mme du Joncquoy. “Do you
know the count? I lunched with him at my brother’s ages ago, when he
was representative of Prussia in Paris. There’s a man now whose latest
successes I cannot in the least understand.”

“But why?” asked Mme Chantereau.

“Good gracious, how am I to explain? He doesn’t please me. His
appearance is boorish and underbred. Besides, so far as I am concerned,
I find him stupid.”

With that the whole room spoke of Count Bismarck, and opinions differed
considerably. Vandeuvres knew him and assured the company that he was
great in his cups and at play. But when the discussion was at its
height the door was opened, and Hector de la Falois made his
appearance. Fauchery, who followed in his wake, approached the countess
and, bowing:

“Madame,” he said, “I have not forgotten your extremely kind
invitation.”

She smiled and made a pretty little speech. The journalist, after
bowing to the count, stood for some moments in the middle of the
drawing room. He only recognized Steiner and accordingly looked rather
out of his element. But Vandeuvres turned and came and shook hands with
him. And forthwith, in his delight at the meeting and with a sudden
desire to be confidential, Fauchery buttonholed him and said in a low
voice:

“It’s tomorrow. Are you going?”

“Egad, yes.”

“At midnight, at her house.

“I know, I know. I’m going with Blanche.”

He wanted to escape and return to the ladies in order to urge yet
another reason in M. de Bismarck’s favor. But Fauchery detained him.

“You never will guess whom she has charged me to invite.”

And with a slight nod he indicated Count Muffat, who was just then
discussing a knotty point in the budget with Steiner and the deputy.

“It’s impossible,” said Vandeuvres, stupefaction and merriment in his
tones. “My word on it! I had to swear that I would bring him to her.
Indeed, that’s one of my reasons for coming here.”

Both laughed silently, and Vandeuvres, hurriedly rejoining the circle
of ladies, cried out:

“I declare that on the contrary Monsieur de Bismarck is exceedingly
witty. For instance, one evening he said a charmingly epigrammatic
thing in my presence.”

La Faloise meanwhile had heard the few rapid sentences thus
whisperingly interchanged, and he gazed at Fauchery in hopes of an
explanation which was not vouchsafed him. Of whom were they talking,
and what were they going to do at midnight tomorrow? He did not leave
his cousin’s side again. The latter had gone and seated himself. He was
especially interested by the Countess Sabine. Her name had often been
mentioned in his presence, and he knew that, having been married at the
age of seventeen, she must now be thirty-four and that since her
marriage she had passed a cloistered existence with her husband and her
mother-in-law. In society some spoke of her as a woman of religious
chastity, while others pitied her and recalled to memory her charming
bursts of laughter and the burning glances of her great eyes in the
days prior to her imprisonment in this old town house. Fauchery
scrutinized her and yet hesitated. One of his friends, a captain who
had recently died in Mexico, had, on the very eve of his departure,
made him one of those gross postprandial confessions, of which even the
most prudent among men are occasionally guilty. But of this he only
retained a vague recollection; they had dined not wisely but too well
that evening, and when he saw the countess, in her black dress and with
her quiet smile, seated in that Old World drawing room, he certainly
had his doubts. A lamp which had been placed behind her threw into
clear relief her dark, delicate, plump side face, wherein a certain
heaviness in the contours of the mouth alone indicated a species of
imperious sensuality.

“What do they want with their Bismarck?” muttered La Faloise, whose
constant pretense it was to be bored in good society. “One’s ready to
kick the bucket here. A pretty idea of yours it was to want to come!”

Fauchery questioned him abruptly.

“Now tell me, does the countess admit someone to her embraces?”

“Oh dear, no, no! My dear fellow!” he stammered, manifestly taken aback
and quite forgetting his pose. “Where d’you think we are?”

After which he was conscious of a want of up-to-dateness in this
outburst of indignation and, throwing himself back on a great sofa, he
added:

“Gad! I say no! But I don’t know much about it. There’s a little chap
out there, Foucarmont they call him, who’s to be met with everywhere
and at every turn. One’s seen faster men than that, though, you bet.
However, it doesn’t concern me, and indeed, all I know is that if the
countess indulges in high jinks she’s still pretty sly about it, for
the thing never gets about—nobody talks.”

Then although Fauchery did not take the trouble to question him, he
told him all he knew about the Muffats. Amid the conversation of the
ladies, which still continued in front of the hearth, they both spoke
in subdued tones, and, seeing them there with their white cravats and
gloves, one might have supposed them to be discussing in chosen
phraseology some really serious topic. Old Mme Muffat then, whom La
Faloise had been well acquainted with, was an insufferable old lady,
always hand in glove with the priests. She had the grand manner,
besides, and an authoritative way of comporting herself, which bent
everybody to her will. As to Muffat, he was an old man’s child; his
father, a general, had been created count by Napoleon I, and naturally
he had found himself in favor after the second of December. He hadn’t
much gaiety of manner either, but he passed for a very honest man of
straightforward intentions and understanding. Add to these a code of
old aristocratic ideas and such a lofty conception of his duties at
court, of his dignities and of his virtues, that he behaved like a god
on wheels. It was the Mamma Muffat who had given him this precious
education with its daily visits to the confessional, its complete
absence of escapades and of all that is meant by youth. He was a
practicing Christian and had attacks of faith of such fiery violence
that they might be likened to accesses of burning fever. Finally, in
order to add a last touch to the picture, La Faloise whispered
something in his cousin’s ear.

“You don’t say so!” said the latter.

“On my word of honor, they swore it was true! He was still like that
when he married.”

Fauchery chuckled as he looked at the count, whose face, with its
fringe of whiskers and absence of mustaches, seemed to have grown
squarer and harder now that he was busy quoting figures to the
writhing, struggling Steiner.

“My word, he’s got a phiz for it!” murmured Fauchery. “A pretty present
he made his wife! Poor little thing, how he must have bored her! She
knows nothing about anything, I’ll wager!”

Just then the Countess Sabine was saying something to him. But he did
not hear her, so amusing and extraordinary did he esteem the Muffats’
case. She repeated the question.

“Monsieur Fauchery, have you not published a sketch of Monsieur de
Bismarck? You spoke with him once?”

He got up briskly and approached the circle of ladies, endeavoring to
collect himself and soon with perfect ease of manner finding an answer:

“Dear me, madame, I assure you I wrote that ‘portrait’ with the help of
biographies which had been published in Germany. I have never seen
Monsieur de Bismarck.”

He remained beside the countess and, while talking with her, continued
his meditations. She did not look her age; one would have set her down
as being twenty-eight at most, for her eyes, above all, which were
filled with the dark blue shadow of her long eyelashes, retained the
glowing light of youth. Bred in a divided family, so that she used to
spend one month with the Marquis de Chouard, another with the marquise,
she had been married very young, urged on, doubtless, by her father,
whom she embarrassed after her mother’s death. A terrible man was the
marquis, a man about whom strange tales were beginning to be told, and
that despite his lofty piety! Fauchery asked if he should have the
honor of meeting him. Certainly her father was coming, but only very
late; he had so much work on hand! The journalist thought he knew where
the old gentleman passed his evenings and looked grave. But a mole,
which he noticed close to her mouth on the countess’s left cheek,
surprised him. Nana had precisely the same mole. It was curious. Tiny
hairs curled up on it, only they were golden in Nana’s case, black as
jet in this. Ah well, never mind! This woman enjoyed nobody’s embraces.

“I have always felt a wish to know Queen Augusta,” she said. “They say
she is so good, so devout. Do you think she will accompany the king?”

“It is not thought that she will, madame,” he replied.

She had no lovers: the thing was only too apparent. One had only to
look at her there by the side of that daughter of hers, sitting so
insignificant and constrained on her footstool. That sepulchral drawing
room of hers, which exhaled odors suggestive of being in a church,
spoke as plainly as words could of the iron hand, the austere mode of
existence, that weighed her down. There was nothing suggestive of her
own personality in that ancient abode, black with the damps of years.
It was Muffat who made himself felt there, who dominated his
surroundings with his devotional training, his penances and his fasts.
But the sight of the little old gentleman with the black teeth and
subtle smile whom he suddenly discovered in his armchair behind the
group of ladies afforded him a yet more decisive argument. He knew the
personage. It was Theophile Venot, a retired lawyer who had made a
specialty of church cases. He had left off practice with a handsome
fortune and was now leading a sufficiently mysterious existence, for he
was received everywhere, treated with great deference and even somewhat
feared, as though he had been the representative of a mighty force, an
occult power, which was felt to be at his back. Nevertheless, his
behavior was very humble. He was churchwarden at the Madeleine Church
and had simply accepted the post of deputy mayor at the town house of
the Ninth Arrondissement in order, as he said, to have something to do
in his leisure time. Deuce take it, the countess was well guarded;
there was nothing to be done in that quarter.

“You’re right, it’s enough to make one kick the bucket here,” said
Fauchery to his cousin when he had made good his escape from the circle
of ladies. “We’ll hook it!”

But Steiner, deserted at last by the Count Muffat and the deputy, came
up in a fury. Drops of perspiration stood on his forehead, and he
grumbled huskily:

“Gad! Let ’em tell me nothing, if nothing they want to tell me. I shall
find people who will talk.”

Then he pushed the journalist into a corner and, altering his tone,
said in accents of victory:

“It’s tomorrow, eh? I’m of the party, my bully!”

“Indeed!” muttered Fauchery with some astonishment.

“You didn’t know about it. Oh, I had lots of bother to find her at
home. Besides, Mignon never would leave me alone.”

“But they’re to be there, are the Mignons.”

“Yes, she told me so. In fact, she did receive my visit, and she
invited me. Midnight punctually, after the play.”

The banker was beaming. He winked and added with a peculiar emphasis on
the words:

“You’ve worked it, eh?”

“Eh, what?” said Fauchery, pretending not to understand him. “She
wanted to thank me for my article, so she came and called on me.”

“Yes, yes. You fellows are fortunate. You get rewarded. By the by, who
pays the piper tomorrow?”

The journalist made a slight outward movement with his arms, as though
he would intimate that no one had ever been able to find out. But
Vandeuvres called to Steiner, who knew M. de Bismarck. Mme du Joncquoy
had almost convinced herself of the truth of her suppositions; she
concluded with these words:

“He gave me an unpleasant impression. I think his face is evil. But I
am quite willing to believe that he has a deal of wit. It would account
for his successes.”

“Without doubt,” said the banker with a faint smile. He was a Jew from
Frankfort.

Meanwhile La Faloise at last made bold to question his cousin. He
followed him up and got inside his guard:

“There’s supper at a woman’s tomorrow evening? With which of them, eh?
With which of them?”

Fauchery motioned to him that they were overheard and must respect the
conventions here. The door had just been opened anew, and an old lady
had come in, followed by a young man in whom the journalist recognized
the truant schoolboy, perpetrator of the famous and as yet unforgotten
“trés chic” of the Blonde Venus first night. This lady’s arrival caused
a stir among the company. The Countess Sabine had risen briskly from
her seat in order to go and greet her, and she had taken both her hands
in hers and addressed her as her “dear Madame Hugon.” Seeing that his
cousin viewed this little episode with some curiosity, La Faloise
sought to arouse his interest and in a few brief phrases explained the
position. Mme Hugon, widow of a notary, lived in retirement at Les
Fondettes, an old estate of her family’s in the neighborhood of
Orleans, but she also kept up a small establishment in Paris in a house
belonging to her in the Rue de Richelieu and was now passing some weeks
there in order to settle her youngest son, who was reading the law and
in his “first year.” In old times she had been a dear friend of the
Marquise de Chouard and had assisted at the birth of the countess, who,
prior to her marriage, used to stay at her house for months at a time
and even now was quite familiarly treated by her.

“I have brought Georges to see you,” said Mme Hugon to Sabine. “He’s
grown, I trust.”

The young man with his clear eyes and the fair curls which suggested a
girl dressed up as a boy bowed easily to the countess and reminded her
of a bout of battledore and shuttlecock they had had together two years
ago at Les Fondettes.

“Philippe is not in Paris?” asked Count Muffat.

“Dear me, no!” replied the old lady. “He is always in garrison at
Bourges.” She had seated herself and began talking with considerable
pride of her eldest son, a great big fellow who, after enlisting in a
fit of waywardness, had of late very rapidly attained the rank of
lieutenant. All the ladies behaved to her with respectful sympathy, and
conversation was resumed in a tone at once more amiable and more
refined. Fauchery, at sight of that respectable Mme Hugon, that
motherly face lit up with such a kindly smile beneath its broad tresses
of white hair, thought how foolish he had been to suspect the Countess
Sabine even for an instant.

Nevertheless, the big chair with the red silk upholsteries in which the
countess sat had attracted his attention. Its style struck him as
crude, not to say fantastically suggestive, in that dim old drawing
room. Certainly it was not the count who had inveigled thither that
nest of voluptuous idleness. One might have described it as an
experiment, marking the birth of an appetite and of an enjoyment. Then
he forgot where he was, fell into brown study and in thought even
harked back to that vague confidential announcement imparted to him one
evening in the dining room of a restaurant. Impelled by a sort of
sensuous curiosity, he had always wanted an introduction into the
Muffats’ circle, and now that his friend was in Mexico through all
eternity, who could tell what might happen? “We shall see,” he thought.
It was a folly, doubtless, but the idea kept tormenting him; he felt
himself drawn on and his animal nature aroused. The big chair had a
rumpled look—its nether cushions had been tumbled, a fact which now
amused him.

“Well, shall we be off?” asked La Faloise, mentally vowing that once
outside he would find out the name of the woman with whom people were
going to sup.

“All in good time,” replied Fauchery.

But he was no longer in any hurry and excused himself on the score of
the invitation he had been commissioned to give and had as yet not
found a convenient opportunity to mention. The ladies were chatting
about an assumption of the veil, a very touching ceremony by which the
whole of Parisian society had for the last three days been greatly
moved. It was the eldest daughter of the Baronne de Fougeray, who,
under stress of an irresistible vocation, had just entered the
Carmelite Convent. Mme Chantereau, a distant cousin of the Fougerays,
told how the baroness had been obliged to take to her bed the day after
the ceremony, so overdone was she with weeping.

“I had a very good place,” declared Leonide. “I found it interesting.”

Nevertheless, Mme Hugon pitied the poor mother. How sad to lose a
daughter in such a way!

“I am accused of being overreligious,” she said in her quiet, frank
manner, “but that does not prevent me thinking the children very cruel
who obstinately commit such suicide.”

“Yes, it’s a terrible thing,” murmured the countess, shivering a
little, as became a chilly person, and huddling herself anew in the
depths of her big chair in front of the fire.

Then the ladies fell into a discussion. But their voices were
discreetly attuned, while light trills of laughter now and again
interrupted the gravity of their talk. The two lamps on the chimney
piece, which had shades of rose-colored lace, cast a feeble light over
them while on scattered pieces of furniture there burned but three
other lamps, so that the great drawing room remained in soft shadow.

Steiner was getting bored. He was describing to Fauchery an escapade of
that little Mme de Chezelles, whom he simply referred to as Leonide. “A
blackguard woman,” he said, lowering his voice behind the ladies’
armchairs. Fauchery looked at her as she sat quaintly perched, in her
voluminous ball dress of pale blue satin, on the corner of her
armchair. She looked as slight and impudent as a boy, and he ended by
feeling astonished at seeing her there. People comported themselves
better at Caroline Hequet’s, whose mother had arranged her house on
serious principles. Here was a perfect subject for an article. What a
strange world was this world of Paris! The most rigid circles found
themselves invaded. Evidently that silent Theophile Venot, who
contented himself by smiling and showing his ugly teeth, must have been
a legacy from the late countess. So, too, must have been such ladies of
mature age as Mme Chantereau and Mme du Joncquoy, besides four or five
old gentlemen who sat motionless in corners. The Count Muffat attracted
to the house a series of functionaries, distinguished by the immaculate
personal appearance which was at that time required of the men at the
Tuileries. Among others there was the chief clerk, who still sat
solitary in the middle of the room with his closely shorn cheeks, his
vacant glance and his coat so tight of fit that he could scarce venture
to move. Almost all the young men and certain individuals with
distinguished, aristocratic manners were the Marquis de Chouard’s
contribution to the circle, he having kept touch with the Legitimist
party after making his peace with the empire on his entrance into the
Council of State. There remained Leonide de Chezelles and Steiner, an
ugly little knot against which Mme Hugon’s elderly and amiable serenity
stood out in strange contrast. And Fauchery, having sketched out his
article, named this last group “Countess Sabine’s little clique.”

“On another occasion,” continued Steiner in still lower tones, “Leonide
got her tenor down to Montauban. She was living in the Château de
Beaurecueil, two leagues farther off, and she used to come in daily in
a carriage and pair in order to visit him at the Lion d’Or, where he
had put up. The carriage used to wait at the door, and Leonide would
stay for hours in the house, while a crowd gathered round and looked at
the horses.”

There was a pause in the talk, and some solemn moments passed silently
by in the lofty room. Two young men were whispering, but they ceased in
their turn, and the hushed step of Count Muffat was alone audible as he
crossed the floor. The lamps seemed to have paled; the fire was going
out; a stern shadow fell athwart the old friends of the house where
they sat in the chairs they had occupied there for forty years back. It
was as though in a momentary pause of conversation the invited guests
had become suddenly aware that the count’s mother, in all her glacial
stateliness, had returned among them.

But the Countess Sabine had once more resumed:

“Well, at last the news of it got about. The young man was likely to
die, and that would explain the poor child’s adoption of the religious
life. Besides, they say that Monsieur de Fougeray would never have
given his consent to the marriage.”

“They say heaps of other things too,” cried Leonide giddily.

She fell a-laughing; she refused to talk. Sabine was won over by this
gaiety and put her handkerchief up to her lips. And in the vast and
solemn room their laughter sounded a note which struck Fauchery
strangely, the note of delicate glass breaking. Assuredly here was the
first beginning of the “little rift.” Everyone began talking again. Mme
du Joncquoy demurred; Mme Chantereau knew for certain that a marriage
had been projected but that matters had gone no further; the men even
ventured to give their opinions. For some minutes the conversation was
a babel of opinions, in which the divers elements of the circle,
whether Bonapartist or Legitimist or merely worldly and skeptical,
appeared to jostle one another simultaneously. Estelle had rung to
order wood to be put on the fire; the footman turned up the lamps; the
room seemed to wake from sleep. Fauchery began smiling, as though once
more at his ease.

“Egad, they become the brides of God when they couldn’t be their
cousin’s,” said Vandeuvres between his teeth.

The subject bored him, and he had rejoined Fauchery.

“My dear fellow, have you ever seen a woman who was really loved become
a nun?”

He did not wait for an answer, for he had had enough of the topic, and
in a hushed voice:

“Tell me,” he said, “how many of us will there be tomorrow? There’ll be
the Mignons, Steiner, yourself, Blanche and I; who else?”

“Caroline, I believe, and Simonne and Gaga without doubt. One never
knows exactly, does one? On such occasions one expects the party will
number twenty, and you’re really thirty.”

Vandeuvres, who was looking at the ladies, passed abruptly to another
subject:

“She must have been very nice-looking, that Du Joncquoy woman, some
fifteen years ago. Poor Estelle has grown lankier than ever. What a
nice lath to put into a bed!”

But interrupting himself, he returned to the subject of tomorrow’s
supper.

“What’s so tiresome of those shows is that it’s always the same set of
women. One wants a novelty. Do try and invent a new girl. By Jove,
happy thought! I’ll go and beseech that stout man to bring the woman he
was trotting about the other evening at the Variétés.”

He referred to the chief clerk, sound asleep in the middle of the
drawing room. Fauchery, afar off, amused himself by following this
delicate negotiation. Vandeuvres had sat himself down by the stout man,
who still looked very sedate. For some moments they both appeared to be
discussing with much propriety the question before the house, which
was, “How can one discover the exact state of feeling that urges a
young girl to enter into the religious life?” Then the count returned
with the remark:

“It’s impossible. He swears she’s straight. She’d refuse, and yet I
would have wagered that I once saw her at Laure’s.”

“Eh, what? You go to Laure’s?” murmured Fauchery with a chuckle. “You
venture your reputation in places like that? I was under the impression
that it was only we poor devils of outsiders who—”

“Ah, dear boy, one ought to see every side of life.”

Then they sneered and with sparkling eyes they compared notes about the
table d’hôte in the Rue des Martyrs, where big Laure Piedefer ran a
dinner at three francs a head for little women in difficulties. A nice
hole, where all the little women used to kiss Laure on the lips! And as
the Countess Sabine, who had overheard a stray word or two, turned
toward them, they started back, rubbing shoulders in excited merriment.
They had not noticed that Georges Hugon was close by and that he was
listening to them, blushing so hotly the while that a rosy flush had
spread from his ears to his girlish throat. The infant was full of
shame and of ecstasy. From the moment his mother had turned him loose
in the room he had been hovering in the wake of Mme de Chezelles, the
only woman present who struck him as being the thing. But after all is
said and done, Nana licked her to fits!

“Yesterday evening,” Mme Hugon was saying, “Georges took me to the
play. Yes, we went to the Variétés, where I certainly had not set foot
for the last ten years. That child adores music. As to me, I wasn’t in
the least amused, but he was so happy! They put extraordinary pieces on
the stage nowadays. Besides, music delights me very little, I confess.”

“What! You don’t love music, madame?” cried Mme du Joncquoy, lifting
her eyes to heaven. “Is it possible there should be people who don’t
love music?”

The exclamation of surprise was general. No one had dropped a single
word concerning the performance at the Variétés, at which the good Mme
Hugon had not understood any of the allusions. The ladies knew the
piece but said nothing about it, and with that they plunged into the
realm of sentiment and began discussing the masters in a tone of
refined and ecstatical admiration. Mme du Joncquoy was not fond of any
of them save Weber, while Mme Chantereau stood up for the Italians. The
ladies’ voices had turned soft and languishing, and in front of the
hearth one might have fancied one’s self listening in meditative,
religious retirement to the faint, discreet music of a little chapel.

“Now let’s see,” murmured Vandeuvres, bringing Fauchery back into the
middle of the drawing room, “notwithstanding it all, we must invent a
woman for tomorrow. Shall we ask Steiner about it?”

“Oh, when Steiner’s got hold of a woman,” said the journalist, “it’s
because Paris has done with her.”

Vandeuvres, however, was searching about on every side.

“Wait a bit,” he continued, “the other day I met Foucarmont with a
charming blonde. I’ll go and tell him to bring her.”

And he called to Foucarmont. They exchanged a few words rapidly. There
must have been some sort of complication, for both of them, moving
carefully forward and stepping over the dresses of the ladies, went off
in quest of another young man with whom they continued the discussion
in the embrasure of a window. Fauchery was left to himself and had just
decided to proceed to the hearth, where Mme du Joncquoy was announcing
that she never heard Weber played without at the same time seeing
lakes, forests and sunrises over landscapes steeped in dew, when a hand
touched his shoulder and a voice behind him remarked:

“It’s not civil of you.”

“What d’you mean?” he asked, turning round and recognizing La Faloise.

“Why, about that supper tomorrow. You might easily have got me
invited.”

Fauchery was at length about to state his reasons when Vandeuvres came
back to tell him:

“It appears it isn’t a girl of Foucarmont’s. It’s that man’s flame out
there. She won’t be able to come. What a piece of bad luck! But all the
same I’ve pressed Foucarmont into the service, and he’s going to try to
get Louise from the Palais-Royal.”

“Is it not true, Monsieur de Vandeuvres,” asked Mme Chantereau, raising
her voice, “that Wagner’s music was hissed last Sunday?”

“Oh, frightfully, madame,” he made answer, coming forward with his
usual exquisite politeness.

Then, as they did not detain him, he moved off and continued whispering
in the journalist’s ear:

“I’m going to press some more of them. These young fellows must know
some little ladies.”

With that he was observed to accost men and to engage them in
conversation in his usual amiable and smiling way in every corner of
the drawing room. He mixed with the various groups, said something
confidently to everyone and walked away again with a sly wink and a
secret signal or two. It looked as though he were giving out a
watchword in that easy way of his. The news went round; the place of
meeting was announced, while the ladies’ sentimental dissertations on
music served to conceal the small, feverish rumor of these recruiting
operations.

“No, do not speak of your Germans,” Mme Chantereau was saying. “Song is
gaiety; song is light. Have you heard Patti in the Barber of Seville?”

“She was delicious!” murmured Leonide, who strummed none but operatic
airs on her piano.

Meanwhile the Countess Sabine had rung. When on Tuesdays the number of
visitors was small, tea was handed round the drawing room itself. While
directing a footman to clear a round table the countess followed the
Count de Vandeuvres with her eyes. She still smiled that vague smile
which slightly disclosed her white teeth, and as the count passed she
questioned him.

“What ARE you plotting, Monsieur de Vandeuvres?”

“What am I plotting, madame?” he answered quietly. “Nothing at all.”

“Really! I saw you so busy. Pray, wait, you shall make yourself
useful!”

She placed an album in his hands and asked him to put it on the piano.
But he found means to inform Fauchery in a low whisper that they would
have Tatan Nene, the most finely developed girl that winter, and Maria
Blond, the same who had just made her first appearance at the
Folies-Dramatiques. Meanwhile La Faloise stopped him at every step in
hopes of receiving an invitation. He ended by offering himself, and
Vandeuvres engaged him in the plot at once; only he made him promise to
bring Clarisse with him, and when La Faloise pretended to scruple about
certain points he quieted him by the remark:

“Since I invite you that’s enough!”

Nevertheless, La Faloise would have much liked to know the name of the
hostess. But the countess had recalled Vandeuvres and was questioning
him as to the manner in which the English made tea. He often betook
himself to England, where his horses ran. Then as though he had been
inwardly following up quite a laborious train of thought during his
remarks, he broke in with the question:

“And the marquis, by the by? Are we not to see him?”

“Oh, certainly you will! My father made me a formal promise that he
would come,” replied the countess. “But I’m beginning to be anxious.
His duties will have kept him.”

Vandeuvres smiled a discreet smile. He, too, seemed to have his doubts
as to the exact nature of the Marquis de Chouard’s duties. Indeed, he
had been thinking of a pretty woman whom the marquis occasionally took
into the country with him. Perhaps they could get her too.

In the meantime Fauchery decided that the moment had come in which to
risk giving Count Muff his invitation. The evening, in fact, was
drawing to a close.

“Are you serious?” asked Vandeuvres, who thought a joke was intended.

“Extremely serious. If I don’t execute my commission she’ll tear my
eyes out. It’s a case of landing her fish, you know.”

“Well then, I’ll help you, dear boy.”

Eleven o’clock struck. Assisted by her daughter, the countess was
pouring out the tea, and as hardly any guests save intimate friends had
come, the cups and the platefuls of little cakes were being circulated
without ceremony. Even the ladies did not leave their armchairs in
front of the fire and sat sipping their tea and nibbling cakes which
they held between their finger tips. From music the talk had declined
to purveyors. Boissier was the only person for sweetmeats and Catherine
for ices. Mme Chantereau, however, was all for Latinville. Speech grew
more and more indolent, and a sense of lassitude was lulling the room
to sleep. Steiner had once more set himself secretly to undermine the
deputy, whom he held in a state of blockade in the corner of a settee.
M. Venot, whose teeth must have been ruined by sweet things, was eating
little dry cakes, one after the other, with a small nibbling sound
suggestive of a mouse, while the chief clerk, his nose in a teacup,
seemed never to be going to finish its contents. As to the countess,
she went in a leisurely way from one guest to another, never pressing
them, indeed, only pausing a second or two before the gentlemen whom
she viewed with an air of dumb interrogation before she smiled and
passed on. The great fire had flushed all her face, and she looked as
if she were the sister of her daughter, who appeared so withered and
ungainly at her side. When she drew near Fauchery, who was chatting
with her husband and Vandeuvres, she noticed that they grew suddenly
silent; accordingly she did not stop but handed the cup of tea she was
offering to Georges Hugon beyond them.

“It’s a lady who desires your company at supper,” the journalist gaily
continued, addressing Count Muffat.

The last-named, whose face had worn its gray look all the evening,
seemed very much surprised. What lady was it?

“Oh, Nana!” said Vandeuvres, by way of forcing the invitation.

The count became more grave than before. His eyelids trembled just
perceptibly, while a look of discomfort, such as headache produces,
hovered for a moment athwart his forehead.

“But I’m not acquainted with that lady,” he murmured.

“Come, come, you went to her house,” remarked Vandeuvres.

“What d’you say? I went to her house? Oh yes, the other day, in behalf
of the Benevolent Organization. I had forgotten about it. But, no
matter, I am not acquainted with her, and I cannot accept.”

He had adopted an icy expression in order to make them understand that
this jest did not appear to him to be in good taste. A man of his
position did not sit down at tables of such women as that. Vandeuvres
protested: it was to be a supper party of dramatic and artistic people,
and talent excused everything. But without listening further to the
arguments urged by Fauchery, who spoke of a dinner where the Prince of
Scots, the son of a queen, had sat down beside an ex-music-hall singer,
the count only emphasized his refusal. In so doing, he allowed himself,
despite his great politeness, to be guilty of an irritated gesture.

Georges and La Faloise, standing in front of each other drinking their
tea, had overheard the two or three phrases exchanged in their
immediate neighborhood.

“Jove, it’s at Nana’s then,” murmured La Faloise. “I might have
expected as much!”

Georges said nothing, but he was all aflame. His fair hair was in
disorder; his blue eyes shone like tapers, so fiercely had the vice,
which for some days past had surrounded him, inflamed and stirred his
blood. At last he was going to plunge into all that he had dreamed of!

“I don’t know the address,” La Faloise resumed.

“She lives on a third floor in the Boulevard Haussmann, between the Rue
de l’Arcade and the Rue Pesquier,” said Georges all in a breath.

And when the other looked at him in much astonishment, he added,
turning very red and fit to sink into the ground with embarrassment and
conceit:

“I’m of the party. She invited me this morning.”

But there was a great stir in the drawing room, and Vandeuvres and
Fauchery could not continue pressing the count. The Marquis de Chouard
had just come in, and everyone was anxious to greet him. He had moved
painfully forward, his legs failing under him, and he now stood in the
middle of the room with pallid face and eyes blinking, as though he had
just come out of some dark alley and were blinded by the brightness of
the lamps.

“I scarcely hoped to see you tonight, Father,” said the countess. “I
should have been anxious till the morning.”

He looked at her without answering, as a man might who fails to
understand. His nose, which loomed immense on his shorn face, looked
like a swollen pimple, while his lower lip hung down. Seeing him such a
wreck, Mme Hugon, full of kind compassion, said pitying things to him.

“You work too hard. You ought to rest yourself. At our age we ought to
leave work to the young people.”

“Work! Ah yes, to be sure, work!” he stammered at last. “Always plenty
of work.”

He began to pull himself together, straightening up his bent figure and
passing his hand, as was his wont, over his scant gray hair, of which a
few locks strayed behind his ears.

“At what are you working as late as this?” asked Mme du Joncquoy. “I
thought you were at the financial minister’s reception?”

But the countess intervened with:

“My father had to study the question of a projected law.”

“Yes, a projected law,” he said; “exactly so, a projected law. I shut
myself up for that reason. It refers to work in factories, and I was
anxious for a proper observance of the Lord’s day of rest. It is really
shameful that the government is unwilling to act with vigor in the
matter. Churches are growing empty; we are running headlong to ruin.”

Vandeuvres had exchanged glances with Fauchery. They both happened to
be behind the marquis, and they were scanning him suspiciously. When
Vandeuvres found an opportunity to take him aside and to speak to him
about the good-looking creature he was in the habit of taking down into
the country, the old man affected extreme surprise. Perhaps someone had
seen him with the Baroness Decker, at whose house at Viroflay he
sometimes spent a day or so. Vandeuvres’s sole vengeance was an abrupt
question:

“Tell me, where have you been straying to? Your elbow is covered with
cobwebs and plaster.”

“My elbow,” he muttered, slightly disturbed. “Yes indeed, it’s true. A
speck or two, I must have come in for them on my way down from my
office.”

Several people were taking their departure. It was close on midnight.
Two footmen were noiselessly removing the empty cups and the plates
with cakes. In front of the hearth the ladies had re-formed and, at the
same time, narrowed their circle and were chatting more carelessly than
before in the languid atmosphere peculiar to the close of a party. The
very room was going to sleep, and slowly creeping shadows were cast by
its walls. It was then Fauchery spoke of departure. Yet he once more
forgot his intention at sight of the Countess Sabine. She was resting
from her cares as hostess, and as she sat in her wonted seat, silent,
her eyes fixed on a log which was turning into embers, her face
appeared so white and so impassable that doubt again possessed him. In
the glow of the fire the small black hairs on the mole at the corner of
her lip became white. It was Nana’s very mole, down to the color of the
hair. He could not refrain from whispering something about it in
Vandeuvres’s ear. Gad, it was true; the other had never noticed it
before. And both men continued this comparison of Nana and the
countess. They discovered a vague resemblance about the chin and the
mouth, but the eyes were not at all alike. Then, too, Nana had a
good-natured expression, while with the countess it was hard to
decide—she might have been a cat, sleeping with claws withdrawn and
paws stirred by a scarce-perceptible nervous quiver.

“All the same, one could have her,” declared Fauchery.

Vandeuvres stripped her at a glance.

“Yes, one could, all the same,” he said. “But I think nothing of the
thighs, you know. Will you bet she has no thighs?”

He stopped, for Fauchery touched him briskly on the arm and showed him
Estelle, sitting close to them on her footstool. They had raised their
voices without noticing her, and she must have overheard them.
Nevertheless, she continued sitting there stiff and motionless, not a
hair having lifted on her thin neck, which was that of a girl who has
shot up all too quickly. Thereupon they retired three or four paces,
and Vandeuvres vowed that the countess was a very honest woman. Just
then voices were raised in front of the hearth. Mme du Joncquoy was
saying:

“I was willing to grant you that Monsieur de Bismarck was perhaps a
witty man. Only, if you go as far as to talk of genius—”

The ladies had come round again to their earliest topic of
conversation.

“What the deuce! Still Monsieur de Bismarck!” muttered Fauchery. “This
time I make my escape for good and all.”

“Wait a bit,” said Vandeuvres, “we must have a definite no from the
count.”

The Count Muffat was talking to his father-in-law and a certain
serious-looking gentleman. Vandeuvres drew him away and renewed the
invitation, backing it up with the information that he was to be at the
supper himself. A man might go anywhere; no one could think of
suspecting evil where at most there could only be curiosity. The count
listened to these arguments with downcast eyes and expressionless face.
Vandeuvres felt him to be hesitating when the Marquis de Chouard
approached with a look of interrogation. And when the latter was
informed of the question in hand and Fauchery had invited him in his
turn, he looked at his son-in-law furtively. There ensued an
embarrassed silence, but both men encouraged one another and would
doubtless have ended by accepting had not Count Muffat perceived M.
Venot’s gaze fixed upon him. The little old man was no longer smiling;
his face was cadaverous, his eyes bright and keen as steel.

“No,” replied the count directly, in so decisive a tone that further
insistence became impossible.

Then the marquis refused with even greater severity of expression. He
talked morality. The aristocratic classes ought to set a good example.
Fauchery smiled and shook hands with Vandeuvres. He did not wait for
him and took his departure immediately, for he was due at his newspaper
office.

“At Nana’s at midnight, eh?”

La Faloise retired too. Steiner had made his bow to the countess. Other
men followed them, and the same phrase went round—“At midnight, at
Nana’s”—as they went to get their overcoats in the anteroom. Georges,
who could not leave without his mother, had stationed himself at the
door, where he gave the exact address. “Third floor, door on your
left.” Yet before going out Fauchery gave a final glance. Vandeuvres
had again resumed his position among the ladies and was laughing with
Leonide de Chezelles. Count Muffat and the Marquis de Chouard were
joining in the conversation, while the good Mme Hugon was falling
asleep open-eyed. Lost among the petticoats, M. Venot was his own small
self again and smiled as of old. Twelve struck slowly in the great
solemn room.

“What—what do you mean?” Mme du Joncquoy resumed. “You imagine that
Monsieur de Bismarck will make war on us and beat us! Oh, that’s
unbearable!”

Indeed, they were laughing round Mme Chantereau, who had just repeated
an assertion she had heard made in Alsace, where her husband owned a
foundry.

“We have the emperor, fortunately,” said Count Muffat in his grave,
official way.

It was the last phrase Fauchery was able to catch. He closed the door
after casting one more glance in the direction of the Countess Sabine.
She was talking sedately with the chief clerk and seemed to be
interested in that stout individual’s conversation. Assuredly he must
have been deceiving himself. There was no “little rift” there at all.
It was a pity.

“You’re not coming down then?” La Faloise shouted up to him from the
entrance hall.

And out on the pavement, as they separated, they once more repeated:

“Tomorrow, at Nana’s.”




 CHAPTER IV


Since morning Zoé had delivered up the flat to a managing man who had
come from Brebant’s with a staff of helpers and waiters. Brebant was to
supply everything, from the supper, the plates and dishes, the glass,
the linen, the flowers, down to the seats and footstools. Nana could
not have mustered a dozen napkins out of all her cupboards, and not
having had time to get a proper outfit after her new start in life and
scorning to go to the restaurant, she had decided to make the
restaurant come to her. It struck her as being more the thing. She
wanted to celebrate her great success as an actress with a supper which
should set people talking. As her dining room was too small, the
manager had arranged the table in the drawing room, a table with
twenty-five covers, placed somewhat close together.

“Is everything ready?” asked Nana when she returned at midnight.

“Oh! I don’t know,” replied Zoé roughly, looking beside herself with
worry. “The Lord be thanked, I don’t bother about anything. They’re
making a fearful mess in the kitchen and all over the flat! I’ve had to
fight my battles too. The other two came again. My eye! I did just
chuck ’em out!”

She referred, of course, to her employer’s old admirers, the tradesman
and the Walachian, to whom Nana, sure of her future and longing to shed
her skin, as she phrased it, had decided to give the go-by.

“There are a couple of leeches for you!” she muttered.

“If they come back threaten to go to the police.”

Then she called Daguenet and Georges, who had remained behind in the
anteroom, where they were hanging up their overcoats. They had both met
at the stage door in the Passage des Panoramas, and she had brought
them home with her in a cab. As there was nobody there yet, she shouted
to them to come into the dressing room while Zoé was touching up her
toilet. Hurriedly and without changing her dress she had her hair done
up and stuck white roses in her chignon and at her bosom. The little
room was littered with the drawing-room furniture, which the workmen
had been compelled to roll in there, and it was full of a motley
assemblage of round tables, sofas and armchairs, with their legs in air
for the most part. Nana was quite ready when her dress caught on a
castor and tore upward. At this she swore furiously; such things only
happened to her! Ragingly she took off her dress, a very simple affair
of white foulard, of so thin and supple a texture that it clung about
her like a long shift. But she put it on again directly, for she could
not find another to her taste, and with tears in her eyes declared that
she was dressed like a ragpicker. Daguenet and Georges had to patch up
the rent with pins, while Zoé once more arranged her hair. All three
hurried round her, especially the boy, who knelt on the floor with his
hands among her skirts. And at last she calmed down again when Daguenet
assured her it could not be later than a quarter past twelve, seeing
that by dint of scamping her words and skipping her lines she had
effectually shortened the third act of the Blonde Venus.

“The play’s still far too good for that crowd of idiots,” she said.
“Did you see? There were thousands there tonight. Zoé, my girl, you
will wait in here. Don’t go to bed, I shall want you. By gum, it is
time they came. Here’s company!”

She ran off while Georges stayed where he was with the skirts of his
coat brushing the floor. He blushed, seeing Daguenet looking at him.
Notwithstanding which, they had conceived a tender regard the one for
the other. They rearranged the bows of their cravats in front of the
big dressing glass and gave each other a mutual dose of the
clothesbrush, for they were all white from their close contact with
Nana.

“One would think it was sugar,” murmured Georges, giggling like a
greedy little child.

A footman hired for the evening was ushering the guests into the small
drawing room, a narrow slip of a place in which only four armchairs had
been left in order the better to pack in the company. From the large
drawing room beyond came a sound as of the moving of plates and silver,
while a clear and brilliant ray of light shone from under the door. At
her entrance Nana found Clarisse Besnus, whom La Faloise had brought,
already installed in one of the armchairs.

“Dear me, you’re the first of ’em!” said Nana, who, now that she was
successful, treated her familiarly.

“Oh, it’s his doing,” replied Clarisse. “He’s always afraid of not
getting anywhere in time. If I’d taken him at his word I shouldn’t have
waited to take off my paint and my wig.”

The young man, who now saw Nana for the first time, bowed, paid her a
compliment and spoke of his cousin, hiding his agitation behind an
exaggeration of politeness. But Nana, neither listening to him nor
recognizing his face, shook hands with him and then went briskly toward
Rose Mignon, with whom she at once assumed a most distinguished manner.

“Ah, how nice of you, my dear madame! I was so anxious to have you
here!”

“It’s I who am charmed, I assure you,” said Rose with equal amiability.

“Pray, sit down. Do you require anything?”

“Thank you, no! Ah yes, I’ve left my fan in my pelisse, Steiner; just
look in the right-hand pocket.”

Steiner and Mignon had come in behind Rose. The banker turned back and
reappeared with the fan while Mignon embraced Nana fraternally and
forced Rose to do so also. Did they not all belong to the same family
in the theatrical world? Then he winked as though to encourage Steiner,
but the latter was disconcerted by Rose’s clear gaze and contented
himself by kissing Nana’s hand.

Just then the Count de Vandeuvres made his appearance with Blanche de
Sivry. There was an interchange of profound bows, and Nana with the
utmost ceremony conducted Blanche to an armchair. Meanwhile Vandeuvres
told them laughingly that Fauchery was engaged in a dispute at the foot
of the stairs because the porter had refused to allow Lucy Stewart’s
carriage to come in at the gate. They could hear Lucy telling the
porter he was a dirty blackguard in the anteroom. But when the footman
had opened the door she came forward with her laughing grace of manner,
announced her name herself, took both Nana’s hands in hers and told her
that she had liked her from the very first and considered her talent
splendid. Nana, puffed up by her novel role of hostess, thanked her and
was veritably confused. Nevertheless, from the moment of Fauchery’s
arrival she appeared preoccupied, and directly she could get near him
she asked him in a low voice:

“Will he come?”

“No, he did not want to,” was the journalist’s abrupt reply, for he was
taken by surprise, though he had got ready some sort of tale to explain
Count Muffat’s refusal.

Seeing the young woman’s sudden pallor, he became conscious of his
folly and tried to retract his words.

“He was unable to; he is taking the countess to the ball at the
Ministry of the Interior tonight.”

“All right,” murmured Nana, who suspected him of ill will, “you’ll pay
me out for that, my pippin.”

She turned on her heel, and so did he; they were angry. Just then
Mignon was pushing Steiner up against Nana, and when Fauchery had left
her he said to her in a low voice and with the good-natured cynicism of
a comrade in arms who wishes his friends to be happy:

“He’s dying of it, you know, only he’s afraid of my wife. Won’t you
protect him?”

Nana did not appear to understand. She smiled and looked at Rose, the
husband and the banker and finally said to the latter:

“Monsieur Steiner, you will sit next to me.”

With that there came from the anteroom a sound of laughter and
whispering and a burst of merry, chattering voices, which sounded as if
a runaway convent were on the premises. And Labordette appeared, towing
five women in his rear, his boarding school, as Lucy Stewart cruelly
phrased it. There was Gaga, majestic in a blue velvet dress which was
too tight for her, and Caroline Hequet, clad as usual in ribbed black
silk, trimmed with Chantilly lace. Léa de Horn came next, terribly
dressed up, as her wont was, and after her the big Tatan Nene, a
good-humored fair girl with the bosom of a wet nurse, at which people
laughed, and finally little Maria Blond, a young damsel of fifteen, as
thin and vicious as a street child, yet on the high road to success,
owing to her recent first appearance at the Folies. Labordette had
brought the whole collection in a single fly, and they were still
laughing at the way they had been squeezed with Maria Blond on her
knees. But on entering the room they pursed up their lips, and all grew
very conventional as they shook hands and exchanged salutations. Gaga
even affected the infantile and lisped through excess of genteel
deportment. Tatan Nene alone transgressed. They had been telling her as
they came along that six absolutely naked Negroes would serve up Nana’s
supper, and she now grew anxious about them and asked to see them.
Labordette called her a goose and besought her to be silent.

“And Bordenave?” asked Fauchery.

“Oh, you may imagine how miserable I am,” cried Nana; “he won’t be able
to join us.”

“Yes,” said Rose Mignon, “his foot caught in a trap door, and he’s got
a fearful sprain. If only you could hear him swearing, with his leg
tied up and laid out on a chair!”

Thereupon everybody mourned over Bordenave’s absence. No one ever gave
a good supper without Bordenave. Ah well, they would try and do without
him, and they were already talking about other matters when a burly
voice was heard:

“What, eh, what? Is that the way they’re going to write my obituary
notice?”

There was a shout, and all heads were turned round, for it was indeed
Bordenave. Huge and fiery-faced, he was standing with his stiff leg in
the doorway, leaning for support on Simonne Cabiroche’s shoulder.
Simonne was for the time being his mistress. This little creature had
had a certain amount of education and could play the piano and talk
English. She was a blonde on a tiny, pretty scale and so delicately
formed that she seemed to bend under Bordenave’s rude weight. Yet she
was smilingly submissive withal. He postured there for some moments,
for he felt that together they formed a tableau.

“One can’t help liking ye, eh?” he continued. “Zounds, I was afraid I
should get bored, and I said to myself, ‘Here goes.’”

But he interrupted himself with an oath.

“Oh, damn!”

Simonne had taken a step too quickly forward, and his foot had just
felt his full weight. He gave her a rough push, but she, still smiling
away and ducking her pretty head as some animal might that is afraid of
a beating, held him up with all the strength a little plump blonde can
command. Amid all these exclamations there was a rush to his
assistance. Nana and Rose Mignon rolled up an armchair, into which
Bordenave let himself sink, while the other women slid a second one
under his leg. And with that all the actresses present kissed him as a
matter of course. He kept grumbling and gasping.

“Oh, damn! Oh, damn! Ah well, the stomach’s unhurt, you’ll see.”

Other guests had arrived by this time, and motion became impossible in
the room. The noise of clinking plates and silver had ceased, and now a
dispute was heard going on in the big drawing room, where the voice of
the manager grumbled angrily. Nana was growing impatient, for she
expected no more invited guests and wondered why they did not bring in
supper. She had just sent Georges to find out what was going on when,
to her great surprise, she noticed the arrival of more guests, both
male and female. She did not know them in the least. Whereupon with
some embarrassment she questioned Bordenave, Mignon and Labordette
about them. They did not know them any more than she did, but when she
turned to the Count de Vandeuvres he seemed suddenly to recollect
himself. They were the young men he had pressed into her service at
Count Muffat’s. Nana thanked him. That was capital, capital! Only they
would all be terribly crowded, and she begged Labordette to go and have
seven more covers set. Scarcely had he left the room than the footman
ushered in three newcomers. Nay, this time the thing was becoming
ridiculous; one certainly could never take them all in. Nana was
beginning to grow angry and in her haughtiest manner announced that
such conduct was scarcely in good taste. But seeing two more arrive,
she began laughing; it was really too funny. So much the worse. People
would have to fit in anyhow! The company were all on their feet save
Gaga and Rose and Bordenave, who alone took up two armchairs. There was
a buzz of voices, people talking in low tones and stifling slight yawns
the while.

“Now what d’you say, my lass,” asked Bordenave, “to our sitting down at
table as if nothing had happened? We are all here, don’t you think?”

“Oh yes, we’re all here, I promise you!” she answered laughingly.

She looked round her but grew suddenly serious, as though she were
surprised at not finding someone. Doubtless there was a guest missing
whom she did not mention. It was a case of waiting. But a minute or two
later the company noticed in their midst a tall gentleman with a fine
face and a beautiful white beard. The most astonishing thing about it
was that nobody had seen him come in; indeed, he must have slipped into
the little drawing room through the bedroom door, which had remained
ajar. Silence reigned, broken only by a sound of whispering. The Count
de Vandeuvres certainly knew who the gentleman was, for they both
exchanged a discreet handgrip, but to the questions which the women
asked him he replied by a smile only. Thereupon Caroline Hequet wagered
in a low voice that it was an English lord who was on the eve of
returning to London to be married. She knew him quite well—she had had
him. And this account of the matter went the round of the ladies
present, Maria Blond alone asserting that, for her part, she recognized
a German ambassador. She could prove it, because he often passed the
night with one of her friends. Among the men his measure was taken in a
few rapid phrases. A real swell, to judge by his looks! Perhaps he
would pay for the supper! Most likely. It looked like it. Bah! Provided
only the supper was a good one! In the end the company remained
undecided. Nay, they were already beginning to forget the old
white-bearded gentleman when the manager opened the door of the large
drawing room.

“Supper is on the table, madame.”

Nana had already accepted Steiner’s proffered arm without noticing a
movement on the part of the old gentleman, who started to walk behind
her in solitary state. Thus the march past could not be organized, and
men and women entered anyhow, joking with homely good humor over this
absence of ceremony. A long table stretched from one end to the other
of the great room, which had been entirely cleared of furniture, and
this same table was not long enough, for the plates thereon were
touching one another. Four candelabra, with ten candles apiece, lit up
the supper, and of these one was gorgeous in silver plate with sheaves
of flowers to right and left of it. Everything was luxurious after the
restaurant fashion; the china was ornamented with a gold line and
lacked the customary monogram; the silver had become worn and tarnished
through dint of continual washings; the glass was of the kind that you
can complete an odd set of in any cheap emporium.

The scene suggested a premature housewarming in an establishment newly
smiled on by fortune and as yet lacking the necessary conveniences.
There was no central luster, and the candelabra, whose tall tapers had
scarcely burned up properly, cast a pale yellow light among the dishes
and stands on which fruit, cakes and preserves alternated
symmetrically.

“You sit where you like, you know,” said Nana. “It’s more amusing that
way.”

She remained standing midway down the side of the table. The old
gentleman whom nobody knew had placed himself on her right, while she
kept Steiner on her left hand. Some guests were already sitting down
when the sound of oaths came from the little drawing room. It was
Bordenave. The company had forgotten him, and he was having all the
trouble in the world to raise himself out of his two armchairs, for he
was howling amain and calling for that cat of a Simonne, who had
slipped off with the rest. The women ran in to him, full of pity for
his woes, and Bordenave appeared, supported, nay, almost carried, by
Caroline, Clarisse, Tatan Nene and Maria Blond. And there was much
to-do over his installation at the table.

“In the middle, facing Nana!” was the cry. “Bordenave in the middle!
He’ll be our president!”

Thereupon the ladies seated him in the middle. But he needed a second
chair for his leg, and two girls lifted it up and stretched it
carefully out. It wouldn’t matter; he would eat sideways.

“God blast it all!” he grumbled. “We’re squashed all the same! Ah, my
kittens, Papa recommends himself to your tender care!”

He had Rose Mignon on his right and Lucy Stewart on his left hand, and
they promised to take good care of him. Everybody was now getting
settled. Count de Vandeuvres placed himself between Lucy and Clarisse;
Fauchery between Rose Mignon and Caroline Hequet. On the other side of
the table Hector de la Faloise had rushed to get next Gaga, and that
despite the calls of Clarisse opposite, while Mignon, who never
deserted Steiner, was only separated from him by Blanche and had Tatan
Nene on his left. Then came Labordette and, finally, at the two ends of
the table were irregular crowding groups of young men and of women,
such as Simonne, Léa de Horn and Maria Blond. It was in this region
that Daguenet and Georges forgathered more warmly than ever while
smilingly gazing at Nana.

Nevertheless, two people remained standing, and there was much joking
about it. The men offered seats on their knees. Clarisse, who could not
move her elbows, told Vandeuvres that she counted on him to feed her.
And then that Bordenave did just take up space with his chairs! There
was a final effort, and at last everybody was seated, but, as Mignon
loudly remarked, they were confoundedly like herrings in a barrel.

“Thick asparagus soup à la comtesse, clear soup à la Deslignac,”
murmured the waiters, carrying about platefuls in rear of the guests.

Bordenave was loudly recommending the thick soup when a shout arose,
followed by protests and indignant exclamations. The door had just
opened, and three late arrivals, a woman and two men, had just come in.
Oh dear, no! There was no space for them! Nana, however, without
leaving her chair, began screwing up her eyes in the effort to find out
whether she knew them. The woman was Louise Violaine, but she had never
seen the men before.

“This gentleman, my dear,” said Vandeuvres, “is a friend of mine, a
naval officer, Monsieur de Foucarmont by name. I invited him.”

Foucarmont bowed and seemed very much at ease, for he added:

“And I took leave to bring one of my friends with me.”

“Oh, it’s quite right, quite right!” said Nana. “Sit down, pray. Let’s
see, you—Clarisse—push up a little. You’re a good deal spread out down
there. That’s it—where there’s a will—”

They crowded more tightly than ever, and Foucarmont and Louise were
given a little stretch of table, but the friend had to sit at some
distance from his plate and ate his supper through dint of making a
long arm between his neighbors’ shoulders. The waiters took away the
soup plates and circulated rissoles of young rabbit with truffles and
“niokys” and powdered cheese. Bordenave agitated the whole table with
the announcement that at one moment he had had the idea of bringing
with him Prullière, Fontan and old Bosc. At this Nana looked sedate and
remarked dryly that she would have given them a pretty reception. Had
she wanted colleagues, she would certainly have undertaken to ask them
herself. No, no, she wouldn’t have third-rate play actors. Old Bosc was
always drunk; Prullière was fond of spitting too much, and as to
Fontan, he made himself unbearable in society with his loud voice and
his stupid doings. Then, you know, third-rate play actors were always
out of place when they found themselves in the society of gentlemen
such as those around her.

“Yes, yes, it’s true,” Mignon declared.

All round the table the gentlemen in question looked unimpeachable in
the extreme, what with their evening dress and their pale features, the
natural distinction of which was still further refined by fatigue. The
old gentleman was as deliberate in his movements and wore as subtle a
smile as though he were presiding over a diplomatic congress, and
Vandeuvres, with his exquisite politeness toward the ladies next to
him, seemed to be at one of the Countess Muffat’s receptions. That very
morning Nana had been remarking to her aunt that in the matter of men
one could not have done better—they were all either wellborn or
wealthy, in fact, quite the thing. And as to the ladies, they were
behaving admirably. Some of them, such as Blanche, Léa and Louise, had
come in low dresses, but Gaga’s only was perhaps a little too low, the
more so because at her age she would have done well not to show her
neck at all. Now that the company were finally settled the laughter and
the light jests began to fail. Georges was under the impression that he
had assisted at merrier dinner parties among the good folks of Orleans.
There was scarcely any conversation. The men, not being mutually
acquainted, stared at one another, while the women sat quite quiet, and
it was this which especially surprised Georges. He thought them all
smugs—he had been under the impression that everybody would begin
kissing at once.

The third course, consisting of a Rhine carp à la Chambord and a saddle
of venison à l’anglaise, was being served when Blanche remarked aloud:

“Lucy, my dear, I met your Ollivier on Sunday. How he’s grown!”

“Dear me, yes! He’s eighteen,” replied Lucy. “It doesn’t make me feel
any younger. He went back to his school yesterday.”

Her son Ollivier, whom she was wont to speak of with pride, was a pupil
at the École de Marine. Then ensued a conversation about the young
people, during which all the ladies waxed very tender. Nana described
her own great happiness. Her baby, the little Louis, she said, was now
at the house of her aunt, who brought him round to her every morning at
eleven o’clock, when she would take him into her bed, where he played
with her griffon dog Lulu. It was enough to make one die of laughing to
see them both burying themselves under the clothes at the bottom of the
bed. The company had no idea how cunning Louiset had already become.

“Oh, yesterday I did just pass a day!” said Rose Mignon in her turn.
“Just imagine, I went to fetch Charles and Henry at their boarding
school, and I had positively to take them to the theater at night. They
jumped; they clapped their little hands: ‘We shall see Mamma act! We
shall see Mamma act!’ Oh, it was a to-do!”

Mignon smiled complaisantly, his eyes moist with paternal tenderness.

“And at the play itself,” he continued, “they were so funny! They
behaved as seriously as grown men, devoured Rose with their eyes and
asked me why Mamma had her legs bare like that.”

The whole table began laughing, and Mignon looked radiant, for his
pride as a father was flattered. He adored his children and had but one
object in life, which was to increase their fortunes by administering
the money gained by Rose at the theater and elsewhere with the
businesslike severity of a faithful steward. When as first fiddle in
the music hall where she used to sing he had married her, they had been
passionately fond of one another. Now they were good friends. There was
an understanding between them: she labored hard to the full extent of
her talent and of her beauty; he had given up his violin in order the
better to watch over her successes as an actress and as a woman. One
could not have found a more homely and united household anywhere!

“What age is your eldest?” asked Vandeuvres.

“Henry’s nine,” replied Mignon, “but such a big chap for his years!”

Then he chaffed Steiner, who was not fond of children, and with quiet
audacity informed him that were he a father, he would make a less
stupid hash of his fortune. While talking he watched the banker over
Blanche’s shoulders to see if it was coming off with Nana. But for some
minutes Rose and Fauchery, who were talking very near him, had been
getting on his nerves. Was Rose going to waste time over such a folly
as that? In that sort of case, by Jove, he blocked the way. And diamond
on finger and with his fine hands in great evidence, he finished
discussing a fillet of venison.

Elsewhere the conversation about children continued. La Faloise,
rendered very restless by the immediate proximity of Gaga, asked news
of her daughter, whom he had had the pleasure of noticing in her
company at the Variétés. Lili was quite well, but she was still such a
tomboy! He was astonished to learn that Lili was entering on her
nineteenth year. Gaga became even more imposing in his eyes, and when
he endeavored to find out why she had not brought Lili with her:

“Oh no, no, never!” she said stiffly. “Not three months ago she
positively insisted on leaving her boarding school. I was thinking of
marrying her off at once, but she loves me so that I had to take her
home—oh, so much against my will!”

Her blue eyelids with their blackened lashes blinked and wavered while
she spoke of the business of settling her young lady. If at her time of
life she hadn’t laid by a sou but was still always working to minister
to men’s pleasures, especially those very young men, whose grandmother
she might well be, it was truly because she considered a good match of
far greater importance than mere savings. And with that she leaned over
La Faloise, who reddened under the huge, naked, plastered shoulder with
which she well-nigh crushed him.

“You know,” she murmured, “if she fails it won’t be my fault. But
they’re so strange when they’re young!”

There was a considerable bustle round the table, and the waiters became
very active. After the third course the entrees had made their
appearance; they consisted of pullets à la marechale, fillets of sole
with shallot sauce and escalopes of Strasbourg paté. The manager, who
till then had been having Meursault served, now offered Chambertin and
Leoville. Amid the slight hubbub which the change of plates involved
Georges, who was growing momentarily more astonished, asked Daguenet if
all the ladies present were similarly provided with children, and the
other, who was amused by this question, gave him some further details.
Lucy Stewart was the daughter of a man of English origin who greased
the wheels of the trains at the Gare du Nord; she was thirty-nine years
old and had the face of a horse but was adorable withal and, though
consumptive, never died. In fact, she was the smartest woman there and
represented three princes and a duke. Caroline Hequet, born at
Bordeaux, daughter of a little clerk long since dead of shame, was
lucky enough to be possessed of a mother with a head on her shoulders,
who, after having cursed her, had made it up again at the end of a year
of reflection, being minded, at any rate, to save a fortune for her
daughter. The latter was twenty-five years old and very passionless and
was held to be one of the finest women it is possible to enjoy. Her
price never varied. The mother, a model of orderliness, kept the
accounts and noted down receipts and expenditures with severe
precision. She managed the whole household from some small lodging two
stories above her daughter’s, where, moreover, she had established a
workroom for dressmaking and plain sewing. As to Blanche de Sivry,
whose real name was Jacqueline Bandu, she hailed from a village near
Amiens. Magnificent in person, stupid and untruthful in character, she
gave herself out as the granddaughter of a general and never owned to
her thirty-two summers. The Russians had a great taste for her, owing
to her embonpoint. Then Daguenet added a rapid word or two about the
rest. There was Clarisse Besnus, whom a lady had brought up from
Saint-Aubin-sur-Mer in the capacity of maid while the lady’s husband
had started her in quite another line. There was Simonne Cabiroche, the
daughter of a furniture dealer in the Faubourg Saint-Antoine, who had
been educated in a large boarding school with a view to becoming a
governess. Finally there were Maria Blond and Louise Violaine and Léa
de Horn, who had all shot up to woman’s estate on the pavements of
Paris, not to mention Tatan Nene, who had herded cows in Champagne till
she was twenty.

Georges listened and looked at these ladies, feeling dizzy and excited
by the coarse recital thus crudely whispered in his ear, while behind
his chair the waiters kept repeating in respectful tones:

“Pullets à la marechale; fillets of sole with ravigote sauce.”

“My dear fellow,” said Daguenet, giving him the benefit of his
experience, “don’t take any fish; it’ll do you no good at this time of
night. And be content with Leoville: it’s less treacherous.”

A heavy warmth floated upward from the candelabras, from the dishes
which were being handed round, from the whole table where thirty-eight
human beings were suffocating. And the waiters forgot themselves and
ran when crossing the carpet, so that it was spotted with grease.
Nevertheless, the supper grew scarce any merrier. The ladies trifled
with their meat, left half of it uneaten. Tatan Nene alone partook
gluttonously of every dish. At that advanced hour of the night hunger
was of the nervous order only, a mere whimsical craving born of an
exasperated stomach.

At Nana’s side the old gentleman refused every dish offered him; he had
only taken a spoonful of soup, and he now sat in front of his empty
plate, gazing silently about. There was some subdued yawning, and
occasionally eyelids closed and faces became haggard and white. It was
unutterably slow, as it always was, according to Vandeuvres’s dictum.
This sort of supper should be served anyhow if it was to be funny, he
opined. Otherwise when elegantly and conventionally done you might as
well feed in good society, where you were not more bored than here. Had
it not been for Bordenave, who was still bawling away, everybody would
have fallen asleep. That rum old buffer Bordenave, with his leg duly
stretched on its chair, was letting his neighbors, Lucy and Rose, wait
on him as though he were a sultan. They were entirely taken up with
him, and they helped him and pampered him and watched over his glass
and his plate, and yet that did not prevent his complaining.

“Who’s going to cut up my meat for me? I can’t; the table’s a league
away.”

Every few seconds Simonne rose and took up a position behind his back
in order to cut his meat and his bread. All the women took a great
interest in the things he ate. The waiters were recalled, and he was
stuffed to suffocation. Simonne having wiped his mouth for him while
Rose and Lucy were changing his plate, her act struck him as very
pretty and, deigning at length to show contentment:

“There, there, my daughter,” he said, “that’s as it should be. Women
are made for that!”

There was a slight reawakening, and conversation became general as they
finished discussing some orange sherbet. The hot roast was a fillet
with truffles, and the cold roast a galantine of guinea fowl in jelly.
Nana, annoyed by the want of go displayed by her guests, had begun
talking with the greatest distinctness.

“You know the Prince of Scots has already had a stage box reserved so
as to see the Blonde Venus when he comes to visit the exhibition.”

“I very much hope that all the princes will come and see it,” declared
Bordenave with his mouth full.

“They are expecting the shah of Persia next Sunday,” said Lucy Stewart.
Whereupon Rose Mignon spoke of the shah’s diamonds. He wore a tunic
entirely covered with gems; it was a marvel, a flaming star; it
represented millions. And the ladies, with pale faces and eyes
glittering with covetousness, craned forward and ran over the names of
the other kings, the other emperors, who were shortly expected. All of
them were dreaming of some royal caprice, some night to be paid for by
a fortune.

“Now tell me, dear boy,” Caroline Hequet asked Vandeuvres, leaning
forward as she did so, “how old’s the emperor of Russia?”

“Oh, he’s ‘present time,’” replied the count, laughing. “Nothing to be
done in that quarter, I warn you.”

Nana made pretense of being hurt. The witticism appeared somewhat too
stinging, and there was a murmur of protest. But Blanche gave a
description of the king of Italy, whom she had once seen at Milan. He
was scarcely good looking, and yet that did not prevent him enjoying
all the women. She was put out somewhat when Fauchery assured her that
Victor Emmanuel could not come to the exhibition. Louise Violaine and
Léa favored the emperor of Austria, and all of a sudden little Maria
Blond was heard saying:

“What an old stick the king of Prussia is! I was at Baden last year,
and one was always meeting him about with Count Bismarck.”

“Dear me, Bismarck!” Simonne interrupted. “I knew him once, I did. A
charming man.”

“That’s what I was saying yesterday,” cried Vandeuvres, “but nobody
would believe me.”

And just as at Countess Sabine’s, there ensued a long discussion about
Bismarck. Vandeuvres repeated the same phrases, and for a moment or two
one was again in the Muffats’ drawing room, the only difference being
that the ladies were changed. Then, just as last night, they passed on
to a discussion on music, after which, Foucarmont having let slip some
mention of the assumption of the veil of which Paris was still talking,
Nana grew quite interested and insisted on details about Mlle de
Fougeray. Oh, the poor child, fancy her burying herself alive like
that! Ah well, when it was a question of vocation! All round the table
the women expressed themselves much touched, and Georges, wearied at
hearing these things a second time discussed, was beginning to ask
Daguenet about Nana’s ways in private life, when the conversation
veered fatefully back to Count Bismarck. Tatan Nene bent toward
Labordette to ask him privily who this Bismarck might be, for she did
not know him. Whereupon Labordette, in cold blood, told her some
portentous anecdotes. This Bismarck, he said, was in the habit of
eating raw meat and when he met a woman near his den would carry her
off thither on his back; at forty years of age he had already had as
many as thirty-two children that way.

“Thirty-two children at forty!” cried Tatan Nene, stupefied and yet
convinced. “He must be jolly well worn out for his age.”

There was a burst of merriment, and it dawned on her that she was being
made game of.

“You sillies! How am I to know if you’re joking?”

Gaga, meanwhile, had stopped at the exhibition. Like all these ladies,
she was delightedly preparing for the fray. A good season, provincials
and foreigners rushing into Paris! In the long run, perhaps, after the
close of the exhibition she would, if her business had flourished, be
able to retire to a little house at Jouvisy, which she had long had her
eye on.

“What’s to be done?” she said to La Faloise. “One never gets what one
wants! Oh, if only one were still really loved!”

Gaga behaved meltingly because she had felt the young man’s knee gently
placed against her own. He was blushing hotly and lisping as elegantly
as ever. She weighed him at a glance. Not a very heavy little
gentleman, to be sure, but then she wasn’t hard to please. La Faloise
obtained her address.

“Just look there,” murmured Vandeuvres to Clarisse. “I think Gaga’s
doing you out of your Hector.”

“A good riddance, so far as I’m concerned,” replied the actress. “That
fellow’s an idiot. I’ve already chucked him downstairs three times. You
know, I’m disgusted when dirty little boys run after old women.”

She broke off and with a little gesture indicated Blanche, who from the
commencement of dinner had remained in a most uncomfortable attitude,
sitting up very markedly, with the intention of displaying her
shoulders to the old distinguished-looking gentleman three seats beyond
her.

“You’re being left too,” she resumed.

Vandeuvres smiled his thin smile and made a little movement to signify
he did not care. Assuredly ’twas not he who would ever have prevented
poor, dear Blanche scoring a success. He was more interested by the
spectacle which Steiner was presenting to the table at large. The
banker was noted for his sudden flames. That terrible German Jew who
brewed money, whose hands forged millions, was wont to turn imbecile
whenever he became enamored of a woman. He wanted them all too! Not one
could make her appearance on the stage but he bought her, however
expensive she might be. Vast sums were quoted. Twice had his furious
appetite for courtesans ruined him. The courtesans, as Vandeuvres used
to say, avenged public morality by emptying his moneybags. A big
operation in the saltworks of the Landes had rendered him powerful on
’change, and so for six weeks past the Mignons had been getting a
pretty slice out of those same saltworks. But people were beginning to
lay wagers that the Mignons would not finish their slice, for Nana was
showing her white teeth. Once again Steiner was in the toils, and so
deeply this time that as he sat by Nana’s side he seemed stunned; he
ate without appetite; his lip hung down; his face was mottled. She had
only to name a figure. Nevertheless, she did not hurry but continued
playing with him, breathing her merry laughter into his hairy ear and
enjoying the little convulsive movements which kept traversing his
heavy face. There would always be time enough to patch all that up if
that ninny of a Count Muffat were really to treat her as Joseph did
Potiphar’s wife.

“Leoville or Chambertin?” murmured a waiter, who came craning forward
between Nana and Steiner just as the latter was addressing her in a low
voice.

“Eh, what?” he stammered, losing his head. “Whatever you like—I don’t
care.”

Vandeuvres gently nudged Lucy Stewart, who had a very spiteful tongue
and a very fierce invention when once she was set going. That evening
Mignon was driving her to exasperation.

“He would gladly be bottleholder, you know,” she remarked to the count.
“He’s in hopes of repeating what he did with little Jonquier. You
remember: Jonquier was Rose’s man, but he was sweet on big Laure. Now
Mignon procured Laure for Jonquier and then came back arm in arm with
him to Rose, as if he were a husband who had been allowed a little
peccadillo. But this time the thing’s going to fail. Nana doesn’t give
up the men who are lent her.”

“What ails Mignon that he should be looking at his wife in that severe
way?” asked Vandeuvres.

He leaned forward and saw Rose growing exceedingly amorous toward
Fauchery. This was the explanation of his neighbor’s wrath. He resumed
laughingly:

“The devil, are you jealous?”

“Jealous!” said Lucy in a fury. “Good gracious, if Rose is wanting Léon
I give him up willingly—for what he’s worth! That’s to say, for a
bouquet a week and the rest to match! Look here, my dear boy, these
theatrical trollops are all made the same way. Why, Rose cried with
rage when she read Léon’s article on Nana; I know she did. So now, you
understand, she must have an article, too, and she’s gaining it. As for
me, I’m going to chuck Léon downstairs—you’ll see!”

She paused to say “Leoville” to the waiter standing behind her with his
two bottles and then resumed in lowered tones:

“I don’t want to shout; it isn’t my style. But she’s a cocky slut all
the same. If I were in her husband’s place I should lead her a lovely
dance. Oh, she won’t be very happy over it. She doesn’t know my
Fauchery: a dirty gent he is, too, palling up with women like that so
as to get on in the world. Oh, a nice lot they are!”

Vandeuvres did his best to calm her down, but Bordenave, deserted by
Rose and by Lucy, grew angry and cried out that they were letting Papa
perish of hunger and thirst. This produced a fortunate diversion. Yet
the supper was flagging; no one was eating now, though platefuls of
cepes a’ l’italienne and pineapple fritters à la Pompadour were being
mangled. The champagne, however, which had been drunk ever since the
soup course, was beginning little by little to warm the guests into a
state of nervous exaltation. They ended by paying less attention to
decorum than before. The women began leaning on their elbows amid the
disordered table arrangements, while the men, in order to breathe more
easily, pushed their chairs back, and soon the black coats appeared
buried between the light-colored bodices, and bare shoulders, half
turned toward the table, began to gleam as soft as silk. It was too
hot, and the glare of the candles above the table grew ever yellower
and duller. Now and again, when a women bent forward, the back of her
neck glowed golden under a rain of curls, and the glitter of a diamond
clasp lit up a lofty chignon. There was a touch of fire in the passing
jests, in the laughing eyes, in the sudden gleam of white teeth, in the
reflection of the candelabra on the surface of a glass of champagne.
The company joked at the tops of their voices, gesticulated, asked
questions which no one answered and called to one another across the
whole length of the room. But the loudest din was made by the waiters;
they fancied themselves at home in the corridors of their parent
restaurant; they jostled one another and served the ices and the
dessert to an accompaniment of guttural exclamations.

“My children,” shouted Bordenave, “you know we’re playing tomorrow. Be
careful! Not too much champagne!”

“As far as I’m concerned,” said Foucarmont, “I’ve drunk every
imaginable kind of wine in all the four quarters of the globe.
Extraordinary liquors some of ’em, containing alcohol enough to kill a
corpse! Well, and what d’you think? Why, it never hurt me a bit. I
can’t make myself drunk. I’ve tried and I can’t.”

He was very pale, very calm and collected, and he lolled back in his
chair, drinking without cessation.

“Never mind that,” murmured Louise Violaine. “Leave off; you’ve had
enough. It would be a funny business if I had to look after you the
rest of the night.”

Such was her state of exaltation that Lucy Stewart’s cheeks were
assuming a red, consumptive flush, while Rose Mignon with moist eyelids
was growing excessively melting. Tatan Nene, greatly astonished at the
thought that she had overeaten herself, was laughing vaguely over her
own stupidity. The others, such as Blanche, Caroline, Simonne and
Maria, were all talking at once and telling each other about their
private affairs—about a dispute with a coachman, a projected picnic and
innumerable complex stories of lovers stolen or restored. Meanwhile a
young man near Georges, having evinced a desire to kiss Léa de Horn,
received a sharp rap, accompanied by a “Look here, you, let me go!”
which was spoken in a tone of fine indignation; and Georges, who was
now very tipsy and greatly excited by the sight of Nana, hesitated
about carrying out a project which he had been gravely maturing. He had
been planning, indeed, to get under the table on all fours and to go
and crouch at Nana’s feet like a little dog. Nobody would have seen
him, and he would have stayed there in the quietest way. But when at
Léa’s urgent request Daguenet had told the young man to sit still,
Georges all at once felt grievously chagrined, as though the reproof
had just been leveled at him. Oh, it was all silly and slow, and there
was nothing worth living for! Daguenet, nevertheless, began chaffing
and obliged him to swallow a big glassful of water, asking him at the
same time what he would do if he were to find himself alone with a
woman, seeing that three glasses of champagne were able to bowl him
over.

“Why, in Havana,” resumed Foucarmont, “they make a spirit with a
certain wild berry; you think you’re swallowing fire! Well now, one
evening I drank more than a liter of it, and it didn’t hurt me one bit.
Better than that, another time when we were on the coast of Coromandel
some savages gave us I don’t know what sort of a mixture of pepper and
vitriol, and that didn’t hurt me one bit. I can’t make myself drunk.”

For some moments past La Faloise’s face opposite had excited his
displeasure. He began sneering and giving vent to disagreeable
witticisms. La Faloise, whose brain was in a whirl, was behaving very
restlessly and squeezing up against Gaga. But at length he became the
victim of anxiety; somebody had just taken his handkerchief, and with
drunken obstinacy he demanded it back again, asked his neighbors about
it, stooped down in order to look under the chairs and the guests’
feet. And when Gaga did her best to quiet him:

“It’s a nuisance,” he murmured, “my initials and my coronet are worked
in the corner. They may compromise me.”

“I say, Monsieur Falamoise, Lamafoise, Mafaloise!” shouted Foucarmont,
who thought it exceedingly witty thus to disfigure the young man’s name
ad infinitum.

But La Faloise grew wroth and talked with a stutter about his ancestry.
He threatened to send a water bottle at Foucarmont’s head, and Count de
Vandeuvres had to interfere in order to assure him that Foucarmont was
a great joker. Indeed, everybody was laughing. This did for the already
flurried young man, who was very glad to resume his seat and to begin
eating with childlike submissiveness when in a loud voice his cousin
ordered him to feed. Gaga had taken him back to her ample side; only
from time to time he cast sly and anxious glances at the guests, for he
ceased not to search for his handkerchief.

Then Foucarmont, being now in his witty vein, attacked Labordette right
at the other end of the table. Louise Violaine strove to make him hold
his tongue, for, she said, “when he goes nagging at other people like
that it always ends in mischief for me.” He had discovered a witticism
which consisted in addressing Labordette as “Madame,” and it must have
amused him greatly, for he kept on repeating it while Labordette
tranquilly shrugged his shoulders and as constantly replied:

“Pray hold your tongue, my dear fellow; it’s stupid.”

But as Foucarmont failed to desist and even became insulting without
his neighbors knowing why, he left off answering him and appealed to
Count Vandeuvres.

“Make your friend hold his tongue, monsieur. I don’t wish to become
angry.”

Foucarmont had twice fought duels, and he was in consequence most
politely treated and admitted into every circle. But there was now a
general uprising against him. The table grew merry at his sallies, for
they thought him very witty, but that was no reason why the evening
should be spoiled. Vandeuvres, whose subtle countenance was darkening
visibly, insisted on his restoring Labordette his sex. The other
men—Mignon, Steiner and Bordenave—who were by this time much exalted,
also intervened with shouts which drowned his voice. Only the old
gentleman sitting forgotten next to Nana retained his stately demeanor
and, still smiling in his tired, silent way, watched with lackluster
eyes the untoward finish of the dessert.

“What do you say to our taking coffee in here, duckie?” said Bordenave.
“We’re very comfortable.”

Nana did not give an immediate reply. Since the beginning of supper she
had seemed no longer in her own house. All this company had overwhelmed
and bewildered her with their shouts to the waiters, the loudness of
their voices and the way in which they put themselves at their ease,
just as though they were in a restaurant. Forgetting her role of
hostess, she busied herself exclusively with bulky Steiner, who was
verging on apoplexy beside her. She was listening to his proposals and
continually refusing them with shakes of the head and that temptress’s
laughter which is peculiar to a voluptuous blonde. The champagne she
had been drinking had flushed her a rosy-red; her lips were moist; her
eyes sparkled, and the banker’s offers rose with every kittenish
movement of her shoulders, with every little voluptuous lift and fall
of her throat, which occurred when she turned her head. Close by her
ear he kept espying a sweet little satiny corner which drove him crazy.
Occasionally Nana was interrupted, and then, remembering her guests,
she would try and be as pleased as possible in order to show that she
knew how to receive. Toward the end of the supper she was very tipsy.
It made her miserable to think of it, but champagne had a way of
intoxicating her almost directly! Then an exasperating notion struck
her. In behaving thus improperly at her table, these ladies were
showing themselves anxious to do her an ugly turn. Oh yes, she could
see it all distinctly. Lucy had given Foucarmont a wink in order to egg
him on against Labordette, while Rose, Caroline and the others were
doing all they could to stir up the men. Now there was such a din you
couldn’t hear your neighbor speak, and so the story would get about
that you might allow yourself every kind of liberty when you supped at
Nana’s. Very well then! They should see! She might be tipsy, if you
like, but she was still the smartest and most ladylike woman there.

“Do tell them to serve the coffee here, duckie,” resumed Bordenave. “I
prefer it here because of my leg.”

But Nana had sprung savagely to her feet after whispering into the
astonished ears of Steiner and the old gentleman:

“It’s quite right; it’ll teach me to go and invite a dirty lot like
that.”

Then she pointed to the door of the dining room and added at the top of
her voice:

“If you want coffee it’s there, you know.”

The company left the table and crowded toward the dining room without
noticing Nana’s indignant outburst. And soon no one was left in the
drawing room save Bordenave, who advanced cautiously, supporting
himself against the wall and cursing away at the confounded women who
chucked Papa the moment they were chock-full. The waiters behind him
were already busy removing the plates and dishes in obedience to the
loudly voiced orders of the manager. They rushed to and fro, jostled
one another, caused the whole table to vanish, as a pantomime property
might at the sound of the chief scene-shifter’s whistle. The ladies and
gentlemen were to return to the drawing room after drinking their
coffee.

“By gum, it’s less hot here,” said Gaga with a slight shiver as she
entered the dining room.

The window here had remained open. Two lamps illuminated the table,
where coffee and liqueurs were set out. There were no chairs, and the
guests drank their coffee standing, while the hubbub the waiters were
making in the next room grew louder and louder. Nana had disappeared,
but nobody fretted about her absence. They did without her excellently
well, and everybody helped himself and rummaged in the drawers of the
sideboard in search of teaspoons, which were lacking. Several groups
were formed; people separated during supper rejoined each other, and
there was an interchange of glances, of meaning laughter and of phrases
which summed up recent situations.

“Ought not Monsieur Fauchery to come and lunch with us one of these
days, Auguste?” said Rose Mignon.

Mignon, who was toying with his watch chain, eyed the journalist for a
second or two with his severe glance. Rose was out of her senses. As
became a good manager, he would put a stop to such spendthrift courses.
In return for a notice, well and good, but afterward, decidedly not.
Nevertheless, as he was fully aware of his wife’s wrongheadedness and
as he made it a rule to wink paternally at a folly now and again, when
such was necessary, he answered amiably enough:

“Certainly, I shall be most happy. Pray come tomorrow, Monsieur
Fauchery.”

Lucy Stewart heard this invitation given while she was talking with
Steiner and Blanche and, raising her voice, she remarked to the banker:

“It’s a mania they’ve all of them got. One of them even went so far as
to steal my dog. Now, dear boy, am I to blame if you chuck her?”

Rose turned round. She was very pale and gazed fixedly at Steiner as
she sipped her coffee. And then all the concentrated anger she felt at
his abandonment of her flamed out in her eyes. She saw more clearly
than Mignon; it was stupid in him to have wished to begin the Jonquier
ruse a second time—those dodgers never succeeded twice running. Well,
so much the worse for him! She would have Fauchery! She had been
getting enamored of him since the beginning of supper, and if Mignon
was not pleased it would teach him greater wisdom!

“You are not going to fight?” said Vandeuvres, coming over to Lucy
Stewart.

“No, don’t be afraid of that! Only she must mind and keep quiet, or I
let the cat out of the bag!”

Then signing imperiously to Fauchery:

“I’ve got your slippers at home, my little man. I’ll get them taken to
your porter’s lodge for you tomorrow.”

He wanted to joke about it, but she swept off, looking like a queen.
Clarisse, who had propped herself against a wall in order to drink a
quiet glass of kirsch, was seen to shrug her shoulders. A pleasant
business for a man! Wasn’t it true that the moment two women were
together in the presence of their lovers their first idea was to do one
another out of them? It was a law of nature! As to herself, why, in
heaven’s name, if she had wanted to she would have torn out Gaga’s eyes
on Hector’s account! But la, she despised him! Then as La Faloise
passed by, she contented herself by remarking to him:

“Listen, my friend, you like ’em well advanced, you do! You don’t want
’em ripe; you want ’em mildewed!”

La Faloise seemed much annoyed and not a little anxious. Seeing
Clarisse making game of him, he grew suspicious of her.

“No humbug, I say,” he muttered. “You’ve taken my handkerchief. Well
then, give it back!”

“He’s dreeing us with that handkerchief of his!” she cried. “Why, you
ass, why should I have taken it from you?”

“Why should you?” he said suspiciously. “Why, that you may send it to
my people and compromise me.”

In the meantime Foucarmont was diligently attacking the liqueurs. He
continued to gaze sneeringly at Labordette, who was drinking his coffee
in the midst of the ladies. And occasionally he gave vent to
fragmentary assertions, as thus: “He’s the son of a horse dealer; some
say the illegitimate child of a countess. Never a penny of income, yet
always got twenty-five louis in his pocket! Footboy to the ladies of
the town! A big lubber, who never goes with any of ’em! Never, never,
never!” he repeated, growing furious. “No, by Jove! I must box his
ears.”

He drained a glass of chartreuse. The chartreuse had not the slightest
effect upon him; it didn’t affect him “even to that extent,” and he
clicked his thumbnail against the edge of his teeth. But suddenly, just
as he was advancing upon Labordette, he grew ashy white and fell down
in a heap in front of the sideboard. He was dead drunk. Louise Violaine
was beside herself. She had been quite right to prophesy that matters
would end badly, and now she would have her work cut out for the
remainder of the night. Gaga reassured her. She examined the officer
with the eye of a woman of experience and declared that there was
nothing much the matter and that the gentleman would sleep like that
for at least a dozen or fifteen hours without any serious consequences.
Foucarmont was carried off.

“Well, where’s Nana gone to?” asked Vandeuvres.

Yes, she had certainly flown away somewhere on leaving the table. The
company suddenly recollected her, and everybody asked for her. Steiner,
who for some seconds had been uneasy on her account, asked Vandeuvres
about the old gentleman, for he, too, had disappeared. But the count
reassured him—he had just brought the old gentleman back. He was a
stranger, whose name it was useless to mention. Suffice it to say that
he was a very rich man who was quite pleased to pay for suppers! Then
as Nana was once more being forgotten, Vandeuvres saw Daguenet looking
out of an open door and beckoning to him. And in the bedroom he found
the mistress of the house sitting up, white-lipped and rigid, while
Daguenet and Georges stood gazing at her with an alarmed expression.

“What IS the matter with you?” he asked in some surprise.

She neither answered nor turned her head, and he repeated his question.

“Why, this is what’s the matter with me,” she cried out at length; “I
won’t let them make bloody sport of me!”

Thereupon she gave vent to any expression that occurred to her. Yes, oh
yes, SHE wasn’t a ninny—she could see clearly enough. They had been
making devilish light of her during supper and saying all sorts of
frightful things to show that they thought nothing of her! A pack of
sluts who weren’t fit to black her boots! Catch her bothering herself
again just to be badgered for it after! She really didn’t know what
kept her from chucking all that dirty lot out of the house! And with
this, rage choked her and her voice broke down in sobs.

“Come, come, my lass, you’re drunk,” said Vandeuvres, growing familiar.
“You must be reasonable.”

No, she would give her refusal now; she would stay where she was.

“I am drunk—it’s quite likely! But I want people to respect me!”

For a quarter of an hour past Daguenet and Georges had been vainly
beseeching her to return to the drawing room. She was obstinate,
however; her guests might do what they liked; she despised them too
much to come back among them.

No, she never would, never. They might tear her in pieces before she
would leave her room!

“I ought to have had my suspicions,” she resumed.

“It’s that cat of a Rose who’s got the plot up! I’m certain Rose’ll
have stopped that respectable woman coming whom I was expecting
tonight.”

She referred to Mme Robert. Vandeuvres gave her his word of honor that
Mme Robert had given a spontaneous refusal. He listened and he argued
with much gravity, for he was well accustomed to similar scenes and
knew how women in such a state ought to be treated. But the moment he
tried to take hold of her hands in order to lift her up from her chair
and draw her away with him she struggled free of his clasp, and her
wrath redoubled. Now, just look at that! They would never get her to
believe that Fauchery had not put the Count Muffat off coming! A
regular snake was that Fauchery, an envious sort, a fellow capable of
growing mad against a woman and of destroying her whole happiness. For
she knew this—the count had become madly devoted to her! She could have
had him!

“Him, my dear, never!” cried Vandeuvres, forgetting himself and
laughing loud.

“Why not?” she asked, looking serious and slightly sobered.

“Because he’s thoroughly in the hands of the priests, and if he were
only to touch you with the tips of his fingers he would go and confess
it the day after. Now listen to a bit of good advice. Don’t let the
other man escape you!”

She was silent and thoughtful for a moment or two. Then she got up and
went and bathed her eyes. Yet when they wanted to take her into the
dining room she still shouted “No!” furiously. Vandeuvres left the
bedroom, smiling and without further pressing her, and the moment he
was gone she had an access of melting tenderness, threw herself into
Daguenet’s arms and cried out:

“Ah, my sweetie, there’s only you in the world. I love you! YES, I love
you from the bottom of my heart! Oh, it would be too nice if we could
always live together. My God! How unfortunate women are!”

Then her eye fell upon Georges, who, seeing them kiss, was growing very
red, and she kissed him too. Sweetie could not be jealous of a baby!
She wanted Paul and Georges always to agree, because it would be so
nice for them all three to stay like that, knowing all the time that
they loved one another very much. But an extraordinary noise disturbed
them: someone was snoring in the room. Whereupon after some searching
they perceived Bordenave, who, since taking his coffee, must have
comfortably installed himself there. He was sleeping on two chairs, his
head propped on the edge of the bed and his leg stretched out in front.
Nana thought him so funny with his open mouth and his nose moving with
each successive snore that she was shaken with a mad fit of laughter.
She left the room, followed by Daguenet and Georges, crossed the dining
room, entered the drawing room, her merriment increasing at every step.

“Oh, my dear, you’ve no idea!” she cried, almost throwing herself into
Rose’s arms. “Come and see it.”

All the women had to follow her. She took their hands coaxingly and
drew them along with her willy-nilly, accompanying her action with so
frank an outburst of mirth that they all of them began laughing on
trust. The band vanished and returned after standing breathlessly for a
second or two round Bordenave’s lordly, outstretched form. And then
there was a burst of laughter, and when one of them told the rest to be
quiet Bordenave’s distant snorings became audible.

It was close on four o’clock. In the dining room a card table had just
been set out, at which Vandeuvres, Steiner, Mignon and Labordette had
taken their seats. Behind them Lucy and Caroline stood making bets,
while Blanche, nodding with sleep and dissatisfied about her night,
kept asking Vandeuvres at intervals of five minutes if they weren’t
going soon. In the drawing room there was an attempt at dancing.
Daguenet was at the piano or “chest of drawers,” as Nana called it. She
did not want a “thumper,” for Mimi would play as many waltzes and
polkas as the company desired. But the dance was languishing, and the
ladies were chatting drowsily together in the corners of sofas.
Suddenly, however, there was an outburst of noise. A band of eleven
young men had arrived and were laughing loudly in the anteroom and
crowding to the drawing room. They had just come from the ball at the
Ministry of the Interior and were in evening dress and wore various
unknown orders. Nana was annoyed at this riotous entry, called to the
waiters who still remained in the kitchen and ordered them to throw
these individuals out of doors. She vowed that she had never seen any
of them before. Fauchery, Labordette, Daguenet and the rest of the men
had all come forward in order to enforce respectful behavior toward
their hostess. Big words flew about; arms were outstretched, and for
some seconds a general exchange of fisticuffs was imminent.
Notwithstanding this, however, a little sickly looking light-haired man
kept insistently repeating:

“Come, come, Nana, you saw us the other evening at Peters’ in the great
red saloon! Pray remember, you invited us.”

The other evening at Peters’? She did not remember it all. To begin
with, what evening?

And when the little light-haired man had mentioned the day, which was
Wednesday, she distinctly remembered having supped at Peters’ on the
Wednesday, but she had given no invitation to anyone; she was almost
sure of that.

“However, suppose you HAVE invited them, my good girl,” murmured
Labordette, who was beginning to have his doubts. “Perhaps you were a
little elevated.”

Then Nana fell a-laughing. It was quite possible; she really didn’t
know. So then, since these gentlemen were on the spot, they had her
leave to come in. Everything was quietly arranged; several of the
newcomers found friends in the drawing room, and the scene ended in
handshakings. The little sickly looking light-haired man bore one of
the greatest names in France. Furthermore, the eleven announced that
others were to follow them, and, in fact, the door opened every few
moments, and men in white gloves and official garb presented
themselves. They were still coming from the ball at the Ministry.
Fauchery jestingly inquired whether the minister was not coming, too,
but Nana answered in a huff that the minister went to the houses of
people she didn’t care a pin for. What she did not say was that she was
possessed with a hope of seeing Count Muffat enter her room among all
that stream of people. He might quite have reconsidered his decision,
and so while talking to Rose she kept a sharp eye on the door.

Five o’clock struck. The dancing had ceased, and the cardplayers alone
persisted in their game. Labordette had vacated his seat, and the women
had returned into the drawing room. The air there was heavy with the
somnolence which accompanies a long vigil, and the lamps cast a
wavering light while their burned-out wicks glowed red within their
globes. The ladies had reached that vaguely melancholy hour when they
felt it necessary to tell each other their histories. Blanche de Sivry
spoke of her grandfather, the general, while Clarisse invented a
romantic story about a duke seducing her at her uncle’s house, whither
he used to come for the boar hunting. Both women, looking different
ways, kept shrugging their shoulders and asking themselves how the
deuce the other could tell such whoppers! As to Lucy Stewart, she
quietly confessed to her origin and of her own accord spoke of her
childhood and of the days when her father, the wheel greaser at the
Northern Railway Terminus, used to treat her to an apple puff on
Sundays.

“Oh, I must tell you about it!” cried the little Maria Blond abruptly.
“Opposite to me there lives a gentleman, a Russian, an awfully rich
man! Well, just fancy, yesterday I received a basket of fruit—oh, it
just was a basket! Enormous peaches, grapes as big as that, simply
wonderful for the time of year! And in the middle of them six
thousand-franc notes! It was the Russian’s doing. Of course I sent the
whole thing back again, but I must say my heart ached a little—when I
thought of the fruit!”

The ladies looked at one another and pursed up their lips. At her age
little Maria Blond had a pretty cheek! Besides, to think that such
things should happen to trollops like her! Infinite was their contempt
for her among themselves. It was Lucy of whom they were particularly
jealous, for they were beside themselves at the thought of her three
princes. Since Lucy had begun taking a daily morning ride in the Bois
they all had become Amazons, as though a mania possessed them.

Day was about to dawn, and Nana turned her eyes away from the door, for
she was relinquishing all hope. The company were bored to distraction.
Rose Mignon had refused to sing the “Slipper” and sat huddled up on a
sofa, chatting in a low voice with Fauchery and waiting for Mignon, who
had by now won some fifty louis from Vandeuvres. A fat gentleman with a
decoration and a serious cast of countenance had certainly given a
recitation in Alsatian accents of “Abraham’s Sacrifice,” a piece in
which the Almighty says, “By My blasted Name” when He swears, and Isaac
always answers with a “Yes, Papa!” Nobody, however, understood what it
was all about, and the piece had been voted stupid. People were at
their wits’ end how to make merry and to finish the night with fitting
hilarity. For a moment or two Labordette conceived the idea of
denouncing different women in a whisper to La Faloise, who still went
prowling round each individual lady, looking to see if she were hiding
his handkerchief in her bosom. Soon, as there were still some bottles
of champagne on the sideboard, the young men again fell to drinking.
They shouted to one another; they stirred each other up, but a dreary
species of intoxication, which was stupid enough to drive one to
despair, began to overcome the company beyond hope of recovery. Then
the little fair-haired fellow, the man who bore one of the greatest
names in France and had reached his wit’s end and was desperate at the
thought that he could not hit upon something really funny, conceived a
brilliant notion: he snatched up his bottle of champagne and poured its
contents into the piano. His allies were convulsed with laughter.

“La now! Why’s he putting champagne into the piano?” asked Tatan Nene
in great astonishment as she caught sight of him.

“What, my lass, you don’t know why he’s doing that?” replied Labordette
solemnly. “There’s nothing so good as champagne for pianos. It gives
’em tone.”

“Ah,” murmured Tatan Nene with conviction.

And when the rest began laughing at her she grew angry. How should she
know? They were always confusing her.

Decidedly the evening was becoming a big failure. The night threatened
to end in the unloveliest way. In a corner by themselves Maria Blond
and Léa de Horn had begun squabbling at close quarters, the former
accusing the latter of consorting with people of insufficient wealth.
They were getting vastly abusive over it, their chief stumbling block
being the good looks of the men in question. Lucy, who was plain, got
them to hold their tongues. Good looks were nothing, according to her;
good figures were what was wanted. Farther off, on a sofa, an attache
had slipped his arm round Simonne’s waist and was trying to kiss her
neck, but Simonne, sullen and thoroughly out of sorts, pushed him away
at every fresh attempt with cries of “You’re pestering me!” and sound
slaps of the fan across his face. For the matter of that, not one of
the ladies allowed herself to be touched. Did people take them for
light women? Gaga, in the meantime, had once more caught La Faloise and
had almost hoisted him upon her knees while Clarisse was disappearing
from view between two gentlemen, shaking with nervous laughter as women
will when they are tickled. Round about the piano they were still busy
with their little game, for they were suffering from a fit of stupid
imbecility, which caused each man to jostle his fellow in his frantic
desire to empty his bottle into the instrument. It was a simple process
and a charming one.

“Now then, old boy, drink a glass! Devil take it, he’s a thirsty piano!
Hi! ’Tenshun! Here’s another bottle! You mustn’t lose a drop!”

Nana’s back was turned, and she did not see them. Emphatically she was
now falling back on the bulky Steiner, who was seated next to her. So
much the worse! It was all on account of that Muffat, who had refused
what was offered him. Sitting there in her white foulard dress, which
was as light and full of folds as a shift, sitting there with drooped
eyelids and cheeks pale with the touch of intoxication from which she
was suffering, she offered herself to him with that quiet expression
which is peculiar to a good-natured courtesan. The roses in her hair
and at her throat had lost their leaves, and their stalks alone
remained. Presently Steiner withdrew his hand quickly from the folds of
her skirt, where he had come in contact with the pins that Georges had
stuck there. Some drops of blood appeared on his fingers, and one fell
on Nana’s dress and stained it.

“Now the bargain’s struck,” said Nana gravely.

The day was breaking apace. An uncertain glimmer of light, fraught with
a poignant melancholy, came stealing through the windows. And with that
the guests began to take their departure. It was a most sour and
uncomfortable retreat. Caroline Hequet, annoyed at the loss of her
night, announced that it was high time to be off unless you were
anxious to assist at some pretty scenes. Rose pouted as if her womanly
character had been compromised. It was always so with these girls; they
didn’t know how to behave and were guilty of disgusting conduct when
they made their first appearance in society! And Mignon having cleaned
Vandeuvres out completely, the family took their departure. They did
not trouble about Steiner but renewed their invitation for tomorrow to
Fauchery. Lucy thereupon refused the journalist’s escort home and sent
him back shrilly to his “strolling actress.” At this Rose turned round
immediately and hissed out a “Dirty sow” by way of answer. But Mignon,
who in feminine quarrels was always paternal, for his experience was a
long one and rendered him superior to them, had already pushed her out
of the house, telling her at the same time to have done. Lucy came
downstairs in solitary state behind them. After which Gaga had to carry
off La Faloise, ill, sobbing like a child, calling after Clarisse, who
had long since gone off with her two gentlemen. Simonne, too, had
vanished. Indeed, none remained save Tatan, Léa and Maria, whom
Labordette complaisantly took under his charge.

“Oh, but I don’t the least bit want to go to bed!” said Nana. “One
ought to find something to do.”

She looked at the sky through the windowpanes. It was a livid sky, and
sooty clouds were scudding across it. It was six o’clock in the
morning. Over the way, on the opposite side of the Boulevard Haussmann,
the glistening roofs of the still-slumbering houses were sharply
outlined against the twilight sky while along the deserted roadway a
gang of street sweepers passed with a clatter of wooden shoes. As she
viewed Paris thus grimly awakening, she was overcome by tender, girlish
feelings, by a yearning for the country, for idyllic scenes, for things
soft and white.

“Now guess what you’re to do,” she said, coming back to Steiner.
“You’re going to take me to the Bois de Boulogne, and we’ll drink milk
there.”

She clapped her hands in childish glee. Without waiting for the
banker’s reply—he naturally consented, though he was really rather
bored and inclined to think of other things—she ran off to throw a
pelisse over her shoulders. In the drawing room there was now no one
with Steiner save the band of young men. These had by this time dropped
the very dregs of their glasses into the piano and were talking of
going, when one of their number ran in triumphantly. He held in his
hands a last remaining bottle, which he had brought back with him from
the pantry.

“Wait a minute, wait a minute!” he shouted. “Here’s a bottle of
chartreuse; that’ll pick him up! And now, my young friends, let’s hook
it. We’re blooming idiots.”

In the dressing room Nana was compelled to wake up Zoé, who had dozed
off on a chair. The gas was still alight, and Zoé shivered as she
helped her mistress on with her hat and pelisse.

“Well, it’s over; I’ve done what you wanted me to,” said Nana, speaking
familiarly to the maid in a sudden burst of expansive confidence and
much relieved at the thought that she had at last made her election.
“You were quite right; the banker’s as good as another.”

The maid was cross, for she was still heavy with sleep. She grumbled
something to the effect that Madame ought to have come to a decision
the first evening. Then following her into the bedroom, she asked what
she was going to do with “those two,” meaning Bordenave, who was
snoring away as usual, and Georges, who had slipped in slyly, buried
his head in a pillow and, finally falling asleep there, was now
breathing as lightly and regularly as a cherub. Nana in reply told her
that she was to let them sleep on. But seeing Daguenet come into the
room, she again grew tender. He had been watching her from the kitchen
and was looking very wretched.

“Come, my sweetie, be reasonable,” she said, taking him in her arms and
kissing him with all sorts of little wheedling caresses. “Nothing’s
changed; you know that it’s sweetie whom I always adore! Eh, dear? I
had to do it. Why, I swear to you we shall have even nicer times now.
Come tomorrow, and we’ll arrange about hours. Now be quick, kiss and
hug me as you love me. Oh, tighter, tighter than that!”

And she escaped and rejoined Steiner, feeling happy and once more
possessed with the idea of drinking milk. In the empty room the Count
de Vandeuvres was left alone with the “decorated” man who had recited
“Abraham’s Sacrifice.” Both seemed glued to the card table; they had
lost count of their whereabouts and never once noticed the broad light
of day without, while Blanche had made bold to put her feet up on a
sofa in order to try and get a little sleep.

“Oh, Blanche is with them!” cried Nana. “We are going to drink milk,
dear. Do come; you’ll find Vandeuvres here when we return.”

Blanche got up lazily. This time the banker’s fiery face grew white
with annoyance at the idea of having to take that big wench with him
too. She was certain to bore him. But the two women had already got him
by the arms and were reiterating:

“We want them to milk the cow before our eyes, you know.”




 CHAPTER V


At the Variétés they were giving the thirty-fourth performance of the
Blonde Venus. The first act had just finished, and in the greenroom
Simonne, dressed as the little laundress, was standing in front of a
console table, surmounted by a looking glass and situated between the
two corner doors which opened obliquely on the end of the dressing-room
passage. No one was with her, and she was scrutinizing her face and
rubbing her finger up and down below her eyes with a view to putting
the finishing touches to her make-up. The gas jets on either side of
the mirror flooded her with warm, crude light.

“Has he arrived?” asked Prullière, entering the room in his Alpine
admiral’s costume, which was set off by a big sword, enormous top boots
and a vast tuft of plumes.

“Who d’you mean?” said Simonne, taking no notice of him and laughing
into the mirror in order to see how her lips looked.

“The prince.”

“I don’t know; I’ve just come down. Oh, he’s certainly due here
tonight; he comes every time!”

Prullière had drawn near the hearth opposite the console table, where a
coke fire was blazing and two more gas jets were flaring brightly. He
lifted his eyes and looked at the clock and the barometer on his right
hand and on his left. They had gilded sphinxes by way of adornment in
the style of the First Empire. Then he stretched himself out in a huge
armchair with ears, the green velvet of which had been so worn by four
generations of comedians that it looked yellow in places, and there he
stayed, with moveless limbs and vacant eyes, in that weary and resigned
attitude peculiar to actors who are used to long waits before their
turn for going on the stage.

Old Bosc, too, had just made his appearance. He came in dragging one
foot behind the other and coughing. He was wrapped in an old box coat,
part of which had slipped from his shoulder in such a way as to uncover
the gold-laced cloak of King Dagobert. He put his crown on the piano
and for a moment or two stood moodily stamping his feet. His hands were
trembling slightly with the first beginnings of alcoholism, but he
looked a sterling old fellow for all that, and a long white beard lent
that fiery tippler’s face of his a truly venerable appearance. Then in
the silence of the room, while the shower of hail was whipping the
panes of the great window that looked out on the courtyard, he shook
himself disgustedly.

“What filthy weather!” he growled.

Simonne and Prullière did not move. Four or five pictures—a landscape,
a portrait of the actor Vernet—hung yellowing in the hot glare of the
gas, and a bust of Potier, one of the bygone glories of the Variétés,
stood gazing vacant-eyed from its pedestal. But just then there was a
burst of voices outside. It was Fontan, dressed for the second act. He
was a young dandy, and his habiliments, even to his gloves, were
entirely yellow.

“Now say you don’t know!” he shouted, gesticulating. “Today’s my patron
saint’s day!”

“What?” asked Simonne, coming up smilingly, as though attracted by the
huge nose and the vast, comic mouth of the man. “D’you answer to the
name of Achille?”

“Exactly so! And I’m going to get ’em to tell Madame Bron to send up
champagne after the second act.”

For some seconds a bell had been ringing in the distance. The
long-drawn sound grew fainter, then louder, and when the bell ceased a
shout ran up the stair and down it till it was lost along the passages.
“All on the stage for the second act! All on the stage for the second
act!” The sound drew near, and a little pale-faced man passed by the
greenroom doors, outside each of which he yelled at the top of his
shrill voice, “On the stage for the second act!”

“The deuce, it’s champagne!” said Prullière without appearing to hear
the din. “You’re prospering!”

“If I were you I should have it in from the cafe,” old Bosc slowly
announced. He was sitting on a bench covered with green velvet, with
his head against the wall.

But Simonne said that it was one’s duty to consider Mme Bron’s small
perquisites. She clapped her hands excitedly and devoured Fontan with
her gaze while his long goatlike visage kept up a continuous twitching
of eyes and nose and mouth.

“Oh, that Fontan!” she murmured. “There’s no one like him, no one like
him!”

The two greenroom doors stood wide open to the corridor leading to the
wings. And along the yellow wall, which was brightly lit up by a gas
lamp out of view, passed a string of rapidly moving shadows—men in
costume, women with shawls over their scant attire, in a word, the
whole of the characters in the second act, who would shortly make their
appearance as masqeuraders in the ball at the Boule Noire. And at the
end of the corridor became audible a shuffling of feet as these people
clattered down the five wooden steps which led to the stage. As the big
Clarisse went running by Simonne called to her, but she said she would
be back directly. And, indeed, she reappeared almost at once, shivering
in the thin tunic and scarf which she wore as Iris.

“God bless me!” she said. “It isn’t warm, and I’ve left my furs in my
dressing room!”

Then as she stood toasting her legs in their warm rose-colored tights
in front of the fireplace she resumed:

“The prince has arrived.”

“Oh!” cried the rest with the utmost curiosity.

“Yes, that’s why I ran down: I wanted to see. He’s in the first stage
box to the right, the same he was in on Thursday. It’s the third time
he’s been this week, eh? That’s Nana; well, she’s in luck’s way! I was
willing to wager he wouldn’t come again.”

Simonne opened her lips to speak, but her remarks were drowned by a
fresh shout which arose close to the greenroom. In the passage the
callboy was yelling at the top of his shrill voice, “They’ve knocked!”

“Three times!” said Simonne when she was again able to speak. “It’s
getting exciting. You know, he won’t go to her place; he takes her to
his. And it seems that he has to pay for it too!”

“Egad! It’s a case of when one ‘has to go out,’” muttered Prullière
wickedly, and he got up to have a last look at the mirror as became a
handsome fellow whom the boxes adored.

“They’ve knocked! They’ve knocked!” the callboy kept repeating in tones
that died gradually away in the distance as he passed through the
various stories and corridors.

Fontan thereupon, knowing how it had all gone off on the first occasion
the prince and Nana met, told the two women the whole story while they
in their turn crowded against him and laughed at the tops of their
voices whenever he stooped to whisper certain details in their ears.
Old Bosc had never budged an inch—he was totally indifferent. That sort
of thing no longer interested him now. He was stroking a great
tortoise-shell cat which was lying curled up on the bench. He did so
quite beautifully and ended by taking her in his arms with the tender
good nature becoming a worn-out monarch. The cat arched its back and
then, after a prolonged sniff at the big white beard, the gluey odor of
which doubtless disgusted her, she turned and, curling herself up, went
to sleep again on the bench beside him. Bosc remained grave and
absorbed.

“That’s all right, but if I were you I should drink the champagne at
the restaurant—its better there,” he said, suddenly addressing Fontan
when he had finished his recital.

“The curtain’s up!” cried the callboy in cracked and long-drawn accents
“The curtain’s up! The curtain’s up!”

The shout sounded for some moments, during which there had been a noise
of rapid footsteps. Through the suddenly opened door of the passage
came a burst of music and a far-off murmur of voices, and then the door
shut to again and you could hear its dull thud as it wedged itself into
position once more.

A heavy, peaceful, atmosphere again pervaded the greenroom, as though
the place were situated a hundred leagues from the house where crowds
were applauding. Simonne and Clarisse were still on the topic of Nana.
There was a girl who never hurried herself! Why, yesterday she had
again come on too late! But there was a silence, for a tall damsel had
just craned her head in at the door and, seeing that she had made a
mistake, had departed to the other end of the passage. It was Satin.
Wearing a hat and a small veil for the nonce she was affecting the
manner of a lady about to pay a call.

“A pretty trollop!” muttered Prullière, who had been coming across her
for a year past at the Café des Variétés. And at this Simonne told them
how Nana had recognized in Satin an old schoolmate, had taken a vast
fancy to her and was now plaguing Bordenave to let her make a first
appearance on the stage.

“How d’ye do?” said Fontan, shaking hands with Mignon and Fauchery, who
now came into the room.

Old Bosc himself gave them the tips of his fingers while the two women
kissed Mignon.

“A good house this evening?” queried Fauchery.

“Oh, a splendid one!” replied Prullière. “You should see ’em gaping.”

“I say, my little dears,” remarked Mignon, “it must be your turn!”

Oh, all in good time! They were only at the fourth scene as yet, but
Bosc got up in obedience to instinct, as became a rattling old actor
who felt that his cue was coming. At that very moment the callboy was
opening the door.

“Monsieur Bosc!” he called. “Mademoiselle Simonne!”

Simonne flung a fur-lined pelisse briskly over her shoulders and went
out. Bosc, without hurrying at all, went and got his crown, which he
settled on his brow with a rap. Then dragging himself unsteadily along
in his greatcoat, he took his departure, grumbling and looking as
annoyed as a man who has been rudely disturbed.

“You were very amiable in your last notice,” continued Fontan,
addressing Fauchery. “Only why do you say that comedians are vain?”

“Yes, my little man, why d’you say that?” shouted Mignon, bringing down
his huge hands on the journalist’s slender shoulders with such force as
almost to double him up.

Prullière and Clarisse refrained from laughing aloud. For some time
past the whole company had been deriving amusement from a comedy which
was going on in the wings. Mignon, rendered frantic by his wife’s
caprice and annoyed at the thought that this man Fauchery brought
nothing but a certain doubtful notoriety to his household, had
conceived the idea of revenging himself on the journalist by
overwhelming him with tokens of friendship. Every evening, therefore,
when he met him behind scenes he would shower friendly slaps on his
back and shoulders, as though fairly carried away by an outburst of
tenderness, and Fauchery, who was a frail, small man in comparison with
such a giant, was fain to take the raps with a strained smile in order
not to quarrel with Rose’s husband.

“Aha, my buck, you’ve insulted Fontan,” resumed Mignon, who was doing
his best to force the joke. “Stand on guard! One—two—got him right in
the middle of his chest!”

He lunged and struck the young man with such force that the latter grew
very pale and could not speak for some seconds. With a wink Clarisse
showed the others where Rose Mignon was standing on the threshold of
the greenroom. Rose had witnessed the scene, and she marched straight
up to the journalist, as though she had failed to notice her husband
and, standing on tiptoe, bare-armed and in baby costume, she held her
face up to him with a caressing, infantine pout.

“Good evening, baby,” said Fauchery, kissing her familiarly.

Thus he indemnified himself. Mignon, however, did not seem to have
observed this kiss, for everybody kissed his wife at the theater. But
he laughed and gave the journalist a keen little look. The latter would
assurely have to pay for Rose’s bravado.

In the passage the tightly shutting door opened and closed again, and a
tempest of applause was blown as far as the greenroom. Simonne came in
after her scene.

“Oh, Father Bosc HAS just scored!” she cried. “The prince was writhing
with laughter and applauded with the rest as though he had been paid
to. I say, do you know the big man sitting beside the prince in the
stage box? A handsome man, with a very sedate expression and splendid
whiskers!”

“It’s Count Muffat,” replied Fauchery. “I know that the prince, when he
was at the empress’s the day before yesterday, invited him to dinner
for tonight. He’ll have corrupted him afterward!”

“So that’s Count Muffat! We know his father-in-law, eh, Auguste?” said
Rose, addressing her remark to Mignon. “You know the Marquis de
Chouard, at whose place I went to sing? Well, he’s in the house too. I
noticed him at the back of a box. There’s an old boy for you!”

Prullière, who had just put on his huge plume of feathers, turned round
and called her.

“Hi, Rose! Let’s go now!”

She ran after him, leaving her sentence unfinished. At that moment Mme
Bron, the portress of the theater, passed by the door with an immense
bouquet in her arms. Simonne asked cheerfully if it was for her, but
the porter woman did not vouchsafe an answer and only pointed her chin
toward Nana’s dressing room at the end of the passage. Oh, that Nana!
They were loading her with flowers! Then when Mme Bron returned she
handed a letter to Clarisse, who allowed a smothered oath to escape
her. That beggar La Faloise again! There was a fellow who wouldn’t let
her alone! And when she learned the gentleman in question was waiting
for her at the porter’s lodge she shrieked:

“Tell him I’m coming down after this act. I’m going to catch him one on
the face.”

Fontan had rushed forward, shouting:

“Madame Bron, just listen. Please listen, Madame Bron. I want you to
send up six bottles of champagne between the acts.”

But the callboy had again made his appearance. He was out of breath,
and in a singsong voice he called out:

“All to go on the stage! It’s your turn, Monsieur Fontan. Make haste,
make haste!”

“Yes, yes, I’m going, Father Barillot,” replied Fontan in a flurry.

And he ran after Mme Bron and continued:

“You understand, eh? Six bottles of champagne in the greenroom between
the acts. It’s my patron saint’s day, and I’m standing the racket.”

Simonne and Clarisse had gone off with a great rustling of skirts.
Everybody was swallowed up in the distance, and when the passage door
had banged with its usual hollow sound a fresh hail shower was heard
beating against the windows in the now-silent greenroom. Barillot, a
small, pale-faced ancient, who for thirty years had been a servant in
the theater, had advanced familiarly toward Mignon and had presented
his open snuffbox to him. This proffer of a pinch and its acceptance
allowed him a minute’s rest in his interminable career up and down
stairs and along the dressing-room passage. He certainly had still to
look up Mme Nana, as he called her, but she was one of those who
followed her own sweet will and didn’t care a pin for penalties. Why,
if she chose to be too late she was too late! But he stopped short and
murmured in great surprise:

“Well, I never! She’s ready; here she is! She must know that the prince
is here.”

Indeed, Nana appeared in the corridor. She was dressed as a fish hag:
her arms and face were plastered with white paint, and she had a couple
of red dabs under her eyes. Without entering the greenroom she
contented herself by nodding to Mignon and Fauchery.

“How do? You’re all right?”

Only Mignon shook her outstretched hand, and she hied royally on her
way, followed by her dresser, who almost trod on her heels while
stooping to adjust the folds of her skirt. In the rear of the dresser
came Satin, closing the procession and trying to look quite the lady,
though she was already bored to death.

“And Steiner?” asked Mignon sharply.

“Monsieur Steiner has gone away to the Loiret,” said Barillot,
preparing to return to the neighborhood of the stage. “I expect he’s
gone to buy a country place in those parts.”

“Ah yes, I know, Nana’s country place.”

Mignon had grown suddenly serious. Oh, that Steiner! He had promised
Rose a fine house in the old days! Well, well, it wouldn’t do to grow
angry with anybody. Here was a position that would have to be won
again. From fireplace to console table Mignon paced, sunk in thought
yet still unconquered by circumstances. There was no one in the
greenroom now save Fauchery and himself. The journalist was tired and
had flung himself back into the recesses of the big armchair. There he
stayed with half-closed eyes and as quiet as quiet could be, while the
other glanced down at him as he passed. When they were alone Mignon
scorned to slap him at every turn. What good would it have done, since
nobody would have enjoyed the spectacle? He was far too disinterested
to be personally entertained by the farcical scenes in which he figured
as a bantering husband. Glad of this short-lived respite, Fauchery
stretched his feet out languidly toward the fire and let his upturned
eyes wander from the barometer to the clock. In the course of his march
Mignon planted himself in front of Potier’s bust, looked at it without
seeming to see it and then turned back to the window, outside which
yawned the darkling gulf of the courtyard. The rain had ceased, and
there was now a deep silence in the room, which the fierce heat of the
coke fire and the flare of the gas jets rendered still more oppressive.
Not a sound came from the wings: the staircase and the passages were
deadly still.

That choking sensation of quiet, which behind the scenes immediately
precedes the end of an act, had begun to pervade the empty greenroom.
Indeed, the place seemed to be drowsing off through very breathlessness
amid that faint murmur which the stage gives forth when the whole
troupe are raising the deafening uproar of some grand finale.

“Oh, the cows!” Bordenave suddenly shouted in his hoarse voice.

He had only just come up, and he was already howling complaints about
two chorus girls who had nearly fallen flat on the stage because they
were playing the fool together. When his eye lit on Mignon and Fauchery
he called them; he wanted to show them something. The prince had just
notified a desire to compliment Nana in her dressing room during the
next interval. But as he was leading them into the wings the stage
manager passed.

“Just you find those hags Fernande and Maria!” cried Bordenave
savagely.

Then calming down and endeavoring to assume the dignified expression
worn by “heavy fathers,” he wiped his face with his pocket handkerchief
and added:

“I am now going to receive His Highness.”

The curtain fell amid a long-drawn salvo of applause. Then across the
twilight stage, which was no longer lit up by the footlights, there
followed a disorderly retreat. Actors and supers and chorus made haste
to get back to their dressing rooms while the sceneshifters rapidly
changed the scenery. Simonne and Clarisse, however, had remained “at
the top,” talking together in whispers. On the stage, in an interval
between their lines, they had just settled a little matter. Clarisse,
after viewing the thing in every light, found she preferred not to see
La Faloise, who could never decide to leave her for Gaga, and so
Simonne was simply to go and explain that a woman ought not to be
palled up to in that fashion! At last she agreed to undertake the
mission.

Then Simonne, in her theatrical laundress’s attire but with furs over
her shoulders, ran down the greasy steps of the narrow, winding stairs
which led between damp walls to the porter’s lodge. This lodge,
situated between the actors’ staircase and that of the management, was
shut in to right and left by large glass partitions and resembled a
huge transparent lantern in which two gas jets were flaring.

There was a set of pigeonholes in the place in which were piled letters
and newspapers, while on the table various bouquets lay awaiting their
recipients in close proximity to neglected heaps of dirty plates and to
an old pair of stays, the eyelets of which the portress was busy
mending. And in the middle of this untidy, ill-kept storeroom sat four
fashionable, white-gloved society men. They occupied as many ancient
straw-bottomed chairs and, with an expression at once patient and
submissive, kept sharply turning their heads in Mme Bron’s direction
every time she came down from the theater overhead, for on such
occasions she was the bearer of replies. Indeed, she had but now handed
a note to a young man who had hurried out to open it beneath the
gaslight in the vestibule, where he had grown slightly pale on reading
the classic phrase—how often had others read it in that very
place!—“Impossible tonight, my dearie! I’m booked!” La Faloise sat on
one of these chairs at the back of the room, between the table and the
stove. He seemed bent on passing the evening there, and yet he was not
quite happy. Indeed, he kept tucking up his long legs in his endeavors
to escape from a whole litter of black kittens who were gamboling
wildly round them while the mother cat sat bolt upright, staring at him
with yellow eyes.

“Ah, it’s you, Mademoiselle Simonne! What can I do for you?” asked the
portress.

Simonne begged her to send La Faloise out to her. But Mme Bron was
unable to comply with her wishes all at once. Under the stairs in a
sort of deep cupboard she kept a little bar, whither the supers were
wont to descend for drinks between the acts, and seeing that just at
that moment there were five or six tall lubbers there who, still
dressed as Boule Noire masqueraders, were dying of thirst and in a
great hurry, she lost her head a bit. A gas jet was flaring in the
cupboard, within which it was possible to descry a tin-covered table
and some shelves garnished with half-emptied bottles. Whenever the door
of this coalhole was opened a violent whiff of alcohol mingled with the
scent of stale cooking in the lodge, as well as with the penetrating
scent of the flowers upon the table.

“Well now,” continued the portress when she had served the supers, “is
it the little dark chap out there you want?”

“No, no; don’t be silly!” said Simonne. “It’s the lanky one by the side
of the stove. Your cat’s sniffing at his trouser legs!”

And with that she carried La Faloise off into the lobby, while the
other gentlemen once more resigned themselves to their fate and to
semisuffocation and the masqueraders drank on the stairs and indulged
in rough horseplay and guttural drunken jests.

On the stage above Bordenave was wild with the sceneshifters, who
seemed never to have done changing scenes. They appeared to be acting
of set purpose—the prince would certainly have some set piece or other
tumbling on his head.

“Up with it! Up with it!” shouted the foreman.

At length the canvas at the back of the stage was raised into position,
and the stage was clear. Mignon, who had kept his eye on Fauchery,
seized this opportunity in order to start his pummeling matches again.
He hugged him in his long arms and cried:

“Oh, take care! That mast just missed crushing you!”

And he carried him off and shook him before setting him down again. In
view of the sceneshifters’ exaggerated mirth, Fauchery grew white. His
lips trembled, and he was ready to flare up in anger while Mignon,
shamming good nature, was clapping him on the shoulder with such
affectionate violence as nearly to pulverize him.

“I value your health, I do!” he kept repeating. “Egad! I should be in a
pretty pickle if anything serious happened to you!”

But just then a whisper ran through their midst: “The prince! The
prince!” And everybody turned and looked at the little door which
opened out of the main body of the house. At first nothing was visible
save Bordenave’s round back and beefy neck, which bobbed down and
arched up in a series of obsequious obeisances. Then the prince made
his appearance. Largely and strongly built, light of beard and rosy of
hue, he was not lacking in the kind of distinction peculiar to a sturdy
man of pleasure, the square contours of whose limbs are clearly defined
by the irreproachable cut of a frock coat. Behind him walked Count
Muffat and the Marquis de Chouard, but this particular corner of the
theater being dark, the group were lost to view amid huge moving
shadows.

In order fittingly to address the son of a queen, who would someday
occupy a throne, Bordenave had assumed the tone of a man exhibiting a
bear in the street. In a voice tremulous with false emotion he kept
repeating:

“If His Highness will have the goodness to follow me—would His Highness
deign to come this way? His Highness will take care!”

The prince did not hurry in the least. On the contrary, he was greatly
interested and kept pausing in order to look at the sceneshifters’
maneuvers. A batten had just been lowered, and the group of gaslights
high up among its iron crossbars illuminated the stage with a wide beam
of light. Muffat, who had never yet been behind scenes at a theater,
was even more astonished than the rest. An uneasy feeling of mingled
fear and vague repugnance took possession of him. He looked up into the
heights above him, where more battens, the gas jets on which were
burning low, gleamed like galaxies of little bluish stars amid a chaos
of iron rods, connecting lines of all sizes, hanging stages and
canvases spread out in space, like huge cloths hung out to dry.

“Lower away!” shouted the foreman unexpectedly.

And the prince himself had to warn the count, for a canvas was
descending. They were setting the scenery for the third act, which was
the grotto on Mount Etna. Men were busy planting masts in the sockets,
while others went and took frames which were leaning against the walls
of the stage and proceeded to lash them with strong cords to the poles
already in position. At the back of the stage, with a view to producing
the bright rays thrown by Vulcan’s glowing forge, a stand had been
fixed by a limelight man, who was now lighting various burners under
red glasses. The scene was one of confusion, verging to all appearances
on absolute chaos, but every little move had been prearranged. Nay,
amid all the scurry the whistle blower even took a few turns, stepping
short as he did so, in order to rest his legs.

“His Highness overwhelms me,” said Bordenave, still bowing low. “The
theater is not large, but we do what we can. Now if His Highness deigns
to follow me—”

Count Muffat was already making for the dressing-room passage. The
really sharp downward slope of the stage had surprised him
disagreeably, and he owed no small part of his present anxiety to a
feeling that its boards were moving under his feet. Through the open
sockets gas was descried burning in the “dock.” Human voices and blasts
of air, as from a vault, came up thence, and, looking down into the
depths of gloom, one became aware of a whole subterranean existence.
But just as the count was going up the stage a small incident occurred
to stop him. Two little women, dressed for the third act, were chatting
by the peephole in the curtain. One of them, straining forward and
widening the hole with her fingers in order the better to observe
things, was scanning the house beyond.

“I see him,” said she sharply. “Oh, what a mug!”

Horrified, Bordenave had much ado not to give her a kick. But the
prince smiled and looked pleased and excited by the remark. He gazed
warmly at the little woman who did not care a button for His Highness,
and she, on her part, laughed unblushingly. Bordenave, however,
persuaded the prince to follow him. Muffat was beginning to perspire;
he had taken his hat off. What inconvenienced him most was the stuffy,
dense, overheated air of the place with its strong, haunting smell, a
smell peculiar to this part of a theater, and, as such, compact of the
reek of gas, of the glue used in the manufacture of the scenery, of
dirty dark nooks and corners and of questionably clean chorus girls. In
the passage the air was still more suffocating, and one seemed to
breathe a poisoned atmosphere, which was occasionally relieved by the
acid scents of toilet waters and the perfumes of various soaps
emanating from the dressing rooms. The count lifted his eyes as he
passed and glanced up the staircase, for he was well-nigh startled by
the keen flood of light and warmth which flowed down upon his back and
shoulders. High up above him there was a clicking of ewers and basins,
a sound of laughter and of people calling to one another, a banging of
doors, which in their continual opening and shutting allowed an odor of
womankind to escape—a musky scent of oils and essences mingling with
the natural pungency exhaled from human tresses. He did not stop. Nay,
he hastened his walk: he almost ran, his skin tingling with the breath
of that fiery approach to a world he knew nothing of.

“A theater’s a curious sight, eh?” said the Marquis de Chouard with the
enchanted expression of a man who once more finds himself amid familiar
surroundings.

But Bordenave had at length reached Nana’s dressing room at the end of
the passage. He quietly turned the door handle; then, cringing again:

“If His Highness will have the goodness to enter—”

They heard the cry of a startled woman and caught sight of Nana as,
stripped to the waist, she slipped behind a curtain while her dresser,
who had been in the act of drying her, stood, towel in air, before
them.

“Oh, it IS silly to come in that way!” cried Nana from her hiding
place. “Don’t come in; you see you mustn’t come in!”

Bordenave did not seem to relish this sudden flight.

“Do stay where you were, my dear. Why, it doesn’t matter,” he said.
“It’s His Highness. Come, come, don’t be childish.”

And when she still refused to make her appearance—for she was startled
as yet, though she had begun to laugh—he added in peevish, paternal
tones:

“Good heavens, these gentlemen know perfectly well what a woman looks
like. They won’t eat you.”

“I’m not so sure of that,” said the prince wittily.

With that the whole company began laughing in an exaggerated manner in
order to pay him proper court.

“An exquisitely witty speech—an altogether Parisian speech,” as
Bordenave remarked.

Nana vouchsafed no further reply, but the curtain began moving.
Doubtless she was making up her mind. Then Count Muffat, with glowing
cheeks, began to take stock of the dressing room. It was a square room
with a very low ceiling, and it was entirely hung with a light-colored
Havana stuff. A curtain of the same material depended from a copper rod
and formed a sort of recess at the end of the room, while two large
windows opened on the courtyard of the theater and were faced, at a
distance of three yards at most, by a leprous-looking wall against
which the panes cast squares of yellow light amid the surrounding
darkness. A large dressing glass faced a white marble toilet table,
which was garnished with a disorderly array of flasks and glass boxes
containing oils, essences and powders. The count went up to the
dressing glass and discovered that he was looking very flushed and had
small drops of perspiration on his forehead. He dropped his eyes and
came and took up a position in front of the toilet table, where the
basin, full of soapy water, the small, scattered, ivory toilet utensils
and the damp sponges, appeared for some moments to absorb his
attention. The feeling of dizziness which he had experienced when he
first visited Nana in the Boulevard Haussmann once more overcame him.
He felt the thick carpet soften under foot, and the gasjets burning by
the dressing table and by the glass seemed to shoot whistling flames
about his temples. For one moment, being afraid of fainting away under
the influence of those feminine odors which he now re-encountered,
intensified by the heat under the low-pitched ceiling, he sat down on
the edge of a softly padded divan between the two windows. But he got
up again almost directly and, returning to the dressing table, seemed
to gaze with vacant eyes into space, for he was thinking of a bouquet
of tuberoses which had once faded in his bedroom and had nearly killed
him in their death. When tuberoses are turning brown they have a human
smell.

“Make haste!” Bordenave whispered, putting his head in behind the
curtain.

The prince, however, was listening complaisantly to the Marquis de
Chouard, who had taken up a hare’s-foot on the dressing table and had
begun explaining the way grease paint is put on. In a corner of the
room Satin, with her pure, virginal face, was scanning the gentlemen
keenly, while the dresser, Mme Jules by name, was getting ready Venus’
tights and tunic. Mme Jules was a woman of no age. She had the
parchment skin and changeless features peculiar to old maids whom no
one ever knew in their younger years. She had indeed shriveled up in
the burning atmosphere of the dressing rooms and amid the most famous
thighs and bosoms in all Paris. She wore everlastingly a faded black
dress, and on her flat and sexless chest a perfect forest of pins
clustered above the spot where her heart should have been.

“I beg your pardon, gentlemen,” said Nana, drawing aside the curtain,
“but you took me by surprise.”

They all turned round. She had not clothed herself at all, had, in
fact, only buttoned on a little pair of linen stays which half revealed
her bosom. When the gentlemen had put her to flight she had scarcely
begun undressing and was rapidly taking off her fishwife’s costume.
Through the opening in her drawers behind a corner of her shift was
even now visible. There she stood, bare-armed, bare-shouldered,
bare-breasted, in all the adorable glory of her youth and plump, fair
beauty, but she still held the curtain with one hand, as though ready
to draw it to again upon the slightest provocation.

“Yes, you took me by surprise! I never shall dare—” she stammered in
pretty, mock confusion, while rosy blushes crossed her neck and
shoulders and smiles of embarrassment played about her lips.

“Oh, don’t apologize,” cried Bordenave, “since these gentlemen approve
of your good looks!”

But she still tried the hesitating, innocent, girlish game, and,
shivering as though someone were tickling her, she continued:

“His Highness does me too great an honor. I beg His Highness will
excuse my receiving him thus—”

“It is I who am importunate,” said the prince, “but, madame, I could
not resist the desire of complimenting you.”

Thereupon, in order to reach her dressing table, she walked very
quietly and just as she was through the midst of the gentlemen, who
made way for her to pass.

She had strongly marked hips, which filled her drawers out roundly,
while with swelling bosom she still continued bowing and smiling her
delicate little smile. Suddenly she seemed to recognize Count Muffat,
and she extended her hand to him as an old friend. Then she scolded him
for not having come to her supper party. His Highness deigned to chaff
Muffat about this, and the latter stammered and thrilled again at the
thought that for one second he had held in his own feverish clasp a
little fresh and perfumed hand. The count had dined excellently at the
prince’s, who, indeed, was a heroic eater and drinker. Both of them
were even a little intoxicated, but they behaved very creditably. To
hide the commotion within him Muffat could only remark about the heat.

“Good heavens, how hot it is here!” he said. “How do you manage to live
in such a temperature, madame?”

And conversation was about to ensue on this topic when noisy voices
were heard at the dressing-room door. Bordenave drew back the slide
over a grated peephole of the kind used in convents. Fontan was outside
with Prullière and Bosc, and all three had bottles under their arms and
their hands full of glasses. He began knocking and shouting out that it
was his patron saint’s day and that he was standing champagne round.
Nana consulted the prince with a glance. Eh! Oh dear, yes! His Highness
did not want to be in anyone’s way; he would be only too happy! But
without waiting for permission Fontan came in, repeating in baby
accents:

“Me not a cad, me pay for champagne!”

Then all of a sudden he became aware of the prince’s presence of which
he had been totally ignorant. He stopped short and, assuming an air of
farcical solemnity, announced:

“King Dagobert is in the corridor and is desirous of drinking the
health of His Royal Highness.”

The prince having made answer with a smile, Fontan’s sally was voted
charming. But the dressing room was too small to accommodate everybody,
and it became necessary to crowd up anyhow, Satin and Mme Jules
standing back against the curtain at the end and the men clustering
closely round the half-naked Nana. The three actors still had on the
costumes they had been wearing in the second act, and while Prullière
took off his Alpine admiral’s cocked hat, the huge plume of which would
have knocked the ceiling, Bosc, in his purple cloak and tinware crown,
steadied himself on his tipsy old legs and greeted the prince as became
a monarch receiving the son of a powerful neighbor. The glasses were
filled, and the company began clinking them together.

“I drink to Your Highness!” said ancient Bosc royally.

“To the army!” added Prullière.

“To Venus!” cried Fontan.

The prince complaisantly poised his glass, waited quietly, bowed thrice
and murmured:

“Madame! Admiral! Your Majesty!”

Then he drank it off. Count Muffat and the Marquis de Chouard had
followed his example. There was no more jesting now—the company were at
court. Actual life was prolonged in the life of the theater, and a sort
of solemn farce was enacted under the hot flare of the gas. Nana, quite
forgetting that she was in her drawers and that a corner of her shift
stuck out behind, became the great lady, the queen of love, in act to
open her most private palace chambers to state dignitaries. In every
sentence she used the words “Royal Highness” and, bowing with the
utmost conviction, treated the masqueraders, Bosc and Prullière, as if
the one were a sovereign and the other his attendant minister. And no
one dreamed of smiling at this strange contrast, this real prince, this
heir to a throne, drinking a petty actor’s champagne and taking his
ease amid a carnival of gods, a masquerade of royalty, in the society
of dressers and courtesans, shabby players and showmen of venal beauty.
Bordenave was simply ravished by the dramatic aspects of the scene and
began dreaming of the receipts which would have accrued had His
Highness only consented thus to appear in the second act of the Blonde
Venus.

“I say, shall we have our little women down?” he cried, becoming
familiar.

Nana would not hear of it. But notwithstanding this, she was giving way
herself. Fontan attracted her with his comic make-up. She brushed
against him and, eying him as a woman in the family way might do when
she fancies some unpleasant kind of food, she suddenly became extremely
familiar:

“Now then, fill up again, ye great brute!”

Fontan charged the glasses afresh, and the company drank, repeating the
same toasts.

“To His Highness!”

“To the army!”

“To Venus!”

But with that Nana made a sign and obtained silence. She raised her
glass and cried:

“No, no! To Fontan! It’s Fontan’s day; to Fontan! To Fontan!”

Then they clinked glasses a third time and drank Fontan with all the
honors. The prince, who had noticed the young woman devouring the actor
with her eyes, saluted him with a “Monsieur Fontan, I drink to your
success!” This he said with his customary courtesy.

But meanwhile the tail of his highness’s frock coat was sweeping the
marble of the dressing table. The place, indeed, was like an alcove or
narrow bathroom, full as it was of the steam of hot water and sponges
and of the strong scent of essences which mingled with the tartish,
intoxicating fumes of the champagne. The prince and Count Muffat,
between whom Nana was wedged, had to lift up their hands so as not to
brush against her hips or her breast with every little movement. And
there stood Mme Jules, waiting, cool and rigid as ever, while Satin,
marveling in the depths of her vicious soul to see a prince and two
gentlemen in black coats going after a naked woman in the society of
dressed-up actors, secretly concluded that fashionable people were not
so very particular after all.

But Father Barillot’s tinkling bell approached along the passage. At
the door of the dressing room he stood amazed when he caught sight of
the three actors still clad in the costumes which they had worn in the
second act.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” he stammered, “do please make haste. They’ve
just rung the bell in the public foyer.”

“Bah, the public will have to wait!” said Bordenave placidly.

However, as the bottles were now empty, the comedians went upstairs to
dress after yet another interchange of civilities. Bosc, having dipped
his beard in the champagne, had taken it off, and under his venerable
disguise the drunkard had suddenly reappeared. His was the haggard,
empurpled face of the old actor who has taken to drink. At the foot of
the stairs he was heard remarking to Fontan in his boozy voice:

“I pulverized him, eh?”

He was alluding to the prince.

In Nana’s dressing room none now remained save His Highness, the count
and the marquis. Bordenave had withdrawn with Barillot, whom he advised
not to knock without first letting Madame know.

“You will excuse me, gentlemen?” asked Nana, again setting to work to
make up her arms and face, of which she was now particularly careful,
owing to her nude appearance in the third act.

The prince seated himself by the Marquis de Chouard on the divan, and
Count Muffat alone remained standing. In that suffocating heat the two
glasses of champagne they had drunk had increased their intoxication.
Satin, when she saw the gentlemen thus closeting themselves with her
friend, had deemed it discreet to vanish behind the curtain, where she
sat waiting on a trunk, much annoyed at being compelled to remain
motionless, while Mme Jules came and went quietly without word or look.

“You sang your numbers marvelously,” said the prince.

And with that they began a conversation, but their sentences were short
and their pauses frequent. Nana, indeed, was not always able to reply.
After rubbing cold cream over her arms and face with the palm of her
hand she laid on the grease paint with the corner of a towel. For one
second only she ceased looking in the glass and smilingly stole a
glance at the prince.

“His Highness is spoiling me,” she murmured without putting down the
grease paint.

Her task was a complicated one, and the Marquis de Chouard followed it
with an expression of devout enjoyment. He spoke in his turn.

“Could not the band accompany you more softly?” he said. “It drowns
your voice, and that’s an unpardonable crime.”

This time Nana did not turn round. She had taken up the hare’s-foot and
was lightly manipulating it. All her attention was concentrated on this
action, and she bent forward over her toilet table so very far that the
white round contour of her drawers and the little patch of chemise
stood out with the unwonted tension. But she was anxious to prove that
she appreciated the old man’s compliment and therefore made a little
swinging movement with her hips.

Silence reigned. Mme Jules had noticed a tear in the right leg of her
drawers. She took a pin from over her heart and for a second or so
knelt on the ground, busily at work about Nana’s leg, while the young
woman, without seeming to notice her presence, applied the rice powder,
taking extreme pains as she did so, to avoid putting any on the upper
part of her cheeks. But when the prince remarked that if she were to
come and sing in London all England would want to applaud her, she
laughed amiably and turned round for a moment with her left cheek
looking very white amid a perfect cloud of powder. Then she became
suddenly serious, for she had come to the operation of rouging. And
with her face once more close to the mirror, she dipped her finger in a
jar and began applying the rouge below her eyes and gently spreading it
back toward her temples. The gentlemen maintained a respectful silence.

Count Muffat, indeed, had not yet opened his lips. He was thinking
perforce of his own youth. The bedroom of his childish days had been
quite cold, and later, when he had reached the age of sixteen and would
give his mother a good-night kiss every evening, he used to carry the
icy feeling of the embrace into the world of dreams. One day in passing
a half-open door he had caught sight of a maidservant washing herself,
and that was the solitary recollection which had in any way troubled
his peace of mind from the days of puberty till the time of marriage.
Afterward he had found his wife strictly obedient to her conjugal
duties but had himself felt a species of religious dislike to them. He
had grown to man’s estate and was now aging, in ignorance of the flesh,
in the humble observance of rigid devotional practices and in obedience
to a rule of life full of precepts and moral laws. And now suddenly he
was dropped down in this actress’s dressing room in the presence of
this undraped courtesan.

He, who had never seen the Countess Muffat putting on her garters, was
witnessing, amid that wild disarray of jars and basins and that strong,
sweet perfume, the intimate details of a woman’s toilet. His whole
being was in turmoil; he was terrified by the stealthy, all-pervading
influence which for some time past Nana’s presence had been exercising
over him, and he recalled to mind the pious accounts of diabolic
possession which had amused his early years. He was a believer in the
devil, and, in a confused kind of way, Nana was he, with her laughter
and her bosom and her hips, which seemed swollen with many vices. But
he promised himself that he would be strong—nay, he would know how to
defend himself.

“Well then, it’s agreed,” said the prince, lounging quite comfortably
on the divan. “You will come to London next year, and we shall receive
you so cordially that you will never return to France again. Ah, my
dear Count, you don’t value your pretty women enough. We shall take
them all from you!”

“That won’t make much odds to him,” murmured the Marquis de Chouard
wickedly, for he occasionally said a risky thing among friends. “The
count is virtue itself.”

Hearing his virtue mentioned, Nana looked at him so comically that
Muffat felt a keen twinge of annoyance. But directly afterward he was
surprised and angry with himself. Why, in the presence of this
courtesan, should the idea of being virtuous embarrass him? He could
have struck her. But in attempting to take up a brush Nana had just let
it drop on the ground, and as she stooped to pick it up he rushed
forward. Their breath mingled for one moment, and the loosened tresses
of Venus flowed over his hands. But remorse mingled with his enjoyment,
a kind of enjoyment, moreover, peculiar to good Catholics, whom the
fear of hell torments in the midst of their sin.

At this moment Father Barillot’s voice was heard outside the door.

“May I give the knocks, madame? The house is growing impatient.”

“All in good time,” answered Nana quietly.

She had dipped her paint brush in a pot of kohl, and with the point of
her nose close to the glass and her left eye closed she passed it
delicately along between her eyelashes. Muffat stood behind her,
looking on. He saw her reflection in the mirror, with her rounded
shoulders and her bosom half hidden by a rosy shadow. And despite all
his endeavors he could not turn away his gaze from that face so merry
with dimples and so worn with desire, which the closed eye rendered
more seductive. When she shut her right eye and passed the brush along
it he understood that he belonged to her.

“They are stamping their feet, madame,” the callboy once more cried.
“They’ll end by smashing the seats. May I give the knocks?”

“Oh, bother!” said Nana impatiently. “Knock away; I don’t care! If I’m
not ready, well, they’ll have to wait for me!”

She grew calm again and, turning to the gentlemen, added with a smile:

“It’s true: we’ve only got a minute left for our talk.”

Her face and arms were now finished, and with her fingers she put two
large dabs of carmine on her lips. Count Muffat felt more excited than
ever. He was ravished by the perverse transformation wrought by powders
and paints and filled by a lawless yearning for those young painted
charms, for the too-red mouth and the too-white face and the
exaggerated eyes, ringed round with black and burning and dying for
very love. Meanwhile Nana went behind the curtain for a second or two
in order to take off her drawers and slip on Venus’ tights. After
which, with tranquil immodesty, she came out and undid her little linen
stays and held out her arms to Mme Jules, who drew the short-sleeved
tunic over them.

“Make haste; they’re growing angry!” she muttered.

The prince with half-closed eyes marked the swelling lines of her bosom
with an air of connoisseurship, while the Marquis de Chouard wagged his
head involuntarily. Muffat gazed at the carpet in order not to see any
more. At length Venus, with only her gauze veil over her shoulders, was
ready to go on the stage. Mme Jules, with vacant, unconcerned eyes and
an expression suggestive of a little elderly wooden doll, still kept
circling round her. With brisk movements she took pins out of the
inexhaustible pincushion over her heart and pinned up Venus’ tunic, but
as she ran over all those plump nude charms with her shriveled hands,
nothing was suggested to her. She was as one whom her sex does not
concern.

“There!” said the young woman, taking a final look at herself in the
mirror.

Bordenave was back again. He was anxious and said the third act had
begun.

“Very well! I’m coming,” replied Nana. “Here’s a pretty fuss! Why, it’s
usually I that waits for the others.”

The gentlemen left the dressing room, but they did not say good-by, for
the prince had expressed a desire to assist behind the scenes at the
performance of the third act. Left alone, Nana seemed greatly surprised
and looked round her in all directions.

“Where can she be?” she queried.

She was searching for Satin. When she had found her again, waiting on
her trunk behind the curtain, Satin quietly replied:

“Certainly I didn’t want to be in your way with all those men there!”

And she added further that she was going now. But Nana held her back.
What a silly girl she was! Now that Bordenave had agreed to take her
on! Why, the bargain was to be struck after the play was over! Satin
hesitated. There were too many bothers; she was out of her element!
Nevertheless, she stayed.

As the prince was coming down the little wooden staircase a strange
sound of smothered oaths and stamping, scuffling feet became audible on
the other side of the theater. The actors waiting for their cues were
being scared by quite a serious episode. For some seconds past Mignon
had been renewing his jokes and smothering Fauchery with caresses. He
had at last invented a little game of a novel kind and had begun
flicking the other’s nose in order, as he phrased it, to keep the flies
off him. This kind of game naturally diverted the actors to any extent.

But success had suddenly thrown Mignon off his balance. He had launched
forth into extravagant courses and had given the journalist a box on
the ear, an actual, a vigorous, box on the ear. This time he had gone
too far: in the presence of so many spectators it was impossible for
Fauchery to pocket such a blow with laughing equanimity. Whereupon the
two men had desisted from their farce, had sprung at one another’s
throats, their faces livid with hate, and were now rolling over and
over behind a set of side lights, pounding away at each other as though
they weren’t breakable.

“Monsieur Bordenave, Monsieur Bordenave!” said the stage manager,
coming up in a terrible flutter.

Bordenave made his excuses to the prince and followed him. When he
recognized Fauchery and Mignon in the men on the floor he gave vent to
an expression of annoyance. They had chosen a nice time, certainly,
with His Highness on the other side of the scenery and all that
houseful of people who might have overheard the row! To make matters
worse, Rose Mignon arrived out of breath at the very moment she was due
on the stage. Vulcan, indeed, was giving her the cue, but Rose stood
rooted to the ground, marveling at sight of her husband and her lover
as they lay wallowing at her feet, strangling one another, kicking,
tearing their hair out and whitening their coats with dust. They barred
the way. A sceneshifter had even stopped Fauchery’s hat just when the
devilish thing was going to bound onto the stage in the middle of the
struggle. Meanwhile Vulcan, who had been gagging away to amuse the
audience, gave Rose her cue a second time. But she stood motionless,
still gazing at the two men.

“Oh, don’t look at THEM!” Bordenave furiously whispered to her. “Go on
the stage; go on, do! It’s no business of yours! Why, you’re missing
your cue!”

And with a push from the manager, Rose stepped over the prostrate
bodies and found herself in the flare of the footlights and in the
presence of the audience. She had quite failed to understand why they
were fighting on the floor behind her. Trembling from head to foot and
with a humming in her ears, she came down to the footlights, Diana’s
sweet, amorous smile on her lips, and attacked the opening lines of her
duet with so feeling a voice that the public gave her a veritable
ovation.

Behind the scenery she could hear the dull thuds caused by the two men.
They had rolled down to the wings, but fortunately the music covered
the noise made by their feet as they kicked against them.

“By God!” yelled Bordenave in exasperation when at last he had
succeeded in separating them. “Why couldn’t you fight at home? You know
as well as I do that I don’t like this sort of thing. You, Mignon,
you’ll do me the pleasure of staying over here on the prompt side, and
you, Fauchery, if you leave the O.P. side I’ll chuck you out of the
theater. You understand, eh? Prompt side and O.P. side or I forbid Rose
to bring you here at all.”

When he returned to the prince’s presence the latter asked what was the
matter.

“Oh, nothing at all,” he murmured quietly.

Nana was standing wrapped in furs, talking to these gentlemen while
awaiting her cue. As Count Muffat was coming up in order to peep
between two of the wings at the stage, he understood from a sign made
him by the stage manager that he was to step softly. Drowsy warmth was
streaming down from the flies, and in the wings, which were lit by
vivid patches of light, only a few people remained, talking in low
voices or making off on tiptoe. The gasman was at his post amid an
intricate arrangement of cocks; a fireman, leaning against the side
lights, was craning forward, trying to catch a glimpse of things, while
on his seat, high up, the curtain man was watching with resigned
expression, careless of the play, constantly on the alert for the bell
to ring him to his duty among the ropes. And amid the close air and the
shuffling of feet and the sound of whispering, the voices of the actors
on the stage sounded strange, deadened, surprisingly discordant.
Farther off again, above the confused noises of the band, a vast
breathing sound was audible. It was the breath of the house, which
sometimes swelled up till it burst in vague rumors, in laughter, in
applause. Though invisible, the presence of the public could be felt,
even in the silences.

“There’s something open,” said Nana sharply, and with that she
tightened the folds of her fur cloak. “Do look, Barillot. I bet they’ve
just opened a window. Why, one might catch one’s death of cold here!”

Barillot swore that he had closed every window himself but suggested
that possibly there were broken panes about. The actors were always
complaining of drafts. Through the heavy warmth of that gaslit region
blasts of cold air were constantly passing—it was a regular influenza
trap, as Fontan phrased it.

“I should like to see YOU in a low-cut dress,” continued Nana, growing
annoyed.

“Hush!” murmured Bordenave.

On the stage Rose rendered a phrase in her duet so cleverly that the
stalls burst into universal applause. Nana was silent at this, and her
face grew grave. Meanwhile the count was venturing down a passage when
Barillot stopped him and said he would make a discovery there. Indeed,
he obtained an oblique back view of the scenery and of the wings which
had been strengthened, as it were, by a thick layer of old posters.
Then he caught sight of a corner of the stage, of the Etna cave
hollowed out in a silver mine and of Vulcan’s forge in the background.
Battens, lowered from above, lit up a sparkling substance which had
been laid on with large dabs of the brush. Side lights with red glasses
and blue were so placed as to produce the appearance of a fiery
brazier, while on the floor of the stage, in the far background, long
lines of gaslight had been laid down in order to throw a wall of dark
rocks into sharp relief. Hard by on a gentle, “practicable” incline,
amid little points of light resembling the illumination lamps scattered
about in the grass on the night of a public holiday, old Mme Drouard,
who played Juno, was sitting dazed and sleepy, waiting for her cue.

Presently there was a commotion, for Simonne, while listening to a
story Clarisse was telling her, cried out:

“My! It’s the Tricon!”

It was indeed the Tricon, wearing the same old curls and looking as
like a litigious great lady as ever.

When she saw Nana she went straight up to her.

“No,” said the latter after some rapid phrases had been exchanged, “not
now.” The old lady looked grave. Just then Prullière passed by and
shook hands with her, while two little chorus girls stood gazing at her
with looks of deep emotion. For a moment she seemed to hesitate. Then
she beckoned to Simonne, and the rapid exchange of sentences began
again.

“Yes,” said Simonne at last. “In half an hour.”

But as she was going upstairs again to her dressing room, Mme Bron, who
was once more going the rounds with letters, presented one to her.
Bordenave lowered his voice and furiously reproached the portress for
having allowed the Tricon to come in. That woman! And on such an
evening of all others! It made him so angry because His Highness was
there! Mme Bron, who had been thirty years in the theater, replied
quite sourly. How was she to know? she asked. The Tricon did business
with all the ladies—M. le Directeur had met her a score of times
without making remarks. And while Bordenave was muttering oaths the
Tricon stood quietly by, scrutinizing the prince as became a woman who
weighs a man at a glance. A smile lit up her yellow face. Presently she
paced slowly off through the crowd of deeply deferential little women.

“Immediately, eh?” she queried, turning round again to Simonne.

Simonne seemed much worried. The letter was from a young man to whom
she had engaged herself for that evening. She gave Mme Bron a scribbled
note in which were the words, “Impossible tonight, darling—I’m booked.”
But she was still apprehensive; the young man might possibly wait for
her in spite of everything. As she was not playing in the third act,
she had a mind to be off at once and accordingly begged Clarisse to go
and see if the man were there. Clarisse was only due on the stage
toward the end of the act, and so she went downstairs while Simonne ran
up for a minute to their common dressing room.

In Mme Bron’s drinking bar downstairs a super, who was charged with the
part of Pluto, was drinking in solitude amid the folds of a great red
robe diapered with golden flames. The little business plied by the good
portress must have been progressing finely, for the cellarlike hole
under the stairs was wet with emptied heeltaps and water. Clarisse
picked up the tunic of Iris, which was dragging over the greasy steps
behind her, but she halted prudently at the turn in the stairs and was
content simply to crane forward and peer into the lodge. She certainly
had been quick to scent things out! Just fancy! That idiot La Faloise
was still there, sitting on the same old chair between the table and
the stove! He had made pretense of sneaking off in front of Simonne and
had returned after her departure. For the matter of that, the lodge was
still full of gentlemen who sat there gloved, elegant, submissive and
patient as ever. They were all waiting and viewing each other gravely
as they waited. On the table there were now only some dirty plates, Mme
Bron having recently distributed the last of the bouquets. A single
fallen rose was withering on the floor in the neighborhood of the black
cat, who had lain down and curled herself up while the kittens ran wild
races and danced fierce gallops among the gentlemen’s legs. Clarisse
was momentarily inclined to turn La Faloise out. The idiot wasn’t fond
of animals, and that put the finishing touch to him! He was busy
drawing in his legs because the cat was there, and he didn’t want to
touch her.

“He’ll nip you; take care!” said Pluto, who was a joker, as he went
upstairs, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

After that Clarisse gave up the idea of hauling La Faloise over the
coals. She had seen Mme Bron giving the letter to Simonne’s young man,
and he had gone out to read it under the gas light in the lobby.
“Impossible tonight, darling—I’m booked.” And with that he had
peaceably departed, as one who was doubtless used to the formula. He,
at any rate, knew how to conduct himself! Not so the others, the
fellows who sat there doggedly on Mme Bron’s battered straw-bottomed
chairs under the great glazed lantern, where the heat was enough to
roast you and there was an unpleasant odor. What a lot of men it must
have held! Clarisse went upstairs again in disgust, crossed over behind
scenes and nimbly mounted three flights of steps which led to the
dressing rooms, in order to bring Simonne her reply.

Downstairs the prince had withdrawn from the rest and stood talking to
Nana. He never left her; he stood brooding over her through half-shut
eyelids. Nana did not look at him but, smiling, nodded yes. Suddenly,
however, Count Muffat obeyed an overmastering impulse, and leaving
Bordenave, who was explaining to him the working of the rollers and
windlasses, he came up in order to interrupt their confabulations. Nana
lifted her eyes and smiled at him as she smiled at His Highness. But
she kept her ears open notwithstanding, for she was waiting for her
cue.

“The third act is the shortest, I believe,” the prince began saying,
for the count’s presence embarrassed him.

She did not answer; her whole expression altered; she was suddenly
intent on her business. With a rapid movement of the shoulders she had
let her furs slip from her, and Mme Jules, standing behind, had caught
them in her arms. And then after passing her two hands to her hair as
though to make it fast, she went on the stage in all her nudity.

“Hush, hush!” whispered Bordenave.

The count and the prince had been taken by surprise. There was profound
silence, and then a deep sigh and the far-off murmur of a multitude
became audible. Every evening when Venus entered in her godlike
nakedness the same effect was produced. Then Muffat was seized with a
desire to see; he put his eye to the peephole. Above and beyond the
glowing arc formed by the footlights the dark body of the house seemed
full of ruddy vapor, and against this neutral-tinted background, where
row upon row of faces struck a pale, uncertain note, Nana stood forth
white and vast, so that the boxes from the balcony to the flies were
blotted from view. He saw her from behind, noted her swelling hips, her
outstretched arms, while down on the floor, on the same level as her
feet, the prompter’s head—an old man’s head with a humble, honest
face—stood on the edge of the stage, looking as though it had been
severed from the body. At certain points in her opening number an
undulating movement seemed to run from her neck to her waist and to die
out in the trailing border of her tunic. When amid a tempest of
applause she had sung her last note she bowed, and the gauze floated
forth round about her limbs, and her hair swept over her waist as she
bent sharply backward. And seeing her thus, as with bending form and
with exaggerated hips she came backing toward the count’s peephole, he
stood upright again, and his face was very white. The stage had
disappeared, and he now saw only the reverse side of the scenery with
its display of old posters pasted up in every direction. On the
practicable slope, among the lines of gas jets, the whole of Olympus
had rejoined the dozing Mme Drouard. They were waiting for the close of
the act. Bosc and Fontan sat on the floor with their knees drawn up to
their chins, and Prullière stretched himself and yawned before going
on. Everybody was worn out; their eyes were red, and they were longing
to go home to sleep.

Just then Fauchery, who had been prowling about on the O.P. side ever
since Bordenave had forbidden him the other, came and buttonholed the
count in order to keep himself in countenance and offered at the same
time to show him the dressing rooms. An increasing sense of languor had
left Muffat without any power of resistance, and after looking round
for the Marquis de Chouard, who had disappeared, he ended by following
the journalist. He experienced a mingled feeling of relief and anxiety
as he left the wings whence he had been listening to Nana’s songs.

Fauchery had already preceded him up the staircase, which was closed on
the first and second floors by low-paneled doors. It was one of those
stairways which you find in miserable tenements. Count Muffat had seen
many such during his rounds as member of the Benevolent Organization.
It was bare and dilapidated: there was a wash of yellow paint on its
walls; its steps had been worn by the incessant passage of feet, and
its iron balustrade had grown smooth under the friction of many hands.
On a level with the floor on every stairhead there was a low window
which resembled a deep, square venthole, while in lanterns fastened to
the walls flaring gas jets crudely illuminated the surrounding squalor
and gave out a glowing heat which, as it mounted up the narrow
stairwell, grew ever more intense.

When he reached the foot of the stairs the count once more felt the hot
breath upon his neck and shoulders. As of old it was laden with the
odor of women, wafted amid floods of light and sound from the dressing
rooms above, and now with every upward step he took the musky scent of
powders and the tart perfume of toilet vinegars heated and bewildered
him more and more. On the first floor two corridors ran backward,
branching sharply off and presenting a set of doors to view which were
painted yellow and numbered with great white numerals in such a way as
to suggest a hotel with a bad reputation. The tiles on the floor had
been many of them unbedded, and the old house being in a state of
subsidence, they stuck up like hummocks. The count dashed recklessly
forward, glanced through a half-open door and saw a very dirty room
which resembled a barber’s shop in a poor part of the town. In was
furnished with two chairs, a mirror and a small table containing a
drawer which had been blackened by the grease from brushes and combs. A
great perspiring fellow with smoking shoulders was changing his linen
there, while in a similar room next door a woman was drawing on her
gloves preparatory to departure. Her hair was damp and out of curl, as
though she had just had a bath. But Fauchery began calling the count,
and the latter was rushing up without delay when a furious “damn!”
burst from the corridor on the right. Mathilde, a little drab of a
miss, had just broken her washhand basin, the soapy water from which
was flowing out to the stairhead. A dressing room door banged noisily.
Two women in their stays skipped across the passage, and another, with
the hem of her shift in her mouth, appeared and immediately vanished
from view. Then followed a sound of laughter, a dispute, the snatch of
a song which was suddenly broken off short. All along the passage naked
gleams, sudden visions of white skin and wan underlinen were observable
through chinks in doorways. Two girls were making very merry, showing
each other their birthmarks. One of them, a very young girl, almost a
child, had drawn her skirts up over her knees in order to sew up a rent
in her drawers, and the dressers, catching sight of the two men, drew
some curtains half to for decency’s sake. The wild stampede which
follows the end of a play had already begun, the grand removal of white
paint and rouge, the reassumption amid clouds of rice powder of
ordinary attire. The strange animal scent came in whiffs of redoubled
intensity through the lines of banging doors. On the third story Muffat
abandoned himself to the feeling of intoxication which was overpowering
him. For the chorus girls’ dressing room was there, and you saw a crowd
of twenty women and a wild display of soaps and flasks of lavender
water. The place resembled the common room in a slum lodging house. As
he passed by he heard fierce sounds of washing behind a closed door and
a perfect storm raging in a washhand basin. And as he was mounting up
to the topmost story of all, curiosity led him to risk one more little
peep through an open loophole. The room was empty, and under the flare
of the gas a solitary chamber pot stood forgotten among a heap of
petticoats trailing on the floor. This room afforded him his ultimate
impression. Upstairs on the fourth floor he was well-nigh suffocated.
All the scents, all the blasts of heat, had found their goal there. The
yellow ceiling looked as if it had been baked, and a lamp burned amid
fumes of russet-colored fog. For some seconds he leaned upon the iron
balustrade which felt warm and damp and well-nigh human to the touch.
And he shut his eyes and drew a long breath and drank in the sexual
atmosphere of the place. Hitherto he had been utterly ignorant of it,
but now it beat full in his face.

“Do come here,” shouted Fauchery, who had vanished some moments ago.
“You’re being asked for.”

At the end of the corridor was the dressing room belonging to Clarisse
and Simonne. It was a long, ill-built room under the roof with a garret
ceiling and sloping walls. The light penetrated to it from two deep-set
openings high up in the wall, but at that hour of the night the
dressing room was lit by flaring gas. It was papered with a paper at
seven sous a roll with a pattern of roses twining over green
trelliswork. Two boards, placed near one another and covered with
oilcloth, did duty for dressing tables. They were black with spilled
water, and underneath them was a fine medley of dinted zinc jugs, slop
pails and coarse yellow earthenware crocks. There was an array of fancy
articles in the room—a battered, soiled and well-worn array of chipped
basins, of toothless combs, of all those manifold untidy trifles which,
in their hurry and carelessness, two women will leave scattered about
when they undress and wash together amid purely temporary surroundings,
the dirty aspect of which has ceased to concern them.

“Do come here,” Fauchery repeated with the good-humored familiarity
which men adopt among their fallen sisters. “Clarisse is wanting to
kiss you.”

Muffat entered the room at last. But what was his surprise when he
found the Marquis de Chouard snugly enscounced on a chair between the
two dressing tables! The marquis had withdrawn thither some time ago.
He was spreading his feet apart because a pail was leaking and letting
a whitish flood spread over the floor. He was visibly much at his ease,
as became a man who knew all the snug corners, and had grown quite
merry in the close dressing room, where people might have been bathing,
and amid those quietly immodest feminine surroundings which the
uncleanness of the little place rendered at once natural and poignant.

“D’you go with the old boy?” Simonne asked Clarisse in a whisper.

“Rather!” replied the latter aloud.

The dresser, a very ugly and extremely familiar young girl, who was
helping Simonne into her coat, positively writhed with laughter. The
three pushed each other and babbled little phrases which redoubled
their merriment.

“Come, Clarisse, kiss the gentleman,” said Fauchery. “You know, he’s
got the rhino.”

And turning to the count:

“You’ll see, she’s very nice! She’s going to kiss you!”

But Clarisse was disgusted by the men. She spoke in violent terms of
the dirty lot waiting at the porter’s lodge down below. Besides, she
was in a hurry to go downstairs again; they were making her miss her
last scene. Then as Fauchery blocked up the doorway, she gave Muffat a
couple of kisses on the whiskers, remarking as she did so:

“It’s not for you, at any rate! It’s for that nuisance Fauchery!”

And with that she darted off, and the count remained much embarrassed
in his father-in-law’s presence. The blood had rushed to his face. In
Nana’s dressing room, amid all the luxury of hangings and mirrors, he
had not experienced the sharp physical sensation which the shameful
wretchedness of that sorry garret excited within him, redolent as it
was of these two girls’ self-abandonment. Meanwhile the marquis had
hurried in the rear of Simonne, who was making off at the top of her
pace, and he kept whispering in her ear while she shook her head in
token of refusal. Fauchery followed them, laughing. And with that the
count found himself alone with the dresser, who was washing out the
basins. Accordingly he took his departure, too, his legs almost failing
under him. Once more he put up flights of half-dressed women and caused
doors to bang as he advanced. But amid the disorderly, disbanded troops
of girls to be found on each of the four stories, he was only
distinctly aware of a cat, a great tortoise-shell cat, which went
gliding upstairs through the ovenlike place where the air was poisoned
with musk, rubbing its back against the banisters and keeping its tail
exceedingly erect.

“Yes, to be sure!” said a woman hoarsely. “I thought they’d keep us
back tonight! What a nuisance they are with their calls!”

The end had come; the curtain had just fallen. There was a veritable
stampede on the staircase—its walls rang with exclamations, and
everyone was in a savage hurry to dress and be off. As Count Muffat
came down the last step or two he saw Nana and the prince passing
slowly along the passage. The young woman halted and lowered her voice
as she said with a smile:

“All right then—by and by!”

The prince returned to the stage, where Bordenave was awaiting him. And
left alone with Nana, Muffat gave way to an impulse of anger and
desire. He ran up behind her and, as she was on the point of entering
her dressing room, imprinted a rough kiss on her neck among little
golden hairs curling low down between her shoulders. It was as though
he had returned the kiss that had been given him upstairs. Nana was in
a fury; she lifted her hand, but when she recognized the count she
smiled.

“Oh, you frightened me,” she said simply.

And her smile was adorable in its embarrassment and submissiveness, as
though she had despaired of this kiss and were happy to have received
it. But she could do nothing for him either that evening or the day
after. It was a case of waiting. Nay, even if it had been in her power
she would still have let herself be desired. Her glance said as much.
At length she continued:

“I’m a landowner, you know. Yes, I’m buying a country house near
Orleans, in a part of the world to which you sometimes betake yourself.
Baby told me you did—little Georges Hugon, I mean. You know him? So
come and see me down there.”

The count was a shy man, and the thought of his roughness had
frightened him; he was ashamed of what he had done and he bowed
ceremoniously, promising at the same time to take advantage of her
invitation. Then he walked off as one who dreams.

He was rejoining the prince when, passing in front of the foyer, he
heard Satin screaming out:

“Oh, the dirty old thing! Just you bloody well leave me alone!”

It was the Marquis de Chouard who was tumbling down over Satin. The
girl had decidedly had enough of the fashionable world! Nana had
certainly introduced her to Bordenave, but the necessity of standing
with sealed lips for fear of allowing some awkward phrase to escape her
had been too much for her feelings, and now she was anxious to regain
her freedom, the more so as she had run against an old flame of hers in
the wings. This was the super, to whom the task of impersonating Pluto
had been entrusted, a pastry cook, who had already treated her to a
whole week of love and flagellation. She was waiting for him, much
irritated at the things the marquis was saying to her, as though she
were one of those theatrical ladies! And so at last she assumed a
highly respectable expression and jerked out this phrase:

“My husband’s coming! You’ll see.”

Meanwhile the worn-looking artistes were dropping off one after the
other in their outdoor coats. Groups of men and women were coming down
the little winding staircase, and the outlines of battered hats and
worn-out shawls were visible in the shadows. They looked colorless and
unlovely, as became poor play actors who have got rid of their paint.
On the stage, where the side lights and battens were being
extinguished, the prince was listening to an anecdote Bordenave was
telling him. He was waiting for Nana, and when at length she made her
appearance the stage was dark, and the fireman on duty was finishing
his round, lantern in hand. Bordenave, in order to save His Highness
going about by the Passage des Panoramas, had made them open the
corridor which led from the porter’s lodge to the entrance hall of the
theater. Along this narrow alley little women were racing pell-mell,
for they were delighted to escape from the men who were waiting for
them in the other passage. They went jostling and elbowing along,
casting apprehensive glances behind them and only breathing freely when
they got outside. Fontan, Bosc and Prullière, on the other hand,
retired at a leisurely pace, joking at the figure cut by the serious,
paying admirers who were striding up and down the Galerie des Variétés
at a time when the little dears were escaping along the boulevard with
the men of their hearts. But Clarisse was especially sly. She had her
suspicions about La Faloise, and, as a matter of fact, he was still in
his place in the lodge among the gentlemen obstinately waiting on Mme
Bron’s chairs. They all stretched forward, and with that she passed
brazenly by in the wake of a friend. The gentlemen were blinking in
bewilderment over the wild whirl of petticoats eddying at the foot of
the narrow stairs. It made them desperate to think they had waited so
long, only to see them all flying away like this without being able to
recognize a single one. The litter of little black cats were sleeping
on the oilcloth, nestled against their mother’s belly, and the latter
was stretching her paws out in a state of beatitude while the big
tortoise-shell cat sat at the other end of the table, her tail
stretched out behind her and her yellow eyes solemnly following the
flight of the women.

“If His Highness will be good enough to come this way,” said Bordenave
at the bottom of the stairs, and he pointed to the passage.

Some chorus girls were still crowding along it. The prince began
following Nana while Muffat and the marquis walked behind.

It was a long, narrow passage lying between the theater and the house
next door, a kind of contracted by-lane which had been covered with a
sloping glass roof. Damp oozed from the walls, and the footfall sounded
as hollow on the tiled floor as in an underground vault. It was crowded
with the kind of rubbish usually found in a garret. There was a
workbench on which the porter was wont to plane such parts of the
scenery as required it, besides a pile of wooden barriers which at
night were placed at the doors of the theater for the purpose of
regulating the incoming stream of people. Nana had to pick up her dress
as she passed a hydrant which, through having been carelessly turned
off, was flooding the tiles underfoot. In the entrance hall the company
bowed and said good-by. And when Bordenave was alone he summed up his
opinion of the prince in a shrug of eminently philosophic disdain.

“He’s a bit of a duffer all the same,” he said to Fauchery without
entering on further explanations, and with that Rose Mignon carried the
journalist off with her husband in order to effect a reconciliation
between them at home.

Muffat was left alone on the sidewalk. His Highness had handed Nana
quietly into his carriage, and the marquis had slipped off after Satin
and her super. In his excitement he was content to follow this vicious
pair in vague hopes of some stray favor being granted him. Then with
brain on fire Muffat decided to walk home. The struggle within him had
wholly ceased. The ideas and beliefs of the last forty years were being
drowned in a flood of new life. While he was passing along the
boulevards the roll of the last carriages deafened him with the name of
Nana; the gaslights set nude limbs dancing before his eyes—the nude
limbs, the lithe arms, the white shoulders, of Nana. And he felt that
he was hers utterly: he would have abjured everything, sold everything,
to possess her for a single hour that very night. Youth, a lustful
puberty of early manhood, was stirring within him at last, flaming up
suddenly in the chaste heart of the Catholic and amid the dignified
traditions of middle age.




 CHAPTER VI


Count Muffat, accompanied by his wife and daughter, had arrived
overnight at Les Fondettes, where Mme Hugon, who was staying there with
only her son Georges, had invited them to come and spend a week. The
house, which had been built at the end of the eighteenth century, stood
in the middle of a huge square enclosure. It was perfectly unadorned,
but the garden possessed magnificent shady trees and a chain of tanks
fed by running spring water. It stood at the side of the road which
leads from Orleans to Paris and with its rich verdure and
high-embowered trees broke the monotony of that flat countryside, where
fields stretched to the horizon’s verge.

At eleven o’clock, when the second lunch bell had called the whole
household together, Mme Hugon, smiling in her kindly maternal way, gave
Sabine two great kisses, one on each cheek, and said as she did so:

“You know it’s my custom in the country. Oh, seeing you here makes me
feel twenty years younger. Did you sleep well in your old room?”

Then without waiting for her reply she turned to Estelle:

“And this little one, has she had a nap too? Give me a kiss, my child.”

They had taken their seats in the vast dining room, the windows of
which looked out on the park. But they only occupied one end of the
long table, where they sat somewhat crowded together for company’s
sake. Sabine, in high good spirits, dwelt on various childish memories
which had been stirred up within her—memories of months passed at Les
Fondettes, of long walks, of a tumble into one of the tanks on a summer
evening, of an old romance of chivalry discovered by her on the top of
a cupboard and read during the winter before fires made of vine
branches. And Georges, who had not seen the countess for some months,
thought there was something curious about her. Her face seemed changed,
somehow, while, on the other hand, that stick of an Estelle seemed more
insignificant and dumb and awkward than ever.

While such simple fare as cutlets and boiled eggs was being discussed
by the company, Mme Hugon, as became a good housekeeper, launched out
into complaints. The butchers, she said, were becoming impossible. She
bought everything at Orleans, and yet they never brought her the pieces
she asked for. Yet, alas, if her guests had nothing worth eating it was
their own fault: they had come too late in the season.

“There’s no sense in it,” she said. “I’ve been expecting you since
June, and now we’re half through September. You see, it doesn’t look
pretty.”

And with a movement she pointed to the trees on the grass outside, the
leaves of which were beginning to turn yellow. The day was covered, and
the distance was hidden by a bluish haze which was fraught with a sweet
and melancholy peacefulness.

“Oh, I’m expecting company,” she continued. “We shall be gayer then!
The first to come will be two gentlemen whom Georges has
invited—Monsieur Fauchery and Monsieur Daguenet; you know them, do you
not? Then we shall have Monsieur de Vandeuvres, who has promised me a
visit these five years past. This time, perhaps, he’ll make up his
mind!”

“Oh, well and good!” said the countess, laughing. “If we only can get
Monsieur de Vandeuvres! But he’s too much engaged.”

“And Philippe?” queried Muffat.

“Philippe has asked for a furlough,” replied the old lady, “but without
doubt you won’t be at Les Fondettes any longer when he arrives.”

The coffee was served. Paris was now the subject of conversation, and
Steiner’s name was mentioned, at which Mme Hugon gave a little cry.

“Let me see,” she said; “Monsieur Steiner is that stout man I met at
your house one evening. He’s a banker, is he not? Now there’s a
detestable man for you! Why, he’s gone and bought an actress an estate
about a league from here, over Gumières way, beyond the Choue. The
whole countryside’s scandalized. Did you know about that, my friend?”

“I knew nothing about it,” replied Muffat. “Ah, then, Steiner’s bought
a country place in the neighborhood!”

Hearing his mother broach the subject, Georges looked into his coffee
cup, but in his astonishment at the count’s answer he glanced up at him
and stared. Why was he lying so glibly? The count, on his side, noticed
the young fellow’s movement and gave him a suspicious glance. Mme Hugon
continued to go into details: the country place was called La Mignotte.
In order to get there one had to go up the bank of the Choue as far as
Gumières in order to cross the bridge; otherwise one got one’s feet wet
and ran the risk of a ducking.

“And what is the actress’s name?” asked the countess.

“Oh, I wasn’t told,” murmured the old lady. “Georges, you were there
the morning the gardener spoke to us about it.”

Georges appeared to rack his brains. Muffat waited, twirling a teaspoon
between his fingers. Then the countess addressed her husband:

“Isn’t Monsieur Steiner with that singer at the Variétés, that Nana?”

“Nana, that’s the name! A horrible woman!” cried Mme Hugon with growing
annoyance. “And they are expecting her at La Mignotte. I’ve heard all
about it from the gardener. Didn’t the gardener say they were expecting
her this evening, Georges?”

The count gave a little start of astonishment, but Georges replied with
much vivacity:

“Oh, Mother, the gardener spoke without knowing anything about it.
Directly afterward the coachman said just the opposite. Nobody’s
expected at La Mignotte before the day after tomorrow.”

He tried hard to assume a natural expression while he slyly watched the
effect of his remarks on the count. The latter was twirling his spoon
again as though reassured. The countess, her eyes fixed dreamily on the
blue distances of the park, seemed to have lost all interest in the
conversation. The shadow of a smile on her lips, she seemed to be
following up a secret thought which had been suddenly awakened within
her. Estelle, on the other hand, sitting stiffly on her chair, had
heard all that had been said about Nana, but her white, virginal face
had not betrayed a trace of emotion.

“Dear me, dear me! I’ve got no right to grow angry,” murmured Mme Hugon
after a pause, and with a return to her old good humor she added:

“Everybody’s got a right to live. If we meet this said lady on the road
we shall not bow to her—that’s all!”

And as they got up from table she once more gently upbraided the
Countess Sabine for having been so long in coming to her that year. But
the countess defended herself and threw the blame of the delays upon
her husband’s shoulders. Twice on the eve of departure, when all the
trunks were locked, he counterordered their journey on the plea of
urgent business. Then he had suddenly decided to start just when the
trip seemed shelved. Thereupon the old lady told them how Georges in
the same way had twice announced his arrival without arriving and had
finally cropped up at Les Fondettes the day before yesterday, when she
was no longer expecting him. They had come down into the garden, and
the two men, walking beside the ladies, were listening to them in
consequential silence.

“Never mind,” said Mme Hugon, kissing her son’s sunny locks, “Zizi is a
very good boy to come and bury himself in the country with his mother.
He’s a dear Zizi not to forget me!”

In the afternoon she expressed some anxiety, for Georges, directly
after leaving the table, had complained of a heavy feeling in his head
and now seemed in for an atrocious sick headache. Toward four o’clock
he said he would go upstairs to bed: it was the only remedy. After
sleeping till tomorrow morning he would be perfectly himself again. His
mother was bent on putting him to bed herself, but as she left the room
he ran and locked the door, explaining that he was shutting himself in
so that no one should come and disturb him. Then caressingly he
shouted, “Good night till tomorrow, little Mother!” and promised to
take a nap. But he did not go to bed again and with flushed cheeks and
bright eyes noiselessly put on his clothes. Then he sat on a chair and
waited. When the dinner bell rang he listened for Count Muffat, who was
on his way to the dining room, and ten minutes later, when he was
certain that no one would see him, he slipped from the window to the
ground with the assistance of a rain pipe. His bedroom was situated on
the first floor and looked out upon the rear of the house. He threw
himself among some bushes and got out of the park and then galloped
across the fields with empty stomach and heart beating with excitement.
Night was closing in, and a small fine rain was beginning to fall.

It was the very evening that Nana was due at La Mignotte. Ever since in
the preceding May Steiner had bought her this country place she had
from time to time been so filled with the desire of taking possession
that she had wept hot tears about, but on each of these occasions
Bordenave had refused to give her even the shortest leave and had
deferred her holiday till September on the plea that he did not intend
putting an understudy in her place, even for one evening, now that the
exhibition was on. Toward the close of August he spoke of October. Nana
was furious and declared that she would be at La Mignotte in the middle
of September. Nay, in order to dare Bordenave, she even invited a crowd
of guests in his very presence. One afternoon in her rooms, as Muffat,
whose advances she still adroitly resisted, was beseeching her with
tremulous emotion to yield to his entreaties, she at length promised to
be kind, but not in Paris, and to him, too, she named the middle of
September. Then on the twelfth she was seized by a desire to be off
forthwith with Zoé as her sole companion. It might be that Bordenave
had got wind of her intentions and was about to discover some means of
detaining her. She was delighted at the notion of putting him in a fix,
and she sent him a doctor’s certificate. When once the idea had entered
her head of being the first to get to La Mignotte and of living there
two days without anybody knowing anything about it, she rushed Zoé
through the operation of packing and finally pushed her into a cab,
where in a sudden burst of extreme contrition she kissed her and begged
her pardon. It was only when they got to the station refreshment room
that she thought of writing Steiner of her movements. She begged him to
wait till the day after tomorrow before rejoining her if he wanted to
find her quite bright and fresh. And then, suddenly conceiving another
project, she wrote a second letter, in which she besought her aunt to
bring little Louis to her at once. It would do Baby so much good! And
how happy they would be together in the shade of the trees! In the
railway carriage between Paris and Orleans she spoke of nothing else;
her eyes were full of tears; she had an unexpected attack of maternal
tenderness and mingled together flowers, birds and child in her every
sentence.

La Mignotte was more than three leagues away from the station, and Nana
lost a good hour over the hire of a carriage, a huge, dilapidated
calash, which rumbled slowly along to an accompaniment of rattling old
iron. She had at once taken possession of the coachman, a little
taciturn old man whom she overwhelmed with questions. Had he often
passed by La Mignotte? It was behind this hill then? There ought to be
lots of trees there, eh? And the house could one see it at a distance?
The little old man answered with a succession of grunts. Down in the
calash Nana was almost dancing with impatience, while Zoé, in her
annoyance at having left Paris in such a hurry, sat stiffly sulking
beside her. The horse suddenly stopped short, and the young woman
thought they had reached their destination. She put her head out of the
carriage door and asked:

“Are we there, eh?”

By way of answer the driver whipped up his horse, which was in the act
of painfully climbing a hill. Nana gazed ecstatically at the vast plain
beneath the gray sky where great clouds were banked up.

“Oh, do look, Zoé! There’s greenery! Now, is that all wheat? Good lord,
how pretty it is!”

“One can quite see that Madame doesn’t come from the country,” was the
servant’s prim and tardy rejoinder. “As for me, I knew the country only
too well when I was with my dentist. He had a house at Bougival. No,
it’s cold, too, this evening. It’s damp in these parts.”

They were driving under the shadow of a wood, and Nana sniffed up the
scent of the leaves as a young dog might. All of a sudden at a turn of
the road she caught sight of the corner of a house among the trees.
Perhaps it was there! And with that she began a conversation with the
driver, who continued shaking his head by way of saying no. Then as
they drove down the other side of the hill he contented himself by
holding out his whip and muttering, “’Tis down there.”

She got up and stretched herself almost bodily out of the carriage
door.

“Where is it? Where is it?” she cried with pale cheeks, but as yet she
saw nothing.

At last she caught sight of a bit of wall. And then followed a
succession of little cries and jumps, the ecstatic behavior of a woman
overcome by a new and vivid sensation.

“I see it! I see it, Zoé! Look out at the other side. Oh, there’s a
terrace with brick ornaments on the roof! And there’s a hothouse down
there! But the place is immense. Oh, how happy I am! Do look, Zoé! Now,
do look!”

The carriage had by this time pulled up before the park gates. A side
door was opened, and the gardener, a tall, dry fellow, made his
appearance, cap in hand. Nana made an effort to regain her dignity, for
the driver seemed now to be suppressing a laugh behind his dry,
speechless lips. She refrained from setting off at a run and listened
to the gardener, who was a very talkative fellow. He begged Madame to
excuse the disorder in which she found everything, seeing that he had
only received Madame’s letter that very morning. But despite all his
efforts, she flew off at a tangent and walked so quickly that Zoé could
scarcely follow her. At the end of the avenue she paused for a moment
in order to take the house in at a glance. It was a great pavilion-like
building in the Italian manner, and it was flanked by a smaller
construction, which a rich Englishman, after two years’ residence in
Naples, had caused to be erected and had forthwith become disgusted
with.

“I’ll take Madame over the house,” said the gardener.

But she had outrun him entirely, and she shouted back that he was not
to put himself out and that she would go over the house by herself. She
preferred doing that, she said. And without removing her hat she dashed
into the different rooms, calling to Zoé as she did so, shouting her
impressions from one end of each corridor to the other and filling the
empty house, which for long months had been uninhabited, with
exclamations and bursts of laughter. In the first place, there was the
hall. It was a little damp, but that didn’t matter; one wasn’t going to
sleep in it. Then came the drawing room, quite the thing, the drawing
room, with its windows opening on the lawn. Only the red upholsteries
there were hideous; she would alter all that. As to the dining
room-well, it was a lovely dining room, eh? What big blowouts you might
give in Paris if you had a dining room as large as that! As she was
going upstairs to the first floor it occurred to her that she had not
seen the kitchen, and she went down again and indulged in ecstatic
exclamations. Zoé ought to admire the beautiful dimensions of the sink
and the width of the hearth, where you might have roasted a sheep! When
she had gone upstairs again her bedroom especially enchanted her. It
had been hung with delicate rose-colored Louis XVI cretonne by an
Orleans upholsterer. Dear me, yes! One ought to sleep jolly sound in
such a room as that; why, it was a real best bedroom! Then came four or
five guest chambers and then some splendid garrets, which would be
extremely convenient for trunks and boxes. Zoé looked very gruff and
cast a frigid glance into each of the rooms as she lingered in Madame’s
wake. She saw Nana disappearing up the steep garret ladder and said,
“Thanks, I haven’t the least wish to break my legs.” But the sound of a
voice reached her from far away; indeed, it seemed to come whistling
down a chimney.

“Zoé, Zoé, where are you? Come up, do! You’ve no idea! It’s like
fairyland!”

Zoé went up, grumbling. On the roof she found her mistress leaning
against the brickwork balustrade and gazing at the valley which spread
out into the silence. The horizon was immeasurably wide, but it was now
covered by masses of gray vapor, and a fierce wind was driving fine
rain before it. Nana had to hold her hat on with both hands to keep it
from being blown away while her petticoats streamed out behind her,
flapping like a flag.

“Not if I know it!” said Zoé, drawing her head in at once. “Madame will
be blown away. What beastly weather!”

Madame did not hear what she said. With her head over the balustrade
she was gazing at the grounds beneath. They consisted of seven or eight
acres of land enclosed within a wall. Then the view of the kitchen
garden entirely engrossed her attention. She darted back, jostling the
lady’s maid at the top of the stairs and bursting out:

“It’s full of cabbages! Oh, such woppers! And lettuces and sorrel and
onions and everything! Come along, make haste!”

The rain was falling more heavily now, and she opened her white silk
sunshade and ran down the garden walks.

“Madame will catch cold,” cried Zoé, who had stayed quietly behind
under the awning over the garden door.

But Madame wanted to see things, and at each new discovery there was a
burst of wonderment.

“Zoé, here’s spinach! Do come. Oh, look at the artichokes! They are
funny. So they grow in the ground, do they? Now, what can that be? I
don’t know it. Do come, Zoé, perhaps you know.”

The lady’s maid never budged an inch. Madame must really be raving mad.
For now the rain was coming down in torrents, and the little white silk
sunshade was already dark with it. Nor did it shelter Madame, whose
skirts were wringing wet. But that didn’t put her out in the smallest
degree, and in the pouring rain she visited the kitchen garden and the
orchard, stopping in front of every fruit tree and bending over every
bed of vegetables. Then she ran and looked down the well and lifted up
a frame to see what was underneath it and was lost in the contemplation
of a huge pumpkin. She wanted to go along every single garden walk and
to take immediate possession of all the things she had been wont to
dream of in the old days, when she was a slipshod work-girl on the
Paris pavements. The rain redoubled, but she never heeded it and was
only miserable at the thought that the daylight was fading. She could
not see clearly now and touched things with her fingers to find out
what they were. Suddenly in the twilight she caught sight of a bed of
strawberries, and all that was childish in her awoke.

“Strawberries! Strawberries! There are some here; I can feel them. A
plate, Zoé! Come and pick strawberries.”

And dropping her sunshade, Nana crouched down in the mire under the
full force of the downpour. With drenched hands she began gathering the
fruit among the leaves. But Zoé in the meantime brought no plate, and
when the young woman rose to her feet again she was frightened. She
thought she had seen a shadow close to her.

“It’s some beast!” she screamed.

But she stood rooted to the path in utter amazement. It was a man, and
she recognized him.

“Gracious me, it’s Baby! What ARE you doing there, baby?”

“’Gad, I’ve come—that’s all!” replied Georges.

Her head swam.

“You knew I’d come through the gardener telling you? Oh, that poor
child! Why, he’s soaking!”

“Oh, I’ll explain that to you! The rain caught me on my way here, and
then, as I didn’t wish to go upstream as far as Gumières, I crossed the
Choue and fell into a blessed hole.”

Nana forgot the strawberries forthwith. She was trembling and full of
pity. That poor dear Zizi in a hole full of water! And she drew him
with her in the direction of the house and spoke of making up a roaring
fire.

“You know,” he murmured, stopping her among the shadows, “I was in
hiding because I was afraid of being scolded, like in Paris, when I
come and see you and you’re not expecting me.”

She made no reply but burst out laughing and gave him a kiss on the
forehead. Up till today she had always treated him like a naughty
urchin, never taking his declarations seriously and amusing herself at
his expense as though he were a little man of no consequence whatever.
There was much ado to install him in the house. She absolutely insisted
on the fire being lit in her bedroom, as being the most comfortable
place for his reception. Georges had not surprised Zoé, who was used to
all kinds of encounters, but the gardener, who brought the wood
upstairs, was greatly nonplused at sight of this dripping gentleman to
whom he was certain he had not opened the front door. He was, however,
dismissed, as he was no longer wanted.

A lamp lit up the room, and the fire burned with a great bright flame.

“He’ll never get dry, and he’ll catch cold,” said Nana, seeing Georges
beginning to shiver.

And there were no men’s trousers in her house! She was on the point of
calling the gardener back when an idea struck her. Zoé, who was
unpacking the trunks in the dressing room, brought her mistress a
change of underwear, consisting of a shift and some petticoats with a
dressing jacket.

“Oh, that’s first rate!” cried the young woman. “Zizi can put ’em all
on. You’re not angry with me, eh? When your clothes are dry you can put
them on again, and then off with you, as fast as fast can be, so as not
to have a scolding from your mamma. Make haste! I’m going to change my
things, too, in the dressing room.”

Ten minutes afterward, when she reappeared in a tea gown, she clasped
her hands in a perfect ecstasy.

“Oh, the darling! How sweet he looks dressed like a little woman!”

He had simply slipped on a long nightgown with an insertion front, a
pair of worked drawers and the dressing jacket, which was a long
cambric garment trimmed with lace. Thus attired and with his delicate
young arms showing and his bright damp hair falling almost to his
shoulders, he looked just like a girl.

“Why, he’s as slim as I am!” said Nana, putting her arm round his
waist. “Zoé, just come here and see how it suits him. It’s made for
him, eh? All except the bodice part, which is too large. He hasn’t got
as much as I have, poor, dear Zizi!”

“Oh, to be sure, I’m a bit wanting there,” murmured Georges with a
smile.

All three grew very merry about it. Nana had set to work buttoning the
dressing jacket from top to bottom so as to make him quite decent. Then
she turned him round as though he were a doll, gave him little thumps,
made the skirt stand well out behind. After which she asked him
questions. Was he comfortable? Did he feel warm? Zounds, yes, he was
comfortable! Nothing fitted more closely and warmly than a woman’s
shift; had he been able, he would always have worn one. He moved round
and about therein, delighted with the fine linen and the soft touch of
that unmanly garment, in the folds of which he thought he discovered
some of Nana’s own warm life.

Meanwhile Zoé had taken the soaked clothes down to the kitchen in order
to dry them as quickly as possible in front of a vine-branch fire. Then
Georges, as he lounged in an easy chair, ventured to make a confession.

“I say, are you going to feed this evening? I’m dying of hunger. I
haven’t dined.”

Nana was vexed. The great silly thing to go sloping off from Mamma’s
with an empty stomach, just to chuck himself into a hole full of water!
But she was as hungry as a hunter too. They certainly must feed! Only
they would have to eat what they could get. Whereupon a round table was
rolled up in front of the fire, and the queerest of dinners was
improvised thereon. Zoé ran down to the gardener’s, he having cooked a
mess of cabbage soup in case Madame should not dine at Orleans before
her arrival. Madame, indeed, had forgotten to tell him what he was to
get ready in the letter she had sent him. Fortunately the cellar was
well furnished. Accordingly they had cabbage soup, followed by a piece
of bacon. Then Nana rummaged in her handbag and found quite a heap of
provisions which she had taken the precaution of stuffing into it.
There was a Strasbourg paté, for instance, and a bag of sweet-meats and
some oranges. So they both ate away like ogres and, while they
satisfied their healthy young appetites, treated one another with easy
good fellowship. Nana kept calling Georges “dear old girl,” a form of
address which struck her as at once tender and familiar. At dessert, in
order not to give Zoé any more trouble, they used the same spoon turn
and turn about while demolishing a pot of preserves they had discovered
at the top of a cupboard.

“Oh, you dear old girl!” said Nana, pushing back the round table. “I
haven’t made such a good dinner these ten years past!”

Yet it was growing late, and she wanted to send her boy off for fear he
should be suspected of all sorts of things. But he kept declaring that
he had plenty of time to spare. For the matter of that, his clothes
were not drying well, and Zoé averred that it would take an hour longer
at least, and as she was dropping with sleep after the fatigues of the
journey, they sent her off to bed. After which they were alone in the
silent house.

It was a very charming evening. The fire was dying out amid glowing
embers, and in the great blue room, where Zoé had made up the bed
before going upstairs, the air felt a little oppressive. Nana, overcome
by the heavy warmth, got up to open the window for a few minutes, and
as she did so she uttered a little cry.

“Great heavens, how beautiful it is! Look, dear old girl!”

Georges had come up, and as though the window bar had not been
sufficiently wide, he put his arm round Nana’s waist and rested his
head against her shoulder. The weather had undergone a brisk change:
the skies were clearing, and a full moon lit up the country with its
golden disk of light. A sovereign quiet reigned over the valley. It
seemed wider and larger as it opened on the immense distances of the
plain, where the trees loomed like little shadowy islands amid a
shining and waveless lake. And Nana grew tenderhearted, felt herself a
child again. Most surely she had dreamed of nights like this at an
epoch which she could not recall. Since leaving the train every object
of sensation—the wide countryside, the green things with their pungent
scents, the house, the vegetables—had stirred her to such a degree that
now it seemed to her as if she had left Paris twenty years ago.
Yesterday’s existence was far, far away, and she was full of sensations
of which she had no previous experience. Georges, meanwhile, was giving
her neck little coaxing kisses, and this again added to her sweet
unrest. With hesitating hand she pushed him from her, as though he were
a child whose affectionate advances were fatiguing, and once more she
told him that he ought to take his departure. He did not gainsay her.
All in good time—he would go all in good time!

But a bird raised its song and again was silent. It was a robin in an
elder tree below the window.

“Wait one moment,” whispered Georges; “the lamp’s frightening him. I’ll
put it out.”

And when he came back and took her waist again he added:

“We’ll relight it in a minute.”

Then as she listened to the robin and the boy pressed against her side,
Nana remembered. Ah yes, it was in novels that she had got to know all
this! In other days she would have given her heart to have a full moon
and robins and a lad dying of love for her. Great God, she could have
cried, so good and charming did it all seem to her! Beyond a doubt she
had been born to live honestly! So she pushed Georges away again, and
he grew yet bolder.

“No, let me be. I don’t care about it. It would be very wicked at your
age. Now listen—I’ll always be your mamma.”

A sudden feeling of shame overcame her. She was blushing exceedingly,
and yet not a soul could see her. The room behind them was full of
black night while the country stretched before them in silence and
lifeless solitude. Never had she known such a sense of shame before.
Little by little she felt her power of resistance ebbing away, and that
despite her embarrassed efforts to the contrary. That disguise of his,
that woman’s shift and that dressing jacket set her laughing again. It
was as though a girl friend were teasing her.

“Oh, it’s not right; it’s not right!” she stammered after a last
effort.

And with that, in face of the lovely night, she sank like a young
virgin into the arms of this mere child. The house slept.

Next morning at Les Fondettes, when the bell rang for lunch, the
dining-room table was no longer too big for the company. Fauchery and
Daguenet had been driven up together in one carriage, and after them
another had arrived with the Count de Vandeuvres, who had followed by
the next train. Georges was the last to come downstairs. He was looking
a little pale, and his eyes were sunken, but in answer to questions he
said that he was much better, though he was still somewhat shaken by
the violence of the attack. Mme Hugon looked into his eyes with an
anxious smile and adjusted his hair which had been carelessly combed
that morning, but he drew back as though embarrassed by this tender
little action. During the meal she chaffed Vandeuvres very pleasantly
and declared that she had expected him for five years past.

“Well, here you are at last! How have you managed it?”

Vandeuvres took her remarks with equal pleasantry. He told her that he
had lost a fabulous sum of money at the club yesterday and thereupon
had come away with the intention of ending up in the country.

“’Pon my word, yes, if only you can find me an heiress in these rustic
parts! There must be delightful women hereabouts.”

The old lady rendered equal thanks to Daguenet and Fauchery for having
been so good as to accept her son’s invitation, and then to her great
and joyful surprise she saw the Marquis de Chouard enter the room. A
third carriage had brought him.

“Dear me, you’ve made this your trysting place today!” she cried.
“You’ve passed word round! But what’s happening? For years I’ve never
succeeded in bringing you all together, and now you all drop in at
once. Oh, I certainly don’t complain.”

Another place was laid. Fauchery found himself next the Countess
Sabine, whose liveliness and gaiety surprised him when he remembered
her drooping, languid state in the austere Rue Miromesnil drawing room.
Daguenet, on the other hand, who was seated on Estelle’s left, seemed
slightly put out by his propinquity to that tall, silent girl. The
angularity of her elbows was disagreeable to him. Muffat and Chouard
had exchanged a sly glance while Vandeuvres continued joking about his
coming marriage.

“Talking of ladies,” Mme Hugon ended by saying, “I have a new neighbor
whom you probably know.”

And she mentioned Nana. Vandeuvres affected the liveliest astonishment.

“Well, that is strange! Nana’s property near here!”

Fauchery and Daguenet indulged in a similar demonstration while the
Marquis de Chouard discussed the breast of a chicken without appearing
to comprehend their meaning. Not one of the men had smiled.

“Certainly,” continued the old lady, “and the person in question
arrived at La Mignotte yesterday evening, as I was saying she would. I
got my information from the gardener this morning.”

At these words the gentlemen could not conceal their very real
surprise. They all looked up. Eh? What? Nana had come down! But they
were only expecting her next day; they were privately under the
impression that they would arrive before her! Georges alone sat looking
at his glass with drooped eyelids and a tired expression. Ever since
the beginning of lunch he had seemed to be sleeping with open eyes and
a vague smile on his lips.

“Are you still in pain, my Zizi?” asked his mother, who had been gazing
at him throughout the meal.

He started and blushed as he said that he was very well now, but the
worn-out insatiate expression of a girl who has danced too much did not
fade from his face.

“What’s the matter with your neck?” resumed Mme Hugon in an alarmed
tone. “It’s all red.”

He was embarrassed and stammered. He did not know—he had nothing the
matter with his neck. Then drawing his shirt collar up:

“Ah yes, some insect stung me there!”

The Marquis de Chouard had cast a sidelong glance at the little red
place. Muffat, too, looked at Georges. The company was finishing lunch
and planning various excursions. Fauchery was growing increasingly
excited with the Countess Sabine’s laughter. As he was passing her a
dish of fruit their hands touched, and for one second she looked at him
with eyes so full of dark meaning that he once more thought of the
secret which had been communicated to him one evening after an
uproarious dinner. Then, too, she was no longer the same woman.
Something was more pronounced than of old, and her gray foulard gown
which fitted loosely over her shoulders added a touch of license to her
delicate, high-strung elegance.

When they rose from the table Daguenet remained behind with Fauchery in
order to impart to him the following crude witticism about Estelle: “A
nice broomstick that to shove into a man’s hands!” Nevertheless, he
grew serious when the journalist told him the amount she was worth in
the way of dowry.

“Four hundred thousand francs.”

“And the mother?” queried Fauchery. “She’s all right, eh?”

“Oh, SHE’LL work the oracle! But it’s no go, my dear man!”

“Bah! How are we to know? We must wait and see.”

It was impossible to go out that day, for the rain was still falling in
heavy showers. Georges had made haste to disappear from the scene and
had double-locked his door. These gentlemen avoided mutual
explanations, though they were none of them deceived as to the reasons
which had brought them together. Vandeuvres, who had had a very bad
time at play, had really conceived the notion of lying fallow for a
season, and he was counting on Nana’s presence in the neighborhood as a
safeguard against excessive boredom. Fauchery had taken advantage of
the holidays granted him by Rose, who just then was extremely busy. He
was thinking of discussing a second notice with Nana, in case country
air should render them reciprocally affectionate. Daguenet, who had
been just a little sulky with her since Steiner had come upon the
scene, was dreaming of resuming the old connection or at least of
snatching some delightful opportunities if occasion offered. As to the
Marquis de Chouard, he was watching for times and seasons. But among
all those men who were busy following in the tracks of Venus—a Venus
with the rouge scarce washed from her cheeks—Muffat was at once the
most ardent and the most tortured by the novel sensations of desire and
fear and anger warring in his anguished members. A formal promise had
been made him; Nana was awaiting him. Why then had she taken her
departure two days sooner than was expected?

He resolved to betake himself to La Mignotte after dinner that same
evening. At night as the count was leaving the park Georges fled forth
after him. He left him to follow the road to Gumières, crossed the
Choue, rushed into Nana’s presence, breathless, furious and with tears
in his eyes. Ah yes, he understood everything! That old fellow now on
his way to her was coming to keep an appointment! Nana was dumfounded
by this ebullition of jealousy, and, greatly moved by the way things
were turning out, she took him in her arms and comforted him to the
best of her ability. Oh no, he was quite beside the mark; she was
expecting no one. If the gentleman came it would not be her fault. What
a great ninny that Zizi was to be taking on so about nothing at all! By
her child’s soul she swore she loved nobody except her own Georges. And
with that she kissed him and wiped away his tears.

“Now just listen! You’ll see that it’s all for your sake,” she went on
when he had grown somewhat calmer. “Steiner has arrived—he’s up above
there now. You know, duckie, I can’t turn HIM out of doors.”

“Yes, I know; I’m not talking of HIM,” whispered the boy.

“Very well then, I’ve stuck him into the room at the end. I said I was
out of sorts. He’s unpacking his trunk. Since nobody’s seen you, be
quick and run up and hide in my room and wait for me.”

Georges sprang at her and threw his arms round her neck. It was true
after all! She loved him a little! So they would put the lamp out as
they did yesterday and be in the dark till daytime! Then as the
front-door bell sounded he quietly slipped away. Upstairs in the
bedroom he at once took off his shoes so as not to make any noise and
straightway crouched down behind a curtain and waited soberly.

Nana welcomed Count Muffat, who, though still shaken with passion, was
now somewhat embarrassed. She had pledged her word to him and would
even have liked to keep it since he struck her as a serious,
practicable lover. But truly, who could have foreseen all that happened
yesterday? There was the voyage and the house she had never set eyes on
before and the arrival of the drenched little lover! How sweet it had
all seemed to her, and how delightful it would be to continue in it! So
much the worse for the gentleman! For three months past she had been
keeping him dangling after her while she affected conventionality in
order the further to inflame him. Well, well! He would have to continue
dangling, and if he didn’t like that he could go! She would sooner have
thrown up everything than have played false to Georges.

The count had seated himself with all the ceremonious politeness
becoming a country caller. Only his hands were trembling slightly.
Lust, which Nana’s skillful tactics daily exasperated, had at last
wrought terrible havoc in that sanguine, uncontaminated nature. The
grave man, the chamberlain who was wont to tread the state apartments
at the Tuileries with slow and dignified step, was now nightly driven
to plunge his teeth into his bolster, while with sobs of exasperation
he pictured to himself a sensual shape which never changed. But this
time he was determined to make an end of the torture. Coming along the
highroad in the deep quiet of the gloaming, he had meditated a fierce
course of action. And the moment he had finished his opening remarks he
tried to take hold of Nana with both hands.

“No, no! Take care!” she said simply. She was not vexed; nay, she even
smiled.

He caught her again, clenching his teeth as he did so. Then as she
struggled to get free he coarsely and crudely reminded her that he had
come to stay the night. Though much embarrassed at this, Nana did not
cease to smile. She took his hands and spoke very familiarly in order
to soften her refusal.

“Come now, darling, do be quiet! Honor bright, I can’t: Steiner’s
upstairs.”

But he was beside himself. Never yet had she seen a man in such a
state. She grew frightened and put her hand over his mouth in order to
stifle his cries. Then in lowered tones she besought him to be quiet
and to let her alone. Steiner was coming downstairs. Things were
getting stupid, to be sure! When Steiner entered the room he heard Nana
remarking:

“I adore the country.”

She was lounging comfortably back in her deep easy chair, and she
turned round and interrupted herself.

“It’s Monsieur le Comte Muffat, darling. He saw a light here while he
was strolling past, and he came in to bid us welcome.”

The two men clasped hands. Muffat, with his face in shadow, stood
silent for a moment or two. Steiner seemed sulky. Then they chatted
about Paris: business there was at a standstill; abominable things had
been happening on ’change. When a quarter of an hour had elapsed Muffat
took his departure, and, as the young woman was seeing him to the door,
he tried without success to make an assignation for the following
night. Steiner went up to bed almost directly afterward, grumbling, as
he did so, at the everlasting little ailments that seemed to afflict
the genus courtesan. The two old boys had been packed off at last! When
she was able to rejoin him Nana found Georges still hiding exemplarily
behind the curtain. The room was dark. He pulled her down onto the
floor as she sat near him, and together they began playfully rolling on
the ground, stopping now and again and smothering their laughter with
kisses whenever they struck their bare feet against some piece of
furniture. Far away, on the road to Gumières, Count Muffat walked
slowly home and, hat in hand, bathed his burning forehead in the
freshness and silence of the night.

During the days that followed Nana found life adorable. In the lad’s
arms she was once more a girl of fifteen, and under the caressing
influence of this renewed childhood love’s white flower once more
blossomed forth in a nature which had grown hackneyed and disgusted in
the service of the other sex. She would experience sudden fits of
shame, sudden vivid emotions, which left her trembling. She wanted to
laugh and to cry, and she was beset by nervous, maidenly feelings,
mingled with warm desires that made her blush again. Never yet had she
felt anything comparable to this. The country filled her with tender
thoughts. As a little girl she had long wished to dwell in a meadow,
tending a goat, because one day on the talus of the fortifications she
had seen a goat bleating at the end of its tether. Now this estate,
this stretch of land belonging to her, simply swelled her heart to
bursting, so utterly had her old ambition been surpassed. Once again
she tasted the novel sensations experienced by chits of girls, and at
night when she went upstairs, dizzy with her day in the open air and
intoxicated by the scent of green leaves, and rejoined her Zizi behind
the curtain, she fancied herself a schoolgirl enjoying a holiday
escapade. It was an amour, she thought, with a young cousin to whom she
was going to be married. And so she trembled at the slightest noise and
dread lest parents should hear her, while making the delicious
experiments and suffering the voluptuous terrors attendant on a girl’s
first slip from the path of virtue.

Nana in those days was subject to the fancies a sentimental girl will
indulge in. She would gaze at the moon for hours. One night she had a
mind to go down into the garden with Georges when all the household was
asleep. When there they strolled under the trees, their arms round each
other’s waists, and finally went and laid down in the grass, where the
dew soaked them through and through. On another occasion, after a long
silence up in the bedroom, she fell sobbing on the lad’s neck,
declaring in broken accents that she was afraid of dying. She would
often croon a favorite ballad of Mme Lerat’s, which was full of flowers
and birds. The song would melt her to tears, and she would break off in
order to clasp Georges in a passionate embrace and to extract from him
vows of undying affection. In short she was extremely silly, as she
herself would admit when they both became jolly good fellows again and
sat up smoking cigarettes on the edge of the bed, dangling their bare
legs over it the while and tapping their heels against its wooden side.

But what utterly melted the young woman’s heart was Louiset’s arrival.
She had an access of maternal affection which was as violent as a mad
fit. She would carry off her boy into the sunshine outside to watch him
kicking about; she would dress him like a little prince and roll with
him in the grass. The moment he arrived she decided that he was to
sleep near her, in the room next hers, where Mme Lerat, whom the
country greatly affected, used to begin snoring the moment her head
touched the pillow. Louiset did not hurt Zizi’s position in the least.
On the contrary, Nana said that she had now two children, and she
treated them with the same wayward tenderness. At night, more than ten
times running, she would leave Zizi to go and see if Louiset were
breathing properly, but on her return she would re-embrace her Zizi and
lavish on him the caresses that had been destined for the child. She
played at being Mamma while he wickedly enjoyed being dandled in the
arms of the great wench and allowed himself to be rocked to and fro
like a baby that is being sent to sleep. It was all so delightful, and
Nana was so charmed with her present existence, that she seriously
proposed to him never to leave the country. They would send all the
other people away, and he, she and the child would live alone. And with
that they would make a thousand plans till daybreak and never once hear
Mme Lerat as she snored vigorously after the fatigues of a day spent in
picking country flowers.

This charming existence lasted nearly a week. Count Muffat used to come
every evening and go away again with disordered face and burning hands.
One evening he was not even received, as Steiner had been obliged to
run up to Paris. He was told that Madame was not well. Nana grew daily
more disgusted at the notion of deceiving Georges. He was such an
innocent lad, and he had such faith in her! She would have looked on
herself as the lowest of the low had she played him false. Besides, it
would have sickened her to do so! Zoé, who took her part in this affair
in mute disdain, believed that Madame was growing senseless.

On the sixth day a band of visitors suddenly blundered into Nana’s
idyl. She had, indeed, invited a whole swarm of people under the belief
that none of them would come. And so one fine afternoon she was vastly
astonished and annoyed to see an omnibus full of people pulling up
outside the gate of La Mignotte.

“It’s us!” cried Mignon, getting down first from the conveyance and
extracting then his sons Henri and Charles.

Labordette thereupon appeared and began handing out an interminable
file of ladies—Lucy Stewart, Caroline Hequet, Tatan Nene, Maria Blond.
Nana was in hopes that they would end there, when La Faloise sprang
from the step in order to receive Gaga and her daughter Amelie in his
trembling arms. That brought the number up to eleven people. Their
installation proved a laborious undertaking. There were five spare
rooms at La Mignotte, one of which was already occupied by Mme Lerat
and Louiset. The largest was devoted to the Gaga and La Faloise
establishment, and it was decided that Amelie should sleep on a truckle
bed in the dressing room at the side. Mignon and his two sons had the
third room. Labordette the fourth. There thus remained one room which
was transformed into a dormitory with four beds in it for Lucy,
Caroline, Tatan and Maria. As to Steiner, he would sleep on the divan
in the drawing room. At the end of an hour, when everyone was duly
settled, Nana, who had begun by being furious, grew enchanted at the
thought of playing hostess on a grand scale. The ladies complimented
her on La Mignotte. “It’s a stunning property, my dear!” And then, too,
they brought her quite a whiff of Parisian air, and talking all
together with bursts of laughter and exclamation and emphatic little
gestures, they gave her all the petty gossip of the week just past. By
the by, and how about Bordenave? What had he said about her prank? Oh,
nothing much! After bawling about having her brought back by the
police, he had simply put somebody else in her place at night. Little
Violaine was the understudy, and she had even obtained a very pretty
success as the Blonde Venus. Which piece of news made Nana rather
serious.

It was only four o’clock in the afternoon, and there was some talk of
taking a stroll around.

“Oh, I haven’t told you,” said Nana, “I was just off to get up potatoes
when you arrived.”

Thereupon they all wanted to go and dig potatoes without even changing
their dresses first. It was quite a party. The gardener and two helpers
were already in the potato field at the end of the grounds. The ladies
knelt down and began fumbling in the mold with their beringed fingers,
shouting gaily whenever they discovered a potato of exceptional size.
It struck them as so amusing! But Tatan Nene was in a state of triumph!
So many were the potatoes she had gathered in her youth that she forgot
herself entirely and gave the others much good advice, treating them
like geese the while. The gentlemen toiled less strenuously. Mignon
looked every inch the good citizen and father and made his stay in the
country an occasion for completing his boys’ education. Indeed, he
spoke to them of Parmentier!

Dinner that evening was wildly hilarious. The company ate ravenously.
Nana, in a state of great elevation, had a warm disagreement with her
butler, an individual who had been in service at the bishop’s palace in
Orleans. The ladies smoked over their coffee. An earsplitting noise of
merrymaking issued from the open windows and died out far away under
the serene evening sky while peasants, belated in the lanes, turned and
looked at the flaring rooms.

“It’s most tiresome that you’re going back the day after tomorrow,”
said Nana. “But never mind, we’ll get up an excursion all the same!”

They decided to go on the morrow, Sunday, and visit the ruins of the
old Abbey of Chamont, which were some seven kilometers distant. Five
carriages would come out from Orleans, take up the company after lunch
and bring them back to dinner at La Mignotte at about seven. It would
be delightful.

That evening, as his wont was, Count Muffat mounted the hill to ring at
the outer gate. But the brightly lit windows and the shouts of laughter
astonished him. When, however, he recognized Mignon’s voice, he
understood it all and went off, raging at this new obstacle, driven to
extremities, bent on some violent act. Georges passed through a little
door of which he had the key, slipped along the staircase walls and
went quietly up into Nana’s room. Only he had to wait for her till past
midnight. She appeared at last in a high state of intoxication and more
maternal even than on the previous nights. Whenever she had drunk
anything she became so amorous as to be absurd. Accordingly she now
insisted on his accompanying her to the Abbey of Chamont. But he stood
out against this; he was afraid of being seen. If he were to be seen
driving with her there would be an atrocious scandal. But she burst
into tears and evinced the noisy despair of a slighted woman. And he
thereupon consoled her and formally promised to be one of the party.

“So you do love me very much,” she blurted out. “Say you love me very
much. Oh, my darling old bear, if I were to die would you feel it very
much? Confess!”

At Les Fondettes the near neighborhood of Nana had utterly disorganized
the party. Every morning during lunch good Mme Hugon returned to the
subject despite herself, told her guests the news the gardener had
brought her and gave evidence of the absorbing curiosity with which
notorious courtesans are able to inspire even the worthiest old ladies.
Tolerant though she was, she was revolted and maddened by a vague
presentiment of coming ill, which frightened her in the evenings as
thoroughly as if a wild beast had escaped from a menagerie and were
known to be lurking in the countryside.

She began trying to pick a little quarrel with her guests, whom she
each and all accused of prowling round La Mignotte. Count Vandeuvres
had been seen laughing on the highroad with a golden-haired lady, but
he defended himself against the accusation; he denied that it was Nana,
the fact being that Lucy had been with him and had told him how she had
just turned her third prince out of doors. The Marquis de Chouard used
also to go out every day, but his excuse was doctor’s orders. Toward
Daguenet and Fauchery Mme Hugon behaved unjustly too. The former
especially never left Les Fondettes, for he had given up the idea of
renewing the old connection and was busy paying the most respectful
attentions to Estelle. Fauchery also stayed with the Muffat ladies. On
one occasion only he had met Mignon with an armful of flowers, putting
his sons through a course of botanical instruction in a by-path. The
two men had shaken hands and given each other the news about Rose. She
was perfectly well and happy; they had both received a letter from her
that morning in which she besought them to profit by the fresh country
air for some days longer. Among all her guests the old lady spared only
Count Muffat and Georges. The count, who said he had serious business
in Orleans, could certainly not be running after the bad woman, and as
to Georges, the poor child was at last causing her grave anxiety,
seeing that every evening he was seized with atrocious sick headaches
which kept him to his bed in broad daylight.

Meanwhile Fauchery had become the Countess Sabine’s faithful attendant
in the absence during each afternoon of Count Muffat. Whenever they
went to the end of the park he carried her campstool and her sunshade.
Besides, he amused her with the original witticisms peculiar to a
second-rate journalist, and in so doing he prompted her to one of those
sudden intimacies which are allowable in the country. She had
apparently consented to it from the first, for she had grown quite a
girl again in the society of a young man whose noisy humor seemed
unlikely to compromise her. But now and again, when for a second or two
they found themselves alone behind the shrubs, their eyes would meet;
they would pause amid their laughter, grow suddenly serious and view
one another darkly, as though they had fathomed and divined their
inmost hearts.

On Friday a fresh place had to be laid at lunch time. M. Theophile
Venot, whom Mme Hugon remembered to have invited at the Muffats’ last
winter, had just arrived. He sat stooping humbly forward and behaved
with much good nature, as became a man of no account, nor did he seem
to notice the anxious deference with which he was treated. When he had
succeeded in getting the company to forget his presence he sat nibbling
small lumps of sugar during dessert, looking sharply up at Daguenet as
the latter handed Estelle strawberries and listening to Fauchery, who
was making the countess very merry over one of his anecdotes. Whenever
anyone looked at HIM he smiled in his quiet way. When the guests rose
from table he took the count’s arm and drew him into the park. He was
known to have exercised great influence over the latter ever since the
death of his mother. Indeed, singular stories were told about the kind
of dominion which the ex-lawyer enjoyed in that household. Fauchery,
whom his arrival doubtless embarrassed, began explaining to Georges and
Daguenet the origin of the man’s wealth. It was a big lawsuit with the
management of which the Jesuits had entrusted him in days gone by. In
his opinion the worthy man was a terrible fellow despite his gentle,
plump face and at this time of day had his finger in all the intrigues
of the priesthood. The two young men had begun joking at this, for they
thought the little old gentleman had an idiotic expression. The idea of
an unknown Venot, a gigantic Venot, acting for the whole body of the
clergy, struck them in the light of a comical invention. But they were
silenced when, still leaning on the old man’s arm, Count Muffat
reappeared with blanched cheeks and eyes reddened as if by recent
weeping.

“I bet they’ve been chatting about hell,” muttered Fauchery in a
bantering tone.

The Countess Sabine overheard the remark. She turned her head slowly,
and their eyes met in that long gaze with which they were accustomed to
sound one another prudently before venturing once for all.

After the breakfast it was the guests’ custom to betake themselves to a
little flower garden on a terrace overlooking the plain. This Sunday
afternoon was exquisitely mild. There had been signs of rain toward ten
in the morning, but the sky, without ceasing to be covered, had, as it
were, melted into milky fog, which now hung like a cloud of luminous
dust in the golden sunlight. Soon Mme Hugon proposed that they should
step down through a little doorway below the terrace and take a walk on
foot in the direction of Gumières and as far as the Choue. She was fond
of walking and, considering her threescore years, was very active.
Besides, all her guests declared that there was no need to drive. So in
a somewhat straggling order they reached the wooden bridge over the
river. Fauchery and Daguenet headed the column with the Muffat ladies
and were followed by the count and the marquis, walking on either side
of Mme Hugon, while Vandeuvres, looking fashionable and out of his
element on the highroad, marched in the rear, smoking a cigar. M.
Venot, now slackening, now hastening his pace, passed smilingly from
group to group, as though bent on losing no scrap of conversation.

“To think of poor dear Georges at Orleans!” said Mme Hugon. “He was
anxious to consult old Doctor Tavernier, who never goes out now, on the
subject of his sick headaches. Yes, you were not up, as he went off
before seven o’clock. But it’ll be a change for him all the same.”

She broke off, exclaiming:

“Why, what’s making them stop on the bridge?”

The fact was the ladies and Fauchery and Daguenet were standing
stock-still on the crown of the bridge. They seemed to be hesitating as
though some obstacle or other rendered them uneasy and yet the way lay
clear before them.

“Go on!” cried the count.

They never moved and seemed to be watching the approach of something
which the rest had not yet observed. Indeed the road wound considerably
and was bordered by a thick screen of poplar trees. Nevertheless, a
dull sound began to grow momentarily louder, and soon there was a noise
of wheels, mingled with shouts of laughter and the cracking of whips.
Then suddenly five carriages came into view, driving one behind the
other. They were crowded to bursting, and bright with a galaxy of
white, blue and pink costumes.

“What is it?” said Mme Hugon in some surprise.

Then her instinct told her, and she felt indignant at such an untoward
invasion of her road.

“Oh, that woman!” she murmured. “Walk on, pray walk on. Don’t appear to
notice.”

But it was too late. The five carriages which were taking Nana and her
circle to the ruins of Chamont rolled on to the narrow wooden bridge.
Fauchery, Daguenet and the Muffat ladies were forced to step backward,
while Mme Hugon and the others had also to stop in Indian file along
the roadside. It was a superb ride past! The laughter in the carriages
had ceased, and faces were turned with an expression of curiosity. The
rival parties took stock of each other amid a silence broken only by
the measured trot of the horses. In the first carriage Maria Blond and
Tatan Nene were lolling backward like a pair of duchesses, their skirts
swelling forth over the wheels, and as they passed they cast disdainful
glances at the honest women who were walking afoot. Then came Gaga,
filling up a whole seat and half smothering La Faloise beside her so
that little but his small anxious face was visible. Next followed
Caroline Hequet with Labordette, Lucy Stewart with Mignon and his boys
and at the close of all Nana in a victoria with Steiner and on a
bracket seat in front of her that poor, darling Zizi, with his knees
jammed against her own.

“It’s the last of them, isn’t it?” the countess placidly asked
Fauchery, pretending at the same time not to recognize Nana.

The wheel of the victoria came near grazing her, but she did not step
back. The two women had exchanged a deeply significant glance. It was,
in fact, one of those momentary scrutinies which are at once complete
and definite. As to the men, they behaved unexceptionably. Fauchery and
Daguenet looked icy and recognized no one. The marquis, more nervous
than they and afraid of some farcical ebullition on the part of the
ladies, had plucked a blade of grass and was rolling it between his
fingers. Only Vandeuvres, who had stayed somewhat apart from the rest
of the company, winked imperceptibly at Lucy, who smiled at him as she
passed.

“Be careful!” M. Venot had whispered as he stood behind Count Muffat.

The latter in extreme agitation gazed after this illusive vision of
Nana while his wife turned slowly round and scrutinized him. Then he
cast his eyes on the ground as though to escape the sound of galloping
hoofs which were sweeping away both his senses and his heart. He could
have cried aloud in his agony, for, seeing Georges among Nana’s skirts,
he understood it all now. A mere child! He was brokenhearted at the
thought that she should have preferred a mere child to him! Steiner was
his equal, but that child!

Mme Hugon, in the meantime, had not at once recognized Georges.
Crossing the bridge, he was fain to jump into the river, but Nana’s
knees restrained him. Then white as a sheet and icy cold, he sat
rigidly up in his place and looked at no one. It was just possible no
one would notice him.

“Oh, my God!” said the old lady suddenly. “Georges is with her!”

The carriages had passed quite through the uncomfortable crowd of
people who recognized and yet gave no sign of recognition. The short
critical encounter seemed to have been going on for ages. And now the
wheels whirled away the carriageloads of girls more gaily than ever.
Toward the fair open country they went, amid the buffetings of the
fresh air of heaven. Bright-colored fabrics fluttered in the wind, and
the merry laughter burst forth anew as the voyagers began jesting and
glancing back at the respectable folks halting with looks of annoyance
at the roadside. Turning round, Nana could see the walking party
hesitating and then returning the way they had come without crossing
the bridge. Mme Hugon was leaning silently on Count Muffat’s arm, and
so sad was her look that no one dared comfort her.

“I say, did you see Fauchery, dear?” Nana shouted to Lucy, who was
leaning out of the carriage in front. “What a brute he was! He shall
pay out for that. And Paul, too, a fellow I’ve been so kind to! Not a
sign! They’re polite, I’m sure.”

And with that she gave Steiner a terrible dressing, he having ventured
to suggest that the gentlemen’s attitude had been quite as it should
be. So then they weren’t even worth a bow? The first blackguard that
came by might insult them? Thanks! He was the right sort, too, he was!
It couldn’t be better! One ought always to bow to a woman.

“Who’s the tall one?” asked Lucy at random, shouting through the noise
of the wheels.

“It’s the Countess Muffat,” answered Steiner.

“There now! I suspected as much,” said Nana. “Now, my dear fellow, it’s
all very well her being a countess, for she’s no better than she should
be. Yes, yes, she’s no better that she should be. You know, I’ve got an
eye for such things, I have! And now I know your countess as well as if
I had been at the making of her! I’ll bet you that she’s the mistress
of that viper Fauchery! I tell you, she’s his mistress! Between women
you guess that sort of thing at once!”

Steiner shrugged his shoulders. Since the previous day his irritation
had been hourly increasing. He had received letters which necessitated
his leaving the following morning, added to which he did not much
appreciate coming down to the country in order to sleep on the
drawing-room divan.

“And this poor baby boy!” Nana continued, melting suddenly at sight of
Georges’s pale face as he still sat rigid and breathless in front of
her.

“D’you think Mamma recognized me?” he stammered at last.

“Oh, most surely she did! Why, she cried out! But it’s my fault. He
didn’t want to come with us; I forced him to. Now listen, Zizi, would
you like me to write to your mamma? She looks such a kind, decent sort
of lady! I’ll tell her that I never saw you before and that it was
Steiner who brought you with him for the first time today.”

“No, no, don’t write,” said Georges in great anxiety. “I’ll explain it
all myself. Besides, if they bother me about it I shan’t go home
again.”

But he continued plunged in thought, racking his brains for excuses
against his return home in the evening. The five carriages were rolling
through a flat country along an interminable straight road bordered by
fine trees. The country was bathed in a silvery-gray atmosphere. The
ladies still continued shouting remarks from carriage to carriage
behind the backs of the drivers, who chuckled over their extraordinary
fares. Occasionally one of them would rise to her feet to look at the
landscape and, supporting herself on her neighbor’s shoulder, would
grow extremely excited till a sudden jolt brought her down to the seat
again. Caroline Hequet in the meantime was having a warm discussion
with Labordette. Both of them were agreed that Nana would be selling
her country house before three months were out, and Caroline was urging
Labordette to buy it back for her for as little as it was likely to
fetch. In front of them La Faloise, who was very amorous and could not
get at Gaga’s apoplectic neck, was imprinting kisses on her spine
through her dress, the strained fabric of which was nigh splitting,
while Amelie, perching stiffly on the bracket seat, was bidding them be
quiet, for she was horrified to be sitting idly by, watching her mother
being kissed. In the next carriage Mignon, in order to astonish Lucy,
was making his sons recite a fable by La Fontaine. Henri was prodigious
at this exercise; he could spout you one without pause or hesitation.
But Maria Blond, at the head of the procession, was beginning to feel
extremely bored. She was tired of hoaxing that blockhead of a Tatan
Nene with a story to the effect that the Parisian dairywomen were wont
to fabricate eggs with a mixture of paste and saffron. The distance was
too great: were they never going to get to their destination? And the
question was transmitted from carriage to carriage and finally reached
Nana, who, after questioning her driver, got up and shouted:

“We’ve not got a quarter of an hour more to go. You see that church
behind the trees down there?”

Then she continued:

“Do you know, it appears the owner of the Château de Chamont is an old
lady of Napoleon’s time? Oh, SHE was a merry one! At least, so Joseph
told me, and he heard it from the servants at the bishop’s palace.
There’s no one like it nowadays, and for the matter of that, she’s
become goody-goody.”

“What’s her name?” asked Lucy.

“Madame d’Anglars.”

“Irma d’Anglars—I knew her!” cried Gaga.

Admiring exclamations burst from the line of carriages and were borne
down the wind as the horses quickened their trot. Heads were stretched
out in Gaga’s direction; Maria Blond and Tatan Nene turned round and
knelt on the seat while they leaned over the carriage hood, and the air
was full of questions and cutting remarks, tempered by a certain
obscure admiration. Gaga had known her! The idea filled them all with
respect for that far-off past.

“Dear me, I was young then,” continued Gaga. “But never mind, I
remember it all. I saw her pass. They said she was disgusting in her
own house, but, driving in her carriage, she WAS just smart! And the
stunning tales about her! Dirty doings and money flung about like one
o’clock! I don’t wonder at all that she’s got a fine place. Why, she
used to clean out a man’s pockets as soon as look at him. Irma
d’Anglars still in the land of the living! Why, my little pets, she
must be near ninety.”

At this the ladies became suddenly serious. Ninety years old! The
deuce, there wasn’t one of them, as Lucy loudly declared, who would
live to that age. They were all done for. Besides, Nana said she didn’t
want to make old bones; it wouldn’t be amusing. They were drawing near
their destination, and the conversation was interrupted by the cracking
of whips as the drivers put their horses to their best paces. Yet amid
all the noise Lucy continued talking and, suddenly changing the
subject, urged Nana to come to town with them all to-morrow. The
exhibition was soon to close, and the ladies must really return to
Paris, where the season was surpassing their expectations. But Nana was
obstinate. She loathed Paris; she wouldn’t set foot there yet!

“Eh, darling, we’ll stay?” she said, giving Georges’s knees a squeeze,
as though Steiner were of no account.

The carriages had pulled up abruptly, and in some surprise the company
got out on some waste ground at the bottom of a small hill. With his
whip one of the drivers had to point them out the ruins of the old
Abbey of Chamont where they lay hidden among trees. It was a great
sell! The ladies voted them silly. Why, they were only a heap of old
stones with briers growing over them and part of a tumble-down tower.
It really wasn’t worth coming a couple of leagues to see that! Then the
driver pointed out to them the countryseat, the park of which stretched
away from the abbey, and he advised them to take a little path and
follow the walls surrounding it. They would thus make the tour of the
place while the carriages would go and await them in the village
square. It was a delightful walk, and the company agreed to the
proposition.

“Lord love me, Irma knows how to take care of herself!” said Gaga,
halting before a gate at the corner of the park wall abutting on the
highroad.

All of them stood silently gazing at the enormous bush which stopped up
the gateway. Then following the little path, they skirted the park
wall, looking up from time to time to admire the trees, whose lofty
branches stretched out over them and formed a dense vault of greenery.
After three minutes or so they found themselves in front of a second
gate. Through this a wide lawn was visible, over which two venerable
oaks cast dark masses of shadow. Three minutes farther on yet another
gate afforded them an extensive view of a great avenue, a perfect
corridor of shadow, at the end of which a bright spot of sunlight
gleamed like a star. They stood in silent, wondering admiration, and
then little by little exclamations burst from their lips. They had been
trying hard to joke about it all with a touch of envy at heart, but
this decidedly and immeasurably impressed them. What a genius that Irma
was! A sight like this gave you a rattling notion of the woman! The
trees stretched away and away, and there were endlessly recurrent
patches of ivy along the wall with glimpses of lofty roofs and screens
of poplars interspersed with dense masses of elms and aspens. Was there
no end to it then? The ladies would have liked to catch sight of the
mansion house, for they were weary of circling on and on, weary of
seeing nothing but leafy recesses through every opening they came to.
They took the rails of the gate in their hands and pressed their faces
against the ironwork. And thus excluded and isolated, a feeling of
respect began to overcome them as they thought of the castle lost to
view in surrounding immensity. Soon, being quite unused to walking,
they grew tired. And the wall did not leave off; at every turn of the
small deserted path the same range of gray stones stretched ahead of
them. Some of them began to despair of ever getting to the end of it
and began talking of returning. But the more their long walk fatigued
them, the more respectful they became, for at each successive step they
were increasingly impressed by the tranquil, lordly dignity of the
domain.

“It’s getting silly, this is!” said Caroline Hequet, grinding her
teeth.

Nana silenced her with a shrug. For some moments past she had been
rather pale and extremely serious and had not spoken a single word.
Suddenly the path gave a final turn; the wall ended, and as they came
out on the village square the mansion house stood before them on the
farther side of its grand outer court. All stopped to admire the proud
sweep of the wide steps, the twenty frontage windows, the arrangement
of the three wings, which were built of brick framed by courses of
stone. Henri IV had erewhile inhabited this historic mansion, and his
room, with its great bed hung with Genoa velvet, was still preserved
there. Breathless with admiration, Nana gave a little childish sigh.

“Great God!” she whispered very quietly to herself.

But the party were deeply moved when Gaga suddenly announced that Irma
herself was standing yonder in front of the church. She recognized her
perfectly. She was as upright as of old, the hoary campaigner, and that
despite her age, and she still had those eyes which flashed when she
moved in that proud way of hers! Vespers were just over, and for a
second or two Madame stood in the church porch. She was dressed in a
dark brown silk and looked very simple and very tall, her venerable
face reminding one of some old marquise who had survived the horrors of
the Great Revolution. In her right hand a huge Book of Hours shone in
the sunlight, and very slowly she crossed the square, followed some
fifteen paces off by a footman in livery. The church was emptying, and
all the inhabitants of Chamont bowed before her with extreme respect.
An old man even kissed her hand, and a woman wanted to fall on her
knees. Truly this was a potent queen, full of years and honors. She
mounted her flight of steps and vanished from view.

“That’s what one attains to when one has methodical habits!” said
Mignon with an air of conviction, looking at his sons and improving the
occasion.

Then everybody said his say. Labordette thought her extraordinarily
well preserved. Maria Blond let slip a foul expression and vexed Lucy,
who declared that one ought to honor gray hairs. All the women, to sum
up, agreed that she was a perfect marvel. Then the company got into
their conveyances again. From Chamont all the way to La Mignotte Nana
remained silent. She had twice turned round to look back at the house,
and now, lulled by the sound of the wheels, she forgot that Steiner was
at her side and that Georges was in front of her. A vision had come up
out of the twilight, and the great lady seemed still to be sweeping by
with all the majesty of a potent queen, full of years and of honors.

That evening Georges re-entered Les Fondettes in time for dinner. Nana,
who had grown increasingly absent-minded and singular in point of
manner, had sent him to ask his mamma’s forgiveness. It was his plain
duty, she remarked severely, growing suddenly solicitous for the
decencies of family life. She even made him swear not to return for the
night; she was tired, and in showing proper obedience he was doing no
more than his duty. Much bored by this moral discourse, Georges
appeared in his mother’s presence with heavy heart and downcast head.

Fortunately for him his brother Philippe, a great merry devil of a
military man, had arrived during the day, a fact which greatly
curtailed the scene he was dreading. Mme Hugon was content to look at
him with eyes full of tears while Philippe, who had been put in
possession of the facts, threatened to go and drag him home by the
scruff of the neck if ever he went back into that woman’s society.
Somewhat comforted, Georges began slyly planning how to make his escape
toward two o’clock next day in order to arrange about future meetings
with Nana.

Nevertheless, at dinnertime the house party at Les Fondettes seemed not
a little embarrassed. Vandeuvres had given notice of departure, for he
was anxious to take Lucy back to Paris with him. He was amused at the
idea of carrying off this girl whom he had known for ten years yet
never desired. The Marquis de Chouard bent over his plate and meditated
on Gaga’s young lady. He could well remember dandling Lili on his knee.
What a way children had of shooting up! This little thing was becoming
extremely plump! But Count Muffat especially was silent and absorbed.
His cheeks glowed, and he had given Georges one long look. Dinner over,
he went upstairs, intending to shut himself in his bedroom, his pretext
being a slight feverish attack. M. Venot had rushed after him, and
upstairs in the bedroom a scene ensued. The count threw himself upon
the bed and strove to stifle a fit of nervous sobbing in the folds of
the pillow while M. Venot, in a soft voice, called him brother and
advised him to implore heaven for mercy. But he heard nothing: there
was a rattle in his throat. Suddenly he sprang off the bed and
stammered:

“I am going there. I can’t resist any longer.”

“Very well,” said the old man, “I go with you.”

As they left the house two shadows were vanishing into the dark depths
of a garden walk, for every evening now Fauchery and the Countess
Sabine left Daguenet to help Estelle make tea. Once on the highroad the
count walked so rapidly that his companion had to run in order to
follow him. Though utterly out of breath, the latter never ceased
showering on him the most conclusive arguments against the temptations
of the flesh. But the other never opened his mouth as he hurried away
into the night. Arrived in front of La Mignotte, he said simply:

“I can’t resist any longer. Go!”

“God’s will be done then!” muttered M. Venot. “He uses every method to
assure His final triumph. Your sin will become His weapon.”

At La Mignotte there was much wrangling during the evening meal. Nana
had found a letter from Bordenave awaiting her, in which he advised
rest, just as though he were anxious to be rid of her. Little Violaine,
he said, was being encored twice nightly. But when Mignon continued
urging her to come away with them on the morrow Nana grew exasperated
and declared that she did not intend taking advice from anybody. In
other ways, too, her behavior at table was ridiculously stuck up. Mme
Lerat having made some sharp little speech or other, she loudly
announced that, God willing, she wasn’t going to let anyone—no, not
even her own aunt—make improper remarks in her presence. After which
she dreed her guests with honorable sentiments. She seemed to be
suffering from a fit of stupid right-mindedness, and she treated them
all to projects of religious education for Louiset and to a complete
scheme of regeneration for herself. When the company began laughing she
gave vent to profound opinions, nodding her head like a grocer’s wife
who knows what she is saying. Nothing but order could lead to fortune!
And so far as she was concerned, she had no wish to die like a beggar!
She set the ladies’ teeth on edge. They burst out in protest. Could
anyone have been converting Nana? No, it was impossible! But she sat
quite still and with absent looks once more plunged into dreamland,
where the vision of an extremely wealthy and greatly courted Nana rose
up before her.

The household were going upstairs to bed when Muffat put in an
appearance. It was Labordette who caught sight of him in the garden. He
understood it all at once and did him a service, for he got Steiner out
of the way and, taking his hand, led him along the dark corridor as far
as Nana’s bedroom. In affairs of this kind Labordette was wont to
display the most perfect tact and cleverness. Indeed, he seemed
delighted to be making other people happy. Nana showed no surprise; she
was only somewhat annoyed by the excessive heat of Muffat’s pursuit.
Life was a serious affair, was it not? Love was too silly: it led to
nothing. Besides, she had her scruples in view of Zizi’s tender age.
Indeed, she had scarcely behaved quite fairly toward him. Dear me, yes,
she was choosing the proper course again in taking up with an old
fellow.

“Zoé,” she said to the lady’s maid, who was enchanted at the thought of
leaving the country, “pack the trunks when you get up tomorrow. We are
going back to Paris.”

And she went to bed with Muffat but experienced no pleasure.




 CHAPTER VII


One December evening three months afterward Count Muffat was strolling
in the Passage des Panoramas. The evening was very mild, and owing to a
passing shower, the passage had just become crowded with people. There
was a perfect mob of them, and they thronged slowly and laboriously
along between the shops on either side. Under the windows, white with
reflected light, the pavement was violently illuminated. A perfect
stream of brilliancy emanated from white globes, red lanterns, blue
transparencies, lines of gas jets, gigantic watches and fans, outlined
in flame and burning in the open. And the motley displays in the shops,
the gold ornaments of the jeweler’s, the glass ornaments of the
confectioner’s, the light-colored silks of the modiste’s, seemed to
shine again in the crude light of the reflectors behind the clear
plate-glass windows, while among the bright-colored, disorderly array
of shop signs a huge purple glove loomed in the distance like a
bleeding hand which had been severed from an arm and fastened to a
yellow cuff.

Count Muffat had slowly returned as far as the boulevard. He glanced
out at the roadway and then came sauntering back along the shopwindows.
The damp and heated atmosphere filled the narrow passage with a slight
luminous mist. Along the flagstones, which had been wet by the
drip-drop of umbrellas, the footsteps of the crowd rang continually,
but there was no sound of voices. Passers-by elbowed him at every turn
and cast inquiring looks at his silent face, which the gaslight
rendered pale. And to escape these curious manifestations the count
posted himself in front of a stationer’s, where with profound attention
contemplated an array of paperweights in the form of glass bowls
containing floating landscapes and flowers.

He was conscious of nothing: he was thinking of Nana. Why had she lied
to him again? That morning she had written and told him not to trouble
about her in the evening, her excuse being that Louiset was ill and
that she was going to pass the night at her aunt’s in order to nurse
him. But he had felt suspicious and had called at her house, where he
learned from the porter that Madame had just gone off to her theater.
He was astonished at this, for she was not playing in the new piece.
Why then should she have told him this falsehood, and what could she be
doing at the Variétés that evening? Hustled by a passer-by, the count
unconsciously left the paperweights and found himself in front of a
glass case full of toys, where he grew absorbed over an array of
pocketbooks and cigar cases, all of which had the same blue swallow
stamped on one corner. Nana was most certainly not the same woman! In
the early days after his return from the country she used to drive him
wild with delight, as with pussycat caresses she kissed him all round
his face and whiskers and vowed that he was her own dear pet and the
only little man she adored. He was no longer afraid of Georges, whom
his mother kept down at Les Fondettes. There was only fat Steiner to
reckon with, and he believed he was really ousting him, but he did not
dare provoke an explanation on his score. He knew he was once more in
an extraordinary financial scrape and on the verge of being declared
bankrupt on ’change, so much so that he was clinging fiercely to the
shareholders in the Landes Salt Pits and striving to sweat a final
subscription out of them. Whenever he met him at Nana’s she would
explain reasonably enough that she did not wish to turn him out of
doors like a dog after all he had spent on her. Besides, for the last
three months he had been living in such a whirl of sensual excitement
that, beyond the need of possessing her, he had felt no very distinct
impressions. His was a tardy awakening of the fleshly instinct, a
childish greed of enjoyment, which left no room for either vanity or
jealousy. Only one definite feeling could affect him now, and that was
Nana’s decreasing kindness. She no longer kissed him on the beard! It
made him anxious, and as became a man quite ignorant of womankind, he
began asking himself what possible cause of offense he could have given
her. Besides, he was under the impression that he was satisfying all
her desires. And so he harked back again and again to the letter he had
received that morning with its tissue of falsehoods, invented for the
extremely simple purpose of passing an evening at her own theater. The
crowd had pushed him forward again, and he had crossed the passage and
was puzzling his brain in front of the entrance to a restaurant, his
eyes fixed on some plucked larks and on a huge salmon laid out inside
the window.

At length he seemed to tear himself away from this spectacle. He shook
himself, looked up and noticed that it was close on nine o’clock. Nana
would soon be coming out, and he would make her tell the truth. And
with that he walked on and recalled to memory the evenings he once
passed in that region in the days when he used to meet her at the door
of the theater.

He knew all the shops, and in the gas-laden air he recognized their
different scents, such, for instance, as the strong savor of Russia
leather, the perfume of vanilla emanating from a chocolate dealer’s
basement, the savor of musk blown in whiffs from the open doors of the
perfumers. But he did not dare linger under the gaze of the pale
shopwomen, who looked placidly at him as though they knew him by sight.
For one instant he seemed to be studying the line of little round
windows above the shops, as though he had never noticed them before
among the medley of signs. Then once again he went up to the boulevard
and stood still a minute or two. A fine rain was now falling, and the
cold feel of it on his hands calmed him. He thought of his wife who was
staying in a country house near Macon, where her friend Mme de
Chezelles had been ailing a good deal since the autumn. The carriages
in the roadway were rolling through a stream of mud. The country, he
thought, must be detestable in such vile weather. But suddenly he
became anxious and re-entered the hot, close passage down which he
strode among the strolling people. A thought struck him: if Nana were
suspicious of his presence there she would be off along the Galerie
Montmartre.

After that the count kept a sharp lookout at the very door of the
theater, though he did not like this passage end, where he was afraid
of being recognized. It was at the corner between the Galerie des
Variétés and the Galerie Saint-Marc, an equivocal corner full of
obscure little shops. Of these last one was a shoemaker’s, where
customers never seemed to enter. Then there were two or three
upholsterers’, deep in dust, and a smoky, sleepy reading room and
library, the shaded lamps in which cast a green and slumberous light
all the evening through. There was never anyone in this corner save
well-dressed, patient gentlemen, who prowled about the wreckage
peculiar to a stage door, where drunken sceneshifters and ragged chorus
girls congregate. In front of the theater a single gas jet in a
ground-glass globe lit up the doorway. For a moment or two Muffat
thought of questioning Mme Bron; then he grew afraid lest Nana should
get wind of his presence and escape by way of the boulevard. So he went
on the march again and determined to wait till he was turned out at the
closing of the gates, an event which had happened on two previous
occasions. The thought of returning home to his solitary bed simply
wrung his heart with anguish. Every time that golden-haired girls and
men in dirty linen came out and stared at him he returned to his post
in front of the reading room, where, looking in between two
advertisements posted on a windowpane, he was always greeted by the
same sight. It was a little old man, sitting stiff and solitary at the
vast table and holding a green newspaper in his green hands under the
green light of one of the lamps. But shortly before ten o’clock another
gentleman, a tall, good-looking, fair man with well-fitting gloves, was
also walking up and down in front of the stage door. Thereupon at each
successive turn the pair treated each other to a suspicious sidelong
glance. The count walked to the corner of the two galleries, which was
adorned with a high mirror, and when he saw himself therein, looking
grave and elegant, he was both ashamed and nervous.

Ten o’clock struck, and suddenly it occurred to Muffat that it would be
very easy to find out whether Nana were in her dressing room or not. He
went up the three steps, crossed the little yellow-painted lobby and
slipped into the court by a door which simply shut with a latch. At
that hour of the night the narrow, damp well of a court, with its
pestiferous water closets, its fountain, its back view of the kitchen
stove and the collection of plants with which the portress used to
litter the place, was drenched in dark mist; but the two walls, rising
pierced with windows on either hand, were flaming with light, since the
property room and the firemen’s office were situated on the ground
floor, with the managerial bureau on the left, and on the right and
upstairs the dressing rooms of the company. The mouths of furnaces
seemed to be opening on the outer darkness from top to bottom of this
well. The count had at once marked the light in the windows of the
dressing room on the first floor, and as a man who is comforted and
happy, he forgot where he was and stood gazing upward amid the foul mud
and faint decaying smell peculiar to the premises of this antiquated
Parisian building. Big drops were dripping from a broken waterspout,
and a ray of gaslight slipped from Mme Bron’s window and cast a yellow
glare over a patch of moss-clad pavement, over the base of a wall which
had been rotted by water from a sink, over a whole cornerful of
nameless filth amid which old pails and broken crocks lay in fine
confusion round a spindling tree growing mildewed in its pot. A window
fastening creaked, and the count fled.

Nana was certainly going to come down. He returned to his post in front
of the reading room; among its slumbering shadows, which seemed only
broken by the glimmer of a night light, the little old man still sat
motionless, his side face sharply outlined against his newspaper. Then
Muffat walked again and this time took a more prolonged turn and,
crossing the large gallery, followed the Galerie des Variétés as far as
that of Feydeau. The last mentioned was cold and deserted and buried in
melancholy shadow. He returned from it, passed by the theater, turned
the corner of the Galerie Saint-Marc and ventured as far as the Galerie
Montmartre, where a sugar-chopping machine in front of a grocer’s
interested him awhile. But when he was taking his third turn he was
seized with such dread lest Nana should escape behind his back that he
lost all self-respect. Thereupon he stationed himself beside the fair
gentleman in front of the very theater. Both exchanged a glance of
fraternal humility with which was mingled a touch of distrust, for it
was possible they might yet turn out to be rivals. Some sceneshifters
who came out smoking their pipes between the acts brushed rudely
against them, but neither one nor the other ventured to complain. Three
big wenches with untidy hair and dirty gowns appeared on the doorstep.
They were munching apples and spitting out the cores, but the two men
bowed their heads and patiently braved their impudent looks and rough
speeches, though they were hustled and, as it were, soiled by these
trollops, who amused themselves by pushing each other down upon them.

At that very moment Nana descended the three steps. She grew very pale
when she noticed Muffat.

“Oh, it’s you!” she stammered.

The sniggering extra ladies were quite frightened when they recognized
her, and they formed in line and stood up, looking as stiff and serious
as servants whom their mistress has caught behaving badly. The tall
fair gentleman had moved away; he was at once reassured and sad at
heart.

“Well, give me your arm,” Nana continued impatiently.

They walked quietly off. The count had been getting ready to question
her and now found nothing to say.

It was she who in rapid tones told a story to the effect that she had
been at her aunt’s as late as eight o’clock, when, seeing Louiset very
much better, she had conceived the idea of going down to the theater
for a few minutes.

“On some important business?” he queried.

“Yes, a new piece,” she replied after some slight hesitation. “They
wanted my advice.”

He knew that she was not speaking the truth, but the warm touch of her
arm as it leaned firmly on his own, left him powerless. He felt neither
anger nor rancor after his long, long wait; his one thought was to keep
her where she was now that he had got hold of her. Tomorrow, and not
before, he would try and find out what she had come to her dressing
room after. But Nana still appeared to hesitate; she was manifestly a
prey to the sort of secret anguish that besets people when they are
trying to regain lost ground and to initiate a plan of action.
Accordingly, as they turned the corner of the Galerie des Variétés, she
stopped in front of the show in a fan seller’s window.

“I say, that’s pretty,” she whispered; “I mean that mother-of-pearl
mount with the feathers.”

Then, indifferently:

“So you’re seeing me home?”

“Of course,” he said, with some surprise, “since your child’s better.”

She was sorry she had told him that story. Perhaps Louiset was passing
through another crisis! She talked of returning to the Batignolles. But
when he offered to accompany her she did not insist on going. For a
second or two she was possessed with the kind of white-hot fury which a
woman experiences when she feels herself entrapped and must,
nevertheless, behave prettily. But in the end she grew resigned and
determined to gain time. If only she could get rid of the count toward
midnight everything would happen as she wished.

“Yes, it’s true; you’re a bachelor tonight,” she murmured. “Your wife
doesn’t return till tomorrow, eh?”

“Yes,” replied Muffat. It embarrassed him somewhat to hear her talking
familiarly about the countess.

But she pressed him further, asking at what time the train was due and
wanting to know whether he were going to the station to meet her. She
had begun to walk more slowly than ever, as though the shops interested
her very much.

“Now do look!” she said, pausing anew before a jeweler’s window, “what
a funny bracelet!”

She adored the Passage des Panoramas. The tinsel of the ARTICLE DE
PARIS, the false jewelry, the gilded zinc, the cardboard made to look
like leather, had been the passion of her early youth. It remained, and
when she passed the shop-windows she could not tear herself away from
them. It was the same with her today as when she was a ragged,
slouching child who fell into reveries in front of the chocolate
maker’s sweet-stuff shows or stood listening to a musical box in a
neighboring shop or fell into supreme ecstasies over cheap, vulgarly
designed knickknacks, such as nutshell workboxes, ragpickers’ baskets
for holding toothpicks, Vendome columns and Luxor obelisks on which
thermometers were mounted. But that evening she was too much agitated
and looked at things without seeing them. When all was said and done,
it bored her to think she was not free. An obscure revolt raged within
her, and amid it all she felt a wild desire to do something foolish. It
was a great thing gained, forsooth, to be mistress of men of position!
She had been devouring the prince’s substance and Steiner’s, too, with
her childish caprices, and yet she had no notion where her money went.
Even at this time of day her flat in the Boulevard Haussmann was not
entirely furnished. The drawing room alone was finished, and with its
red satin upholsteries and excess of ornamentation and furniture it
struck a decidedly false note. Her creditors, moreover, would now take
to tormenting her more than ever before whenever she had no money on
hand, a fact which caused her constant surprise, seeing that she was
wont to quote her self as a model of economy. For a month past that
thief Steiner had been scarcely able to pay up his thousand francs on
the occasions when she threatened to kick him out of doors in case he
failed to bring them. As to Muffat, he was an idiot: he had no notion
as to what it was usual to give, and she could not, therefore, grow
angry with him on the score of miserliness. Oh, how gladly she would
have turned all these folks off had she not repeated to herself a score
of times daily a whole string of economical maxims!

One ought to be sensible, Zoé kept saying every morning, and Nana
herself was constantly haunted by the queenly vision seen at Chamont.
It had now become an almost religious memory with her, and through dint
of being ceaselessly recalled it grew even more grandiose. And for
these reasons, though trembling with repressed indignation, she now
hung submissively on the count’s arm as they went from window to window
among the fast-diminishing crowd. The pavement was drying outside, and
a cool wind blew along the gallery, swept the close hot air up beneath
the glass that imprisoned it and shook the colored lanterns and the
lines of gas jets and the giant fan which was flaring away like a set
piece in an illumination. At the door of the restaurant a waiter was
putting out the gas, while the motionless attendants in the empty,
glaring shops looked as though they had dropped off to sleep with their
eyes open.

“Oh, what a duck!” continued Nana, retracing her steps as far as the
last of the shops in order to go into ecstasies over a porcelain
greyhound standing with raised forepaw in front of a nest hidden among
roses.

At length they quitted the passage, but she refused the offer of a cab.
It was very pleasant out she said; besides, they were in no hurry, and
it would be charming to return home on foot. When they were in front of
the Café Anglais she had a sudden longing to eat oysters. Indeed, she
said that owing to Louiset’s illness she had tasted nothing since
morning. Muffat dared not oppose her. Yet as he did not in those days
wish to be seen about with her he asked for a private supper room and
hurried to it along the corridors. She followed him with the air of a
woman familiar with the house, and they were on the point of entering a
private room, the door of which a waiter held open, when from a
neighboring saloon, whence issued a perfect tempest of shouts and
laughter, a man rapidly emerged. It was Daguenet.

“By Jove, it’s Nana!” he cried.

The count had briskly disappeared into the private room, leaving the
door ajar behind him. But Daguenet winked behind his round shoulders
and added in chaffing tones:

“The deuce, but you’re doing nicely! You catch ’em in the Tuileries
nowadays!”

Nana smiled and laid a finger on her lips to beg him to be silent. She
could see he was very much exalted, and yet she was glad to have met
him, for she still felt tenderly toward him, and that despite the nasty
way he had cut her when in the company of fashionable ladies.

“What are you doing now?” she asked amicably.

“Becoming respectable. Yes indeed, I’m thinking of getting married.”

She shrugged her shoulders with a pitying air. But he jokingly
continued to the effect that to be only just gaining enough on ’change
to buy ladies bouquets could scarcely be called an income, provided you
wanted to look respectable too! His three hundred thousand francs had
only lasted him eighteen months! He wanted to be practical, and he was
going to marry a girl with a huge dowry and end off as a PREFET, like
his father before him! Nana still smiled incredulously. She nodded in
the direction of the saloon: “Who are you with in there?”

“Oh, a whole gang,” he said, forgetting all about his projects under
the influence of returning intoxication. “Just think! Léa is telling us
about her trip in Egypt. Oh, it’s screaming! There’s a bathing story—”

And he told the story while Nana lingered complaisantly. They had ended
by leaning up against the wall in the corridor, facing one another. Gas
jets were flaring under the low ceiling, and a vague smell of cookery
hung about the folds of the hangings. Now and again, in order to hear
each other’s voices when the din in the saloon became louder than ever,
they had to lean well forward. Every few seconds, however, a waiter
with an armful of dishes found his passage barred and disturbed them.
But they did not cease their talk for that; on the contrary, they stood
close up to the walls and, amid the uproar of the supper party and the
jostlings of the waiters, chatted as quietly as if they were by their
own firesides.

“Just look at that,” whispered the young man, pointing to the door of
the private room through which Muffat had vanished.

Both looked. The door was quivering slightly; a breath of air seemed to
be disturbing it, and at last, very, very slowly and without the least
sound, it was shut to. They exchanged a silent chuckle. The count must
be looking charmingly happy all alone in there!

“By the by,” she asked, “have you read Fauchery’s article about me?”

“Yes, ‘The Golden Fly,’” replied Daguenet; “I didn’t mention it to you
as I was afraid of paining you.”

“Paining me—why? His article’s a very long one.”

She was flattered to think that the Figaro should concern itself about
her person. But failing the explanations of her hairdresser Francis,
who had brought her the paper, she would not have understood that it
was she who was in question. Daguenet scrutinized her slyly, sneering
in his chaffing way. Well, well, since she was pleased, everybody else
ought to be.

“By your leave!” shouted a waiter, holding a dish of iced cheese in
both hands as he separated them.

Nana had stepped toward the little saloon where Muffat was waiting.

“Well, good-by!” continued Daguenet. “Go and find your cuckold again.”

But she halted afresh.

“Why d’you call him cuckold?”

“Because he is a cuckold, by Jove!”

She came and leaned against the wall again; she was profoundly
interested.

“Ah!” she said simply.

“What, d’you mean to say you didn’t know that? Why, my dear girl, his
wife’s Fauchery’s mistress. It probably began in the country. Some time
ago, when I was coming here, Fauchery left me, and I suspect he’s got
an assignation with her at his place tonight. They’ve made up a story
about a journey, I fancy.”

Overcome with surprise, Nana remained voiceless.

“I suspected it,” she said at last, slapping her leg. “I guessed it by
merely looking at her on the highroad that day. To think of its being
possible for an honest woman to deceive her husband, and with that
blackguard Fauchery too! He’ll teach her some pretty things!”

“Oh, it isn’t her trial trip,” muttered Daguenet wickedly. “Perhaps she
knows as much about it as he does.”

At this Nana gave vent to an indignant exclamation.

“Indeed she does! What a nice world! It’s too foul!”

“By your leave!” shouted a waiter, laden with bottles, as he separated
them.

Daguenet drew her forward again and held her hand for a second or two.
He adopted his crystalline tone of voice, the voice with notes as sweet
as those of a harmonica, which had gained him his success among the
ladies of Nana’s type.

“Good-by, darling! You know I love you always.”

She disengaged her hand from his, and while a thunder of shouts and
bravos, which made the door in the saloon tremble again, almost drowned
her words she smilingly remarked:

“It’s over between us, stupid! But that doesn’t matter. Do come up one
of these days, and we’ll have a chat.”

Then she became serious again and in the outraged tones of a
respectable woman:

“So he’s a cuckold, is he?” she cried. “Well, that IS a nuisance, dear
boy. They’ve always sickened me, cuckolds have.”

When at length she went into the private room she noticed that Muffat
was sitting resignedly on a narrow divan with pale face and twitching
hands. He did not reproach her at all, and she, greatly moved, was
divided between feelings of pity and of contempt. The poor man! To
think of his being so unworthily cheated by a vile wife! She had a good
mind to throw her arms round his neck and comfort him. But it was only
fair all the same! He was a fool with women, and this would teach him a
lesson! Nevertheless, pity overcame her. She did not get rid of him as
she had determined to do after the oysters had been discussed. They
scarcely stayed a quarter of an hour in the Café Anglais, and together
they went into the house in the Boulevard Haussmann. It was then
eleven. Before midnight she would have easily have discovered some
means of getting rid of him kindly.

In the anteroom, however, she took the precaution of giving Zoé an
order. “You’ll look out for him, and you’ll tell him not to make a
noise if the other man’s still with me.”

“But where shall I put him, madame?”

“Keep him in the kitchen. It’s more safe.”

In the room inside Muffat was already taking off his overcoat. A big
fire was burning on the hearth. It was the same room as of old, with
its rosewood furniture and its hangings and chair coverings of figured
damask with the large blue flowers on a gray background. On two
occasions Nana had thought of having it redone, the first in black
velvet, the second in white satin with bows, but directly Steiner
consented she demanded the money that these changes would cost simply
with a view to pillaging him. She had, indeed, only indulged in a tiger
skin rug for the hearth and a cut-glass hanging lamp.

“I’m not sleepy; I’m not going to bed,” she said the moment they were
shut in together.

The count obeyed her submissively, as became a man no longer afraid of
being seen. His one care now was to avoid vexing her.

“As you will,” he murmured.

Nevertheless, he took his boots off, too, before seating himself in
front of the fire. One of Nana’s pleasures consisted in undressing
herself in front of the mirror on her wardrobe door, which reflected
her whole height. She would let everything slip off her in turn and
then would stand perfectly naked and gaze and gaze in complete oblivion
of all around her. Passion for her own body, ecstasy over her satin
skin and the supple contours of her shape, would keep her serious,
attentive and absorbed in the love of herself. The hairdresser
frequently found her standing thus and would enter without her once
turning to look at him. Muffat used to grow angry then, but he only
succeeded in astonishing her. What was coming over the man? She was
doing it to please herself, not other people.

That particular evening she wanted to have a better view of herself,
and she lit the six candles attached to the frame of the mirror. But
while letting her shift slip down she paused. She had been preoccupied
for some moments past, and a question was on her lips.

“You haven’t read the Figaro article, have you? The paper’s on the
table.” Daguenet’s laugh had recurred to her recollections, and she was
harassed by a doubt. If that Fauchery had slandered her she would be
revenged.

“They say that it’s about me,” she continued, affecting indifference.
“What’s your notion, eh, darling?”

And letting go her shift and waiting till Muffat should have done
reading, she stood naked. Muffat was reading slowly Fauchery’s article
entitled “The Golden Fly,” describing the life of a harlot descended
from four or five generations of drunkards and tainted in her blood by
a cumulative inheritance of misery and drink, which in her case has
taken the form of a nervous exaggeration of the sexual instinct. She
has shot up to womanhood in the slums and on the pavements of Paris,
and tall, handsome and as superbly grown as a dunghill plant, she
avenges the beggars and outcasts of whom she is the ultimate product.
With her the rottenness that is allowed to ferment among the populace
is carried upward and rots the aristocracy. She becomes a blind power
of nature, a leaven of destruction, and unwittingly she corrupts and
disorganizes all Paris, churning it between her snow-white thighs as
milk is monthly churned by housewives. And it was at the end of this
article that the comparison with a fly occurred, a fly of sunny hue
which has flown up out of the dung, a fly which sucks in death on the
carrion tolerated by the roadside and then buzzing, dancing and
glittering like a precious stone enters the windows of palaces and
poisons the men within by merely settling on them in her flight.

Muffat lifted his head; his eyes stared fixedly; he gazed at the fire.

“Well?” asked Nana.

But he did not answer. It seemed as though he wanted to read the
article again. A cold, shivering feeling was creeping from his scalp to
his shoulders. This article had been written anyhow. The phrases were
wildly extravagant; the unexpected epigrams and quaint collocations of
words went beyond all bounds. Yet notwithstanding this, he was struck
by what he had read, for it had rudely awakened within him much that
for months past he had not cared to think about.

He looked up. Nana had grown absorbed in her ecstatic
self-contemplation. She was bending her neck and was looking
attentively in the mirror at a little brown mark above her right
haunch. She was touching it with the tip of her finger and by dint of
bending backward was making it stand out more clearly than ever.
Situated where it was, it doubtless struck her as both quaint and
pretty. After that she studied other parts of her body with an amused
expression and much of the vicious curiosity of a child. The sight of
herself always astonished her, and she would look as surprised and
ecstatic as a young girl who has discovered her puberty. Slowly,
slowly, she spread out her arms in order to give full value to her
figure, which suggested the torso of a plump Venus. She bent herself
this way and that and examined herself before and behind, stooping to
look at the side view of her bosom and at the sweeping contours of her
thighs. And she ended with a strange amusement which consisted of
swinging to right and left, her knees apart and her body swaying from
the waist with the perpetual jogging, twitching movements peculiar to
an oriental dancer in the danse du ventre.

Muffat sat looking at her. She frightened him. The newspaper had
dropped from his hand. For a moment he saw her as she was, and he
despised himself. Yes, it was just that; she had corrupted his life; he
already felt himself tainted to his very marrow by impurities hitherto
undreamed of. Everything was now destined to rot within him, and in the
twinkling of an eye he understood what this evil entailed. He saw the
ruin brought about by this kind of “leaven”—himself poisoned, his
family destroyed, a bit of the social fabric cracking and crumbling.
And unable to take his eyes from the sight, he sat looking fixedly at
her, striving to inspire himself with loathing for her nakedness.

Nana no longer moved. With an arm behind her neck, one hand clasped in
the other, and her elbows far apart, she was throwing back her head so
that he could see a foreshortened reflection of her half-closed eyes,
her parted lips, her face clothed with amorous laughter. Her masses of
yellow hair were unknotted behind, and they covered her back with the
fell of a lioness.

Bending back thus, she displayed her solid Amazonian waist and firm
bosom, where strong muscles moved under the satin texture of the skin.
A delicate line, to which the shoulder and the thigh added their slight
undulations, ran from one of her elbows to her foot, and Muffat’s eyes
followed this tender profile and marked how the outlines of the fair
flesh vanished in golden gleams and how its rounded contours shone like
silk in the candlelight. He thought of his old dread of Woman, of the
Beast of the Scriptures, at once lewd and wild. Nana was all covered
with fine hair; a russet made her body velvety, while the Beast was
apparent in the almost equine development of her flanks, in the fleshy
exuberances and deep hollows of her body, which lent her sex the
mystery and suggestiveness lurking in their shadows. She was, indeed,
that Golden Creature, blind as brute force, whose very odor ruined the
world. Muffat gazed and gazed as a man possessed, till at last, when he
had shut his eyes in order to escape it, the Brute reappeared in the
darkness of the brain, larger, more terrible, more suggestive in its
attitude. Now, he understood, it would remain before his eyes, in his
very flesh, forever.

But Nana was gathering herself together. A little thrill of tenderness
seemed to have traversed her members. Her eyes were moist; she tried,
as it were, to make herself small, as though she could feel herself
better thus. Then she threw her head and bosom back and, melting, as it
were, in one great bodily caress, she rubbed her cheeks coaxingly,
first against one shoulder, then against the other. Her lustful mouth
breathed desire over her limbs. She put out her lips, kissed herself
long in the neighborhood of her armpit and laughed at the other Nana
who also was kissing herself in the mirror.

Then Muffat gave a long sigh. This solitary pleasure exasperated him.
Suddenly all his resolutions were swept away as though by a mighty
wind. In a fit of brutal passion he caught Nana to his breast and threw
her down on the carpet.

“Leave me alone!” she cried. “You’re hurting me!”

He was conscious of his undoing; he recognized in her stupidity,
vileness and falsehood, and he longed to possess her, poisoned though
she was.

“Oh, you’re a fool!” she said savagely when he let her get up.

Nevertheless, she grew calm. He would go now. She slipped on a
nightgown trimmed with lace and came and sat down on the floor in front
of the fire. It was her favorite position. When she again questioned
him about Fauchery’s article Muffat replied vaguely, for he wanted to
avoid a scene. Besides, she declared that she had found a weak spot in
Fauchery. And with that she relapsed into a long silence and reflected
on how to dismiss the count. She would have liked to do it in an
agreeable way, for she was still a good-natured wench, and it bored her
to cause others pain, especially in the present instance where the man
was a cuckold. The mere thought of his being that had ended by rousing
her sympathies!

“So you expect your wife tomorrow morning?” she said at last.

Muffat had stretched himself in an armchair. He looked drowsy, and his
limbs were tired. He gave a sign of assent. Nana sat gazing seriously
at him with a dull tumult in her brain. Propped on one leg, among her
slightly rumpled laces she was holding one of her bare feet between her
hands and was turning it mechanically about and about.

“Have you been married long?” she asked.

“Nineteen years,” replied the count

“Ah! And is your wife amiable? Do you get on comfortably together?”

He was silent. Then with some embarrassment:

“You know I’ve begged you never to talk of those matters.”

“Dear me, why’s that?” she cried, beginning to grow vexed directly.
“I’m sure I won’t eat your wife if I DO talk about her. Dear boy, why,
every woman’s worth—”

But she stopped for fear of saying too much. She contented herself by
assuming a superior expression, since she considered herself extremely
kind. The poor fellow, he needed delicate handling! Besides, she had
been struck by a laughable notion, and she smiled as she looked him
carefully over.

“I say,” she continued, “I haven’t told you the story about you that
Fauchery’s circulating. There’s a viper, if you like! I don’t bear him
any ill will, because his article may be all right, but he’s a regular
viper all the same.”

And laughing more gaily than ever, she let go her foot and, crawling
along the floor, came and propped herself against the count’s knees.

“Now just fancy, he swears you were still like a babe when you married
your wife. You were still like that, eh? Is it true, eh?”

Her eyes pressed for an answer, and she raised her hands to his
shoulders and began shaking him in order to extract the desired
confession.

“Without doubt,” he at last made answer gravely.

Thereupon she again sank down at his feet. She was shaking with
uproarious laughter, and she stuttered and dealt him little slaps.

“No, it’s too funny! There’s no one like you; you’re a marvel. But, my
poor pet, you must just have been stupid! When a man doesn’t know—oh,
it is so comical! Good heavens, I should have liked to have seen you!
And it came off well, did it? Now tell me something about it! Oh, do,
do tell me!”

She overwhelmed him with questions, forgetting nothing and requiring
the veriest details. And she laughed such sudden merry peals which
doubled her up with mirth, and her chemise slipped and got turned down
to such an extent, and her skin looked so golden in the light of the
big fire, that little by little the count described to her his bridal
night. He no longer felt at all awkward. He himself began to be amused
at last as he spoke. Only he kept choosing his phrases, for he still
had a certain sense of modesty. The young woman, now thoroughly
interested, asked him about the countess. According to his account, she
had a marvelous figure but was a regular iceberg for all that.

“Oh, get along with you!” he muttered indolently. “You have no cause to
be jealous.”

Nana had ceased laughing, and she now resumed her former position and,
with her back to the fire, brought her knees up under her chin with her
clasped hands. Then in a serious tone she declared:

“It doesn’t pay, dear boy, to look like a ninny with one’s wife the
first night.”

“Why?” queried the astonished count.

“Because,” she replied slowly, assuming a doctorial expression.

And with that she looked as if she were delivering a lecture and shook
her head at him. In the end, however, she condescended to explain
herself more lucidly.

“Well, look here! I know how it all happens. Yes, dearie, women don’t
like a man to be foolish. They don’t say anything because there’s such
a thing as modesty, you know, but you may be sure they think about it
for a jolly long time to come. And sooner or later, when a man’s been
an ignoramus, they go and make other arrangements. That’s it, my pet.”

He did not seem to understand. Whereupon she grew more definite still.
She became maternal and taught him his lesson out of sheer goodness of
heart, as a friend might do. Since she had discovered him to be a
cuckold the information had weighed on her spirits; she was madly
anxious to discuss his position with him.

“Good heavens! I’m talking of things that don’t concern me. I’ve said
what I have because everybody ought to be happy. We’re having a chat,
eh? Well then, you’re to answer me as straight as you can.”

But she stopped to change her position, for she was burning herself.
“It’s jolly hot, eh? My back’s roasted. Wait a second. I’ll cook my
tummy a bit. That’s what’s good for the aches!”

And when she had turned round with her breast to the fire and her feet
tucked under her:

“Let me see,” she said; “you don’t sleep with your wife any longer?”

“No, I swear to you I don’t,” said Muffat, dreading a scene.

“And you believe she’s really a stick?”

He bowed his head in the affirmative.

“And that’s why you love me? Answer me! I shan’t be angry.”

He repeated the same movement.

“Very well then,” she concluded. “I suspected as much! Oh, the poor
pet. Do you know my aunt Lerat? When she comes get her to tell you the
story about the fruiterer who lives opposite her. Just fancy that
man—Damn it, how hot this fire is! I must turn round. I’m going to
roast my left side now.” And as she presented her side to the blaze a
droll idea struck her, and like a good-tempered thing, she made fun of
herself for she was delighted to see that she was looking so plump and
pink in the light of the coal fire.

“I look like a goose, eh? Yes, that’s it! I’m a goose on the spit, and
I’m turning, turning and cooking in my own juice, eh?”

And she was once more indulging in a merry fit of laughter when a sound
of voices and slamming doors became audible. Muffat was surprised, and
he questioned her with a look. She grew serious, and an anxious
expression came over her face. It must be Zoé’s cat, a cursed beast
that broke everything. It was half-past twelve o’clock. How long was
she going to bother herself in her cuckold’s behalf? Now that the other
man had come she ought to get him out of the way, and that quickly.

“What were you saying?” asked the count complaisantly, for he was
charmed to see her so kind to him.

But in her desire to be rid of him she suddenly changed her mood,
became brutal and did not take care what she was saying.

“Oh yes! The fruiterer and his wife. Well, my dear fellow, they never
once touched one another! Not the least bit! She was very keen on it,
you understand, but he, the ninny, didn’t know it. He was so green that
he thought her a stick, and so he went elsewhere and took up with
streetwalkers, who treated him to all sorts of nastiness, while she, on
her part, made up for it beautifully with fellows who were a lot slyer
than her greenhorn of a husband. And things always turn out that way
through people not understanding one another. I know it, I do!”

Muffat was growing pale. At last he was beginning to understand her
allusions, and he wanted to make her keep silence. But she was in full
swing.

“No, hold your tongue, will you? If you weren’t brutes you would be as
nice with your wives as you are with us, and if your wives weren’t
geese they would take as much pains to keep you as we do to get you.
That’s the way to behave. Yes, my duck, you can put that in your pipe
and smoke it.”

“Do not talk of honest women,” he said in a hard voice. “You do not
know them.”

At that Nana rose to her knees.

“I don’t know them! Why, they aren’t even clean, your honest women
aren’t! They aren’t even clean! I defy you to find me one who would
dare show herself as I am doing. Oh, you make me laugh with your honest
women. Don’t drive me to it; don’t oblige me to tell you things I may
regret afterward.”

The count, by way of answer, mumbled something insulting. Nana became
quite pale in her turn. For some seconds she looked at him without
speaking. Then in her decisive way:

“What would you do if your wife were deceiving you?”

He made a threatening gesture.

“Well, and if I were to?”

“Oh, you,” he muttered with a shrug of his shoulders.

Nana was certainly not spiteful. Since the beginning of the
conversation she had been strongly tempted to throw his cuckold’s
reputation in his teeth, but she had resisted. She would have liked to
confess him quietly on the subject, but he had begun to exasperate her
at last. The matter ought to stop now.

“Well, then, my dearie,” she continued, “I don’t know what you’re
getting at with me. For two hours past you’ve been worrying my life
out. Now do just go and find your wife, for she’s at it with Fauchery.
Yes, it’s quite correct; they’re in the Rue Taitbout, at the corner of
the Rue de Provence. You see, I’m giving you the address.”

Then triumphantly, as she saw Muffat stagger to his feet like an ox
under the hammer:

“If honest women must meddle in our affairs and take our sweethearts
from us—Oh, you bet they’re a nice lot, those honest women!”

But she was unable to proceed. With a terrible push he had cast her
full length on the floor and, lifting his heel, he seemed on the point
of crushing in her head in order to silence her. For the twinkling of
an eye she felt sickening dread. Blinded with rage, he had begun
beating about the room like a maniac. Then his choking silence and the
struggle with which he was shaken melted her to tears. She felt a
mortal regret and, rolling herself up in front of the fire so as to
roast her right side, she undertook the task of comforting him.

“I take my oath, darling, I thought you knew it all. Otherwise I
shouldn’t have spoken; you may be sure. But perhaps it isn’t true. I
don’t say anything for certain. I’ve been told it, and people are
talking about it, but what does that prove? Oh, get along! You’re very
silly to grow riled about it. If I were a man I shouldn’t care a rush
for the women! All the women are alike, you see, high or low; they’re
all rowdy and the rest of it.”

In a fit of self-abnegation she was severe on womankind, for she wished
thus to lessen the cruelty of her blow. But he did not listen to her or
hear what she said. With fumbling movements he had put on his boots and
his overcoat. For a moment longer he raved round, and then in a final
outburst, finding himself near the door, he rushed from the room. Nana
was very much annoyed.

“Well, well! A prosperous trip to you!” she continued aloud, though she
was now alone. “He’s polite, too, that fellow is, when he’s spoken to!
And I had to defend myself at that! Well, I was the first to get back
my temper and I made plenty of excuses, I’m thinking! Besides, he had
been getting on my nerves!”

Nevertheless, she was not happy and sat scratching her legs with both
hands. Then she took high ground:

“Tut, tut, it isn’t my fault if he is a cuckold!”

And toasted on every side and as hot as a roast bird, she went and
buried herself under the bedclothes after ringing for Zoé to usher in
the other man, who was waiting in the kitchen.

Once outside, Muffat began walking at a furious pace. A fresh shower
had just fallen, and he kept slipping on the greasy pavement. When he
looked mechanically up into the sky he saw ragged, soot-colored clouds
scudding in front of the moon. At this hour of the night passers-by
were becoming few and far between in the Boulevard Haussmann. He
skirted the enclosures round the opera house in his search for
darkness, and as he went along he kept mumbling inconsequent phrases.
That girl had been lying. She had invented her story out of sheer
stupidity and cruelty. He ought to have crushed her head when he had it
under his heel. After all was said and done, the business was too
shameful. Never would he see her; never would he touch her again, or if
he did he would be miserably weak. And with that he breathed hard, as
though he were free once more. Oh, that naked, cruel monster, roasting
away like any goose and slavering over everything that he had respected
for forty years back. The moon had come out, and the empty street was
bathed in white light. He felt afraid, and he burst into a great fit of
sobbing, for he had grown suddenly hopeless and maddened as though he
had sunk into a fathomless void.

“My God!” he stuttered out. “It’s finished! There’s nothing left now!”

Along the boulevards belated people were hurrying. He tried hard to be
calm, and as the story told him by that courtesan kept recurring to his
burning consciousness, he wanted to reason the matter out. The countess
was coming up from Mme de Chezelles’s country house tomorrow morning.
Yet nothing, in fact, could have prevented her from returning to Paris
the night before and passing it with that man. He now began recalling
to mind certain details of their stay at Les Fondettes. One evening,
for instance, he had surprised Sabine in the shade of some trees, when
she was so much agitated as to be unable to answer his questions. The
man had been present; why should she not be with him now? The more he
thought about it the more possible the whole story became, and he ended
by thinking it natural and even inevitable. While he was in his shirt
sleeves in the house of a harlot his wife was undressing in her lover’s
room. Nothing could be simpler or more logical! Reasoning in this way,
he forced himself to keep cool. He felt as if there were a great
downward movement in the direction of fleshly madness, a movement
which, as it grew, was overcoming the whole world round about him. Warm
images pursued him in imagination. A naked Nana suddenly evoked a naked
Sabine. At this vision, which seemed to bring them together in
shameless relationship and under the influence of the same lusts, he
literally stumbled, and in the road a cab nearly ran over him. Some
women who had come out of a cafe jostled him amid loud laughter. Then a
fit of weeping once more overcame him, despite all his efforts to the
contrary, and, not wishing to shed tears in the presence of others, he
plunged into a dark and empty street. It was the Rue Rossini, and along
its silent length he wept like a child.

“It’s over with us,” he said in hollow tones. “There’s nothing left us
now, nothing left us now!”

He wept so violently that he had to lean up against a door as he buried
his face in his wet hands. A noise of footsteps drove him away. He felt
a shame and a fear which made him fly before people’s faces with the
restless step of a bird of darkness. When passers-by met him on the
pavement he did his best to look and walk in a leisurely way, for he
fancied they were reading his secret in the very swing of his
shoulders. He had followed the Rue de la Grange Bateliere as far as the
Rue du Faubourg Montmartre, where the brilliant lamplight surprised
him, and he retraced his steps. For nearly an hour he traversed the
district thus, choosing always the darkest corners. Doubtless there was
some goal whither his steps were patiently, instinctively, leading him
through a labyrinth of endless turnings. At length he lifted his eyes
up it a street corner. He had reached his destination, the point where
the Rue Taitbout and the Rue de la Provence met. He had taken an hour
amid his painful mental sufferings to arrive at a place he could have
reached in five minutes. One morning a month ago he remembered going up
to Fauchery’s rooms to thank him for a notice of a ball at the
Tuileries, in which the journalist had mentioned him. The flat was
between the ground floor and the first story and had a row of small
square windows which were half hidden by the colossal signboard
belonging to a shop. The last window on the left was bisected by a
brilliant band of lamplight coming from between the half-closed
curtains. And he remained absorbed and expectant, with his gaze fixed
on this shining streak.

The moon had disappeared in an inky sky, whence an icy drizzle was
falling. Two o’clock struck at the Trinite. The Rue de Provence and the
Rue Taitbout lay in shadow, bestarred at intervals by bright splashes
of light from the gas lamps, which in the distance were merged in
yellow mist. Muffat did not move from where he was standing. That was
the room. He remembered it now: it had hangings of red “andrinople,”
and a Louis XIII bed stood at one end of it. The lamp must be standing
on the chimney piece to the right. Without doubt they had gone to bed,
for no shadows passed across the window, and the bright streak gleamed
as motionless as the light of a night lamp. With his eyes still
uplifted he began forming a plan; he would ring the bell, go upstairs
despite the porter’s remonstrances, break the doors in with a push of
his shoulder and fall upon them in the very bed without giving them
time to unlace their arms. For one moment the thought that he had no
weapon upon him gave him pause, but directly afterward he decided to
throttle them. He returned to the consideration of his project, and he
perfected it while waiting for some sign, some indication, which should
bring certainty with it.

Had a woman’s shadow only shown itself at that moment he would have
rung. But the thought that perhaps he was deceiving himself froze him.
How could he be certain? Doubts began to return. His wife could not be
with that man. It was monstrous and impossible. Nevertheless, he stayed
where he was and was gradually overcome by a species of torpor which
merged into sheer feebleness while he waited long, and the fixity of
his gaze induced hallucinations.

A shower was falling. Two policemen were approaching, and he was forced
to leave the doorway where he had taken shelter. When these were lost
to view in the Rue de Provence he returned to his post, wet and
shivering. The luminous streak still traversed the window, and this
time he was going away for good when a shadow crossed it. It moved so
quickly that he thought he had deceived himself. But first one and then
another black thing followed quickly after it, and there was a regular
commotion in the room. Riveted anew to the pavement, he experienced an
intolerable burning sensation in his inside as he waited to find out
the meaning of it all. Outlines of arms and legs flitted after one
another, and an enormous hand traveled about with the silhouette of a
water jug. He distinguished nothing clearly, but he thought he
recognized a woman’s headdress. And he disputed the point with himself;
it might well have been Sabine’s hair, only the neck did not seem
sufficiently slim. At that hour of the night he had lost the power of
recognition and of action. In this terrible agony of uncertainty his
inside caused him such acute suffering that he pressed against the door
in order to calm himself, shivering like a man in rags, as he did so.
Then seeing that despite everything he could not turn his eyes away
from the window, his anger changed into a fit of moralizing. He fancied
himself a deputy; he was haranguing an assembly, loudly denouncing
debauchery, prophesying national ruin. And he reconstructed Fauchery’s
article on the poisoned fly, and he came before the house and declared
that morals such as these, which could only be paralleled in the days
of the later Roman Empire, rendered society an impossibility; that did
him good. But the shadows had meanwhile disappeared. Doubtless they had
gone to bed again, and, still watching, he continued waiting where he
was.

Three o’clock struck, then four, but he could not take his departure.
When showers fell he buried himself in a corner of the doorway, his
legs splashed with wet. Nobody passed by now, and occasionally his eyes
would close, as though scorched by the streak of light, which he kept
watching obstinately, fixedly, with idiotic persistence. On two
subsequent occasions the shadows flitted about, repeating the same
gestures and agitating the silhouette of the same gigantic jug, and
twice quiet was re-established, and the night lamp again glowed
discreetly out. These shadows only increased his uncertainty. Then,
too, a sudden idea soothed his brain while it postponed the decisive
moment. After all, he had only to wait for the woman when she left the
house. He could quite easily recognize Sabine. Nothing could be
simpler, and there would be no scandal, and he would be sure of things
one way or the other. It was only necessary to stay where he was. Among
all the confused feelings which had been agitating him he now merely
felt a dull need of certain knowledge. But sheer weariness and vacancy
began lulling him to sleep under his doorway, and by way of distraction
he tried to reckon up how long he would have to wait. Sabine was to be
at the station toward nine o’clock; that meant about four hours and a
half more. He was very patient; he would even have been content not to
move again, and he found a certain charm in fancying that his night
vigil would last through eternity.

Suddenly the streak of light was gone. This extremely simple event was
to him an unforeseen catastrophe, at once troublesome and disagreeable.
Evidently they had just put the lamp out and were going to sleep. It
was reasonable enough at that hour, but he was irritated thereat, for
now the darkened window ceased to interest him. He watched it for a
quarter of an hour longer and then grew tired and, leaving the doorway,
took a turn upon the pavement. Until five o’clock he walked to and fro,
looking upward from time to time. The window seemed a dead thing, and
now and then he asked himself if he had not dreamed that shadows had
been dancing up there behind the panes. An intolerable sense of fatigue
weighed him down, a dull, heavy feeling, under the influence of which
he forgot what he was waiting for at that particular street corner. He
kept stumbling on the pavement and starting into wakefulness with the
icy shudder of a man who does not know where he is. Nothing seemed to
justify the painful anxiety he was inflicting on himself. Since those
people were asleep—well then, let them sleep! What good could it do
mixing in their affairs? It was very dark; no one would ever know
anything about this night’s doings. And with that every sentiment
within him, down to curiosity itself, took flight before the longing to
have done with it all and to find relief somewhere. The cold was
increasing, and the street was becoming insufferable. Twice he walked
away and slowly returned, dragging one foot behind the other, only to
walk farther away next time. It was all over; nothing was left him now,
and so he went down the whole length of the boulevard and did not
return.

His was a melancholy progress through the streets. He walked slowly,
never changing his pace and simply keeping along the walls of the
houses.

His boot heels re-echoed, and he saw nothing but his shadow moving at
his side. As he neared each successive gaslight it grew taller and
immediately afterward diminished. But this lulled him and occupied him
mechanically. He never knew afterward where he had been; it seemed as
if he had dragged himself round and round in a circle for hours. One
reminiscence only was very distinctly retained by him. Without his
being able to explain how it came about he found himself with his face
pressed close against the gate at the end of the Passage des Panoramas
and his two hands grasping the bars. He did not shake them but, his
whole heart swelling with emotion, he simply tried to look into the
passage. But he could make nothing out clearly, for shadows flooded the
whole length of the deserted gallery, and the wind, blowing hard down
the Rue Saint-Marc, puffed in his face with the damp breath of a
cellar. For a time he tried doggedly to see into the place, and then,
awakening from his dream, he was filled with astonishment and asked
himself what he could possibly be seeking for at that hour and in that
position, for he had pressed against the railings so fiercely that they
had left their mark on his face. Then he went on tramp once more. He
was hopeless, and his heart was full of infinite sorrow, for he felt,
amid all those shadows, that he was evermore betrayed and alone.

Day broke at last. It was the murky dawn that follows winter nights and
looks so melancholy from muddy Paris pavements. Muffat had returned
into the wide streets, which were then in course of construction on
either side of the new opera house. Soaked by the rain and cut up by
cart wheels, the chalky soil had become a lake of liquid mire. But he
never looked to see where he was stepping and walked on and on,
slipping and regaining his footing as he went. The awakening of Paris,
with its gangs of sweepers and early workmen trooping to their
destinations, added to his troubles as day brightened. People stared at
him in surprise as he went by with scared look and soaked hat and muddy
clothes. For a long while he sought refuge against palings and among
scaffoldings, his desolate brain haunted by the single remaining
thought that he was very miserable.

Then he thought of God. The sudden idea of divine help, of superhuman
consolation, surprised him, as though it were something unforeseen and
extraordinary. The image of M. Venot was evoked thereby, and he saw his
little plump face and ruined teeth. Assuredly M. Venot, whom for months
he had been avoiding and thereby rendering miserable, would be
delighted were he to go and knock at his door and fall weeping into his
arms. In the old days God had been always so merciful toward him. At
the least sorrow, the slightest obstacle on the path of life, he had
been wont to enter a church, where, kneeling down, he would humble his
littleness in the presence of Omnipotence. And he had been used to go
forth thence, fortified by prayer, fully prepared to give up the good
things of this world, possessed by the single yearning for eternal
salvation. But at present he only practiced by fits and starts, when
the terror of hell came upon him. All kinds of weak inclinations had
overcome him, and the thought of Nana disturbed his devotions. And now
the thought of God astonished him. Why had he not thought of God
before, in the hour of that terrible agony when his feeble humanity was
breaking up in ruin?

Meanwhile with slow and painful steps he sought for a church. But he
had lost his bearings; the early hour had changed the face of the
streets. Soon, however, as he turned the corner of the Rue de la
Chaussée-d’Antin, he noticed a tower looming vaguely in the fog at the
end of the Trinite Church. The white statues overlooking the bare
garden seemed like so many chilly Venuses among the yellow foliage of a
park. Under the porch he stood and panted a little, for the ascent of
the wide steps had tired him. Then he went in. The church was very
cold, for its heating apparatus had been fireless since the previous
evening, and its lofty, vaulted aisles were full of a fine damp vapor
which had come filtering through the windows. The aisles were deep in
shadow; not a soul was in the church, and the only sound audible amid
the unlovely darkness was that made by the old shoes of some verger or
other who was dragging himself about in sulky semiwakefulness. Muffat,
however, after knocking forlornly against an untidy collection of
chairs, sank on his knees with bursting heart and propped himself
against the rails in front of a little chapel close by a font. He
clasped his hands and began searching within himself for suitable
prayers, while his whole being yearned toward a transport. But only his
lips kept stammering empty words; his heart and brain were far away,
and with them he returned to the outer world and began his long,
unresting march through the streets, as though lashed forward by
implacable necessity. And he kept repeating, “O my God, come to my
assistance! O my God, abandon not Thy creature, who delivers himself up
to Thy justice! O my God, I adore Thee: Thou wilt not leave me to
perish under the buffetings of mine enemies!” Nothing answered: the
shadows and the cold weighed upon him, and the noise of the old shoes
continued in the distance and prevented him praying. Nothing, indeed,
save that tiresome noise was audible in the deserted church, where the
matutinal sweeping was unknown before the early masses had somewhat
warmed the air of the place. After that he rose to his feet with the
help of a chair, his knees cracking under him as he did so. God was not
yet there. And why should he weep in M. Venot’s arms? The man could do
nothing.

And then mechanically he returned to Nana’s house. Outside he slipped,
and he felt the tears welling to his eyes again, but he was not angry
with his lot—he was only feeble and ill. Yes, he was too tired; the
rain had wet him too much; he was nipped with cold, but the idea of
going back to his great dark house in the Rue Miromesnil froze his
heart. The house door at Nana’s was not open as yet, and he had to wait
till the porter made his appearance. He smiled as he went upstairs, for
he already felt penetrated by the soft warmth of that cozy retreat,
where he would be able to stretch his limbs and go to sleep.

When Zoé opened the door to him she gave a start of most uneasy
astonishment. Madame had been taken ill with an atrocious sick
headache, and she hadn’t closed her eyes all night. Still, she could
quite go and see whether Madame had gone to sleep for good. And with
that she slipped into the bedroom while he sank back into one of the
armchairs in the drawing room. But almost at that very moment Nana
appeared. She had jumped out of bed and had scarce had time to slip on
a petticoat. Her feet were bare, her hair in wild disorder, her
nightgown all crumpled.

“What! You here again?” she cried with a red flush on her cheeks.

Up she rushed, stung by sudden indignation, in order herself to thrust
him out of doors. But when she saw him in such sorry plight—nay, so
utterly done for—she felt infinite pity.

“Well, you are a pretty sight, my dear fellow!” she continued more
gently. “But what’s the matter? You’ve spotted them, eh? And it’s given
you the hump?”

He did not answer; he looked like a broken-down animal. Nevertheless,
she came to the conclusion that he still lacked proofs, and to hearten
him up the said:

“You see now? I was on the wrong tack. Your wife’s an honest woman, on
my word of honor! And now, my little friend, you must go home to bed.
You want it badly.”

He did not stir.

“Now then, be off! I can’t keep you here. But perhaps you won’t presume
to stay at such a time as this?”

“Yes, let’s go to bed,” he stammered.

She repressed a violent gesture, for her patience was deserting her.
Was the man going crazy?

“Come, be off!” she repeated.

“No.”

But she flared up in exasperation, in utter rebellion.

“It’s sickening! Don’t you understand I’m jolly tired of your company?
Go and find your wife, who’s making a cuckold of you. Yes, she’s making
a cuckold of you. I say so—yes, I do now. There, you’ve got the sack!
Will you leave me or will you not?”

Muffat’s eyes filled with tears. He clasped his hands together.

“Oh, let’s go to bed!”

At this Nana suddenly lost all control over herself and was choked by
nervous sobs. She was being taken advantage of when all was said and
done! What had these stories to do with her? She certainly had used all
manner of delicate methods in order to teach him his lesson gently. And
now he was for making her pay the damages! No, thank you! She was
kindhearted, but not to that extent.

“The devil, but I’ve had enough of this!” she swore, bringing her fist
down on the furniture. “Yes, yes, I wanted to be faithful—it was all I
could do to be that! Yet if I spoke the word I could be rich tomorrow,
my dear fellow!”

He looked up in surprise. Never once had he thought of the monetary
question. If she only expressed a desire he would realize it at once;
his whole fortune was at her service.

“No, it’s too late now,” she replied furiously. “I like men who give
without being asked. No, if you were to offer me a million for a single
interview I should say no! It’s over between us; I’ve got other fish to
fry there! So be off or I shan’t answer for the consequences. I shall
do something dreadful!”

She advanced threateningly toward him, and while she was raving, as
became a good courtesan who, though driven to desperation, was yet
firmly convinced of her rights and her superiority over tiresome,
honest folks, the door opened suddenly and Steiner presented himself.
That proved the finishing touch. She shrieked aloud:

“Well, I never. Here’s the other one!”

Bewildered by her piercing outcry, Steiner stopped short. Muffat’s
unexpected presence annoyed him, for he feared an explanation and had
been doing his best to avoid it these three months past. With blinking
eyes he stood first on one leg, then on the other, looking embarrassed
the while and avoiding the count’s gaze. He was out of breath, and as
became a man who had rushed across Paris with good news, only to find
himself involved in unforeseen trouble, his face was flushed and
distorted.

“Que veux-tu, toi?” asked Nana roughly, using the second person
singular in open mockery of the count.

“What—what do I—” he stammered. “I’ve got it for you—you know what.”

“Eh?”

He hesitated. The day before yesterday she had given him to understand
that if he could not find her a thousand francs to pay a bill with she
would not receive him any more. For two days he had been loafing about
the town in quest of the money and had at last made the sum up that
very morning.

“The thousand francs!” he ended by declaring as he drew an envelope
from his pocket.

Nana had not remembered.

“The thousand francs!” she cried. “D’you think I’m begging alms? Now
look here, that’s what I value your thousand francs at!”

And snatching the envelope, she threw it full in his face. As became a
prudent Hebrew, he picked it up slowly and painfully and then looked at
the young woman with a dull expression of face. Muffat and he exchanged
a despairing glance, while she put her arms akimbo in order to shout
more loudly than before.

“Come now, will you soon have done insulting me? I’m glad you’ve come,
too, dear boy, because now you see the clearance’ll be quite complete.
Now then, gee up! Out you go!”

Then as they did not hurry in the least, for they were paralyzed:

“D’you mean to say I’m acting like a fool, eh? It’s likely enough! But
you’ve bored me too much! And, hang it all, I’ve had enough of
swelldom! If I die of what I’m doing—well, it’s my fancy!”

They sought to calm her; they begged her to listen to reason.

“Now then, once, twice, thrice! Won’t you go? Very well! Look there!
I’ve got company.”

And with a brisk movement she flung wide the bedroom door. Whereupon in
the middle of the tumbled bed the two men caught sight of Fontan. He
had not expected to be shown off in this situation; nevertheless, he
took things very easily, for he was used to sudden surprises on the
stage. Indeed, after the first shock he even hit upon a grimace
calculated to tide him honorably over his difficulty; he “turned
rabbit,” as he phrased it, and stuck out his lips and wrinkled up his
nose, so as completely to transform the lower half of his face. His
base, satyrlike head seemed to exude incontinence. It was this man
Fontan then whom Nana had been to fetch at the Varieties every day for
a week past, for she was smitten with that fierce sort of passion which
the grimacing ugliness of a low comedian is wont to inspire in the
genus courtesan.

“There!” she said, pointing him out with tragic gesture.

Muffat, who hitherto had pocketed everything, rebelled at this affront.

“Bitch!” he stammered.

But Nana, who was once more in the bedroom, came back in order to have
the last word.

“How am I a bitch? What about your wife?”

And she was off and, slamming the door with a bang, she noisily pushed
to the bolt. Left alone, the two men gazed at one another in silence.
Zoé had just come into the room, but she did not drive them out. Nay,
she spoke to them in the most sensible manner. As became a woman with a
head on her shoulders, she decided that Madame’s conduct was rather too
much of a good thing. But she defended her, nonetheless: this union
with the play actor couldn’t last; the madness must be allowed to pass
off! The two men retired without uttering a sound. On the pavement
outside they shook hands silently, as though swayed by a mutual sense
of fraternity. Then they turned their backs on one another and went
crawling off in opposite directions.

When at last Muffat entered his town house in the Rue Miromesnil his
wife was just arriving. The two met on the great staircase, whose walls
exhaled an icy chill. They lifted up their eyes and beheld one another.
The count still wore his muddy clothes, and his pale, bewildered face
betrayed the prodigal returning from his debauch. The countess looked
as though she were utterly fagged out by a night in the train. She was
dropping with sleep, but her hair had been brushed anyhow, and her eyes
were deeply sunken.




 CHAPTER VIII


We are in a little set of lodgings on the fourth floor in the Rue Veron
at Montmartre. Nana and Fontan have invited a few friends to cut their
Twelfth-Night cake with them. They are giving their housewarming,
though they have been only three days settled.

They had no fixed intention of keeping house together, but the whole
thing had come about suddenly in the first glow of the honeymoon. After
her grand blowup, when she had turned the count and the banker so
vigorously out of doors, Nana felt the world crumbling about her feet.
She estimated the situation at a glance; the creditors would swoop down
on her anteroom, would mix themselves up with her love affairs and
threaten to sell her little all unless she continued to act sensibly.
Then, too, there would be no end of disputes and carking anxieties if
she attempted to save her furniture from their clutches. And so she
preferred giving up everything. Besides, the flat in the Boulevard
Haussmann was plaguing her to death. It was so stupid with its great
gilded rooms! In her access of tenderness for Fontan she began dreaming
of a pretty little bright chamber. Indeed, she returned to the old
ideals of the florist days, when her highest ambition was to have a
rosewood cupboard with a plate-glass door and a bed hung with blue
“reps.” In the course of two days she sold what she could smuggle out
of the house in the way of knickknacks and jewelry and then
disappeared, taking with her ten thousand francs and never even warning
the porter’s wife. It was a plunge into the dark, a merry spree; never
a trace was left behind. In this way she would prevent the men from
coming dangling after her. Fontain was very nice. He did not say no to
anything but just let her do as she liked. Nay, he even displayed an
admirable spirit of comradeship. He had, on his part, nearly seven
thousand francs, and despite the fact that people accused him of
stinginess, he consented to add them to the young woman’s ten thousand.
The sum struck them as a solid foundation on which to begin
housekeeping. And so they started away, drawing from their common
hoard, in order to hire and furnish the two rooms in the Rue Veron, and
sharing everything together like old friends. In the early days it was
really delicious.

On Twelfth Night Mme Lerat and Louiset were the first to arrive. As
Fontan had not yet come home, the old lady ventured to give expression
to her fears, for she trembled to see her niece renouncing the chance
of wealth.

“Oh, Aunt, I love him so dearly!” cried Nana, pressing her hands to her
heart with the prettiest of gestures.

This phrase produced an extraordinary effect on Mme Lerat, and tears
came into her eyes.

“That’s true,” she said with an air of conviction. “Love before all
things!”

And with that she went into raptures over the prettiness of the rooms.
Nana took her to see the bedroom, the parlor and the very kitchen.
Gracious goodness, it wasn’t a vast place, but then, they had painted
it afresh and put up new wallpapers. Besides, the sun shone merrily
into it during the daytime.

Thereupon Mme Lerat detained the young woman in the bedroom, while
Louiset installed himself behind the charwoman in the kitchen in order
to watch a chicken being roasted. If, said Mme Lerat, she permitted
herself to say what was in her mind, it was because Zoé had just been
at her house. Zoé had stayed courageously in the breach because she was
devoted to her mistress. Madame would pay her later on; she was in no
anxiety about that! And amid the breakup of the Boulevard Haussmann
establishment it was she who showed the creditors a bold front; it was
she who conducted a dignified retreat, saving what she could from the
wreck and telling everyone that her mistress was traveling. She never
once gave them her address. Nay, through fear of being followed, she
even deprived herself of the pleasure of calling on Madame.
Nevertheless, that same morning she had run round to Mme Lerat’s
because matters were taking a new turn. The evening before creditors in
the persons of the upholsterer, the charcoal merchant and the laundress
had put in an appearance and had offered to give Madame an extension of
time. Nay, they had even proposed to advance Madame a very considerable
amount if only Madame would return to her flat and conduct herself like
a sensible person. The aunt repeated Zoé’s words. Without doubt there
was a gentleman behind it all.

“I’ll never consent!” declared Nana in great disgust. “Ah, they’re a
pretty lot those tradesmen! Do they think I’m to be sold so that they
can get their bills paid? Why, look here, I’d rather die of hunger than
deceive Fontan.”

“That’s what I said,” averred Mme Lerat. “‘My niece,’ I said, ‘is too
noble-hearted!’”

Nana, however, was much vexed to learn that La Mignotte was being sold
and that Labordette was buying it for Caroline Hequet at an absurdly
low price. It made her angry with that clique. Oh, they were a regular
cheap lot, in spite of their airs and graces! Yes, by Jove, she was
worth more than the whole lot of them!

“They can have their little joke out,” she concluded, “but money will
never give them true happiness! Besides, you know, Aunt, I don’t even
know now whether all that set are alive or not. I’m much too happy.”

At that very moment Mme Maloir entered, wearing one of those hats of
which she alone understood the shape. It was delightful meeting again.
Mme Maloir explained that magnificence frightened her and that NOW,
from time to time, she would come back for her game of bezique. A
second visit was paid to the different rooms in the lodgings, and in
the kitchen Nana talked of economy in the presence of the charwoman,
who was basting the fowl, and said that a servant would have cost too
much and that she was herself desirous of looking after things. Louiset
was gazing beatifically at the roasting process.

But presently there was a loud outburst of voices. Fontan had come in
with Bosc and Prullière, and the company could now sit down to table.
The soup had been already served when Nana for the third time showed
off the lodgings.

“Ah, dear children, how comfortable you are here!” Bosc kept repeating,
simply for the sake of pleasing the chums who were standing the dinner.
At bottom the subject of the “nook,” as he called it, nowise touched
him.

In the bedroom he harped still more vigorously on the amiable note.
Ordinarily he was wont to treat women like cattle, and the idea of a
man bothering himself about one of the dirty brutes excited within him
the only angry feelings of which, in his comprehensive, drunken disdain
of the universe, he was still capable.

“Ah, ah, the villains,” he continued with a wink, “they’ve done this on
the sly. Well, you were certainly right. It will be charming, and, by
heaven, we’ll come and see you!”

But when Louiset arrived on the scene astride upon a broomstick,
Prullière chuckled spitefully and remarked:

“Well, I never! You’ve got a baby already?”

This struck everybody as very droll, and Mme Lerat and Mme Maloir shook
with laughter. Nana, far from being vexed, laughed tenderly and said
that unfortunately this was not the case. She would very much have
liked it, both for the little one’s sake and for her own, but perhaps
one would arrive all the same. Fontan, in his role of honest citizen,
took Louiset in his arms and began playing with him and lisping.

“Never mind! It loves its daddy! Call me ‘Papa,’ you little
blackguard!”

“Papa, Papa!” stammered the child.

The company overwhelmed him with caresses, but Bosc was bored and
talked of sitting down to table. That was the only serious business in
life. Nana asked her guests’ permission to put Louiset’s chair next her
own. The dinner was very merry, but Bosc suffered from the near
neighborhood of the child, from whom he had to defend his plate. Mme
Lerat bored him too. She was in a melting mood and kept whispering to
him all sorts of mysterious things about gentlemen of the first fashion
who were still running after Nana. Twice he had to push away her knee,
for she was positively invading him in her gushing, tearful mood.
Prullière behaved with great incivility toward Mme Maloir and did not
once help her to anything. He was entirely taken up with Nana and
looked annoyed at seeing her with Fontan. Besides, the turtle doves
were kissing so excessively as to be becoming positive bores. Contrary
to all known rules, they had elected to sit side by side.

“Devil take it! Why don’t you eat? You’ve got plenty of time ahead of
you!” Bosc kept repeating with his mouth full. “Wait till we are gone!”

But Nana could not restrain herself. She was in a perfect ecstasy of
love. Her face was as full of blushes as an innocent young girl’s, and
her looks and her laughter seemed to overflow with tenderness. Gazing
on Fontan, she overwhelmed him with pet names—“my doggie, my old bear,
my kitten”—and whenever he passed her the water or the salt she bent
forward and kissed him at random on lips, eyes, nose or ear. Then if
she met with reproof she would return to the attack with the cleverest
maneuvers and with infinite submissiveness and the supple cunning of a
beaten cat would catch hold of his hand when no one was looking, in
order to kiss it again. It seemed she must be touching something
belonging to him. As to Fontan, he gave himself airs and let himself be
adored with the utmost condescension. His great nose sniffed with
entirely sensual content; his goat face, with its quaint, monstrous
ugliness, positively glowed in the sunlight of devoted adoration
lavished upon him by that superb woman who was so fair and so plump of
limb. Occasionally he gave a kiss in return, as became a man who is
having all the enjoyment and is yet willing to behave prettily.

“Well, you’re growing maddening!” cried Prullière. “Get away from her,
you fellow there!”

And he dismissed Fontan and changed covers, in order to take his place
at Nana’s side. The company shouted and applauded at this and gave vent
to some stiffish epigrammatic witticisms. Fontan counterfeited despair
and assumed the quaint expression of Vulcan crying for Venus.
Straightway Prullière became very gallant, but Nana, whose foot he was
groping for under the table, caught him a slap to make him keep quiet.
No, no, she was certainly not going to become his mistress. A month ago
she had begun to take a fancy to him because of his good looks, but now
she detested him. If he pinched her again under pretense of picking up
her napkin, she would throw her glass in his face!

Nevertheless, the evening passed off well. The company had naturally
begun talking about the Variétés. Wasn’t that cad of a Bordenave going
to go off the hooks after all? His nasty diseases kept reappearing and
causing him such suffering that you couldn’t come within six yards of
him nowadays. The day before during rehearsal he had been incessantly
yelling at Simonne. There was a fellow whom the theatrical people
wouldn’t shed many tears over. Nana announced that if he were to ask
her to take another part she would jolly well send him to the
rightabout. Moreover, she began talking of leaving the stage; the
theater was not to compare with her home. Fontan, who was not in the
present piece or in that which was then being rehearsed, also talked
big about the joy of being entirely at liberty and of passing his
evenings with his feet on the fender in the society of his little pet.
And at this the rest exclaimed delightedly, treating their entertainers
as lucky people and pretending to envy their felicity.

The Twelfth-Night cake had been cut and handed round. The bean had
fallen to the lot of Mme Lerat, who popped it into Bosc’s glass.
Whereupon there were shouts of “The king drinks! The king drinks!” Nana
took advantage of this outburst of merriment and went and put her arms
round Fontan’s neck again, kissing him and whispering in his ear. But
Prullière, laughing angrily, as became a pretty man, declared that they
were not playing the game. Louiset, meanwhile, slept soundly on two
chairs. It was nearing one o’clock when the company separated, shouting
au revoir as they went downstairs.

For three weeks the existence of the pair of lovers was really
charming. Nana fancied she was returning to those early days when her
first silk dress had caused her infinite delight. She went out little
and affected a life of solitude and simplicity. One morning early, when
she had gone down to buy fish IN PROPRIA PERSONA in La Rouchefoucauld
Market, she was vastly surprised to meet her old hair dresser Francis
face to face. His getup was as scrupulously careful as ever: he wore
the finest linen, and his frock coat was beyond reproach; in fact, Nana
felt ashamed that he should see her in the street with a dressing
jacket and disordered hair and down-at-heel shoes. But he had the tact,
if possible, to intensify his politeness toward her. He did not permit
himself a single inquiry and affected to believe that Madame was at
present on her travels. Ah, but Madame had rendered many persons
unhappy when she decided to travel! All the world had suffered loss.
The young woman, however, ended by asking him questions, for a sudden
fit of curiosity had made her forget her previous embarrassment. Seeing
that the crowd was jostling them, she pushed him into a doorway and,
still holding her little basket in one hand, stood chatting in front of
him. What were people saying about her high jinks? Good heavens! The
ladies to whom he went said this and that and all sorts of things. In
fact, she had made a great noise and was enjoying a real boom: And
Steiner? M. Steiner was in a very bad way, would make an ugly finish if
he couldn’t hit on some new commercial operation. And Daguenet? Oh, HE
was getting on swimmingly. M. Daguenet was settling down. Nana, under
the exciting influence of various recollections, was just opening her
mouth with a view to a further examination when she felt it would be
awkward to utter Muffat’s name. Thereupon Francis smiled and spoke
instead of her. As to Monsieur le Comte, it was all a great pity, so
sad had been his sufferings since Madame’s departure.

He had been like a soul in pain—you might have met him wherever Madame
was likely to be found. At last M. Mignon had come across him and had
taken him home to his own place. This piece of news caused Nana to
laugh a good deal. But her laughter was not of the easiest kind.

“Ah, he’s with Rose now,” she said. “Well then, you must know, Francis,
I’ve done with him! Oh, the canting thing! It’s learned some pretty
habits—can’t even go fasting for a week now! And to think that he used
to swear he wouldn’t have any woman after me!”

She was raging inwardly.

“My leavings, if you please!” she continued. “A pretty Johnnie for Rose
to go and treat herself to! Oh, I understand it all now: she wanted to
have her revenge because I got that brute of a Steiner away from her.
Ain’t it sly to get a man to come to her when I’ve chucked him out of
doors?”

“M. Mignon doesn’t tell that tale,” said the hairdresser. “According to
his account, it was Monsieur le Comte who chucked you out. Yes, and in
a pretty disgusting way too—with a kick on the bottom!”

Nana became suddenly very pale.

“Eh, what?” she cried. “With a kick on my bottom? He’s going too far,
he is! Look here, my little friend, it was I who threw him downstairs,
the cuckold, for he is a cuckold, I must inform you. His countess is
making him one with every man she meets—yes, even with that
good-for-nothing of a Fauchery. And that Mignon, who goes loafing about
the pavement in behalf of his harridan of a wife, whom nobody wants
because she’s so lean! What a foul lot! What a foul lot!”

She was choking, and she paused for breath

“Oh, that’s what they say, is it? Very well, my little Francis, I’ll go
and look ’em up, I will. Shall you and I go to them at once? Yes, I’ll
go, and we’ll see whether they will have the cheek to go telling about
kicks on the bottom. Kick’s! I never took one from anybody! And
nobody’s ever going to strike me—d’ye see?—for I’d smash the man who
laid a finger on me!”

Nevertheless, the storm subsided at last. After all, they might jolly
well what they liked! She looked upon them as so much filth underfoot!
It would have soiled her to bother about people like that. She had a
conscience of her own, she had! And Francis, seeing her thus giving
herself away, what with her housewife’s costume and all, became
familiar and, at parting, made so bold as to give her some good advice.
It was wrong of her to be sacrificing everything for the sake of an
infatuation; such infatuations ruined existence. She listened to him
with bowed head while he spoke to her with a pained expression, as
became a connoisseur who could not bear to see so fine a girl making
such a hash of things.

“Well, that’s my affair,” she said at last “Thanks all the same, dear
boy.” She shook his hand, which despite his perfect dress was always a
little greasy, and then went off to buy her fish. During the day that
story about the kick on the bottom occupied her thoughts. She even
spoke about it to Fontan and again posed as a sturdy woman who was not
going to stand the slightest flick from anybody. Fontan, as became a
philosophic spirit, declared that all men of fashion were beasts whom
it was one’s duty to despise. And from that moment forth Nana was full
of very real disdain.

That same evening they went to the Bouffes-Parisiens Theatre to see a
little woman of Fontan’s acquaintance make her debut in a part of some
ten lines. It was close on one o’clock when they once more trudged up
the heights of Montmartre. They had purchased a cake, a “mocha,” in the
Rue de la Chaussée-d’Antin, and they ate it in bed, seeing that the
night was not warm and it was not worth while lighting a fire. Sitting
up side by side, with the bedclothes pulled up in front and the pillows
piled up behind, they supped and talked about the little woman. Nana
thought her plain and lacking in style. Fontan, lying on his stomach,
passed up the pieces of cake which had been put between the candle and
the matches on the edge of the night table. But they ended by
quarreling.

“Oh, just to think of it!” cried Nana. “She’s got eyes like gimlet
holes, and her hair’s the color of tow.”

“Hold your tongue, do!” said Fontan. “She has a superb head of hair and
such fire in her looks! It’s lovely the way you women always tear each
other to pieces!”

He looked annoyed.

“Come now, we’ve had enough of it!” he said at last in savage tones.
“You know I don’t like being bored. Let’s go to sleep, or things’ll
take a nasty turn.”

And he blew out the candle, but Nana was furious and went on talking.
She was not going to be spoken to in that voice; she was accustomed to
being treated with respect! As he did not vouchsafe any further answer,
she was silenced, but she could not go to sleep and lay tossing to and
fro.

“Great God, have you done moving about?” cried he suddenly, giving a
brisk jump upward.

“It isn’t my fault if there are crumbs in the bed,” she said curtly.

In fact, there were crumbs in the bed. She felt them down to her
middle; she was everywhere devoured by them. One single crumb was
scorching her and making her scratch herself till she bled. Besides,
when one eats a cake isn’t it usual to shake out the bedclothes
afterward? Fontan, white with rage, had relit the candle, and they both
got up and, barefooted and in their night dresses, they turned down the
clothes and swept up the crumbs on the sheet with their hands. Fontan
went to bed again, shivering, and told her to go to the devil when she
advised him to wipe the soles of his feet carefully. And in the end she
came back to her old position, but scarce had she stretched herself out
than she danced again. There were fresh crumbs in the bed!

“By Jove, it was sure to happen!” she cried. “You’ve brought them back
again under your feet. I can’t go on like this! No, I tell you, I can’t
go on like this!”

And with that she was on the point of stepping over him in order to
jump out of bed again, when Fontan in his longing for sleep grew
desperate and dealt her a ringing box on the ear. The blow was so smart
that Nana suddenly found herself lying down again with her head on the
pillow.

She lay half stunned.

“Oh!” she ejaculated simply, sighing a child’s big sigh.

For a second or two he threatened her with a second slap, asking her at
the same time if she meant to move again. Then he put out the light,
settled himself squarely on his back and in a trice was snoring. But
she buried her face in the pillow and began sobbing quietly to herself.
It was cowardly of him to take advantage of his superior strength! She
had experienced very real terror all the same, so terrible had that
quaint mask of Fontan’s become. And her anger began dwindling down as
though the blow had calmed her. She began to feel respect toward him
and accordingly squeezed herself against the wall in order to leave him
as much room as possible. She even ended by going to sleep, her cheek
tingling, her eyes full of tears and feeling so deliciously depressed
and wearied and submissive that she no longer noticed the crumbs. When
she woke up in the morning she was holding Fontain in her naked arms
and pressing him tightly against her breast. He would never begin it
again, eh? Never again? She loved him too dearly. Why, it was even nice
to be beaten if he struck the blow!

After that night a new life began. For a mere trifle—a yes, a no—Fontan
would deal her a blow. She grew accustomed to it and pocketed
everything. Sometimes she shed tears and threatened him, but he would
pin her up against the wall and talk of strangling her, which had the
effect of rendering her extremely obedient. As often as not, she sank
down on a chair and sobbed for five minutes on end. But afterward she
would forget all about it, grow very merry, fill the little lodgings
with the sound of song and laughter and the rapid rustle of skirts. The
worst of it was that Fontan was now in the habit of disappearing for
the whole day and never returning home before midnight, for he was
going to cafes and meeting his old friends again. Nana bore with
everything. She was tremulous and caressing, her only fear being that
she might never see him again if she reproached him. But on certain
days, when she had neither Mme Maloir nor her aunt and Louiset with
her, she grew mortally dull. Thus one Sunday, when she was bargaining
for some pigeons at La Rochefoucauld Market, she was delighted to meet
Satin, who, in her turn, was busy purchasing a bunch of radishes. Since
the evening when the prince had drunk Fontan’s champagne they had lost
sight of one another.

“What? It’s you! D’you live in our parts?” said Satin, astounded at
seeing her in the street at that hour of the morning and in slippers
too. “Oh, my poor, dear girl, you’re really ruined then!”

Nana knitted her brows as a sign that she was to hold her tongue, for
they were surrounded by other women who wore dressing gowns and were
without linen, while their disheveled tresses were white with fluff. In
the morning, when the man picked up overnight had been newly dismissed,
all the courtesans of the quarter were wont to come marketing here,
their eyes heavy with sleep, their feet in old down-at-heel shoes and
themselves full of the weariness and ill humor entailed by a night of
boredom. From the four converging streets they came down into the
market, looking still rather young in some cases and very pale and
charming in their utter unconstraint; in others, hideous and old with
bloated faces and peeling skin. The latter did not the least mind being
seen thus outside working hours, and not one of them deigned to smile
when the passers-by on the sidewalk turned round to look at them.
Indeed, they were all very full of business and wore a disdainful
expression, as became good housewives for whom men had ceased to exist.
Just as Satin, for instance, was paying for her bunch of radishes a
young man, who might have been a shop-boy going late to his work, threw
her a passing greeting:

“Good morning, duckie.”

She straightened herself up at once and with the dignified manner
becoming an offended queen remarked:

“What’s up with that swine there?”

Then she fancied she recognized him. Three days ago toward midnight, as
the was coming back alone from the boulevards, she had talked to him at
the corner of the Rue Labruyère for nearly half an hour, with a view to
persuading him to come home with her. But this recollection only
angered her the more.

“Fancy they’re brutes enough to shout things to you in broad daylight!”
she continued. “When one’s out on business one ought to be respectfully
treated, eh?”

Nana had ended by buying her pigeons, although she certainly had her
doubts of their freshness. After which Satin wanted to show her where
she lived in the Rue Rochefoucauld close by. And the moment they were
alone Nana told her of her passion for Fontan. Arrived in front of the
house, the girl stopped with her bundle of radishes under her arm and
listened eagerly to a final detail which the other imparted to her.
Nana fibbed away and vowed that it was she who had turned Count Muffat
out of doors with a perfect hail of kicks on the posterior.

“Oh how smart!” Satin repeated. “How very smart! Kicks, eh? And he
never said a word, did he? What a blooming coward! I wish I’d been
there to see his ugly mug! My dear girl, you were quite right. A pin
for the coin! When I’M on with a mash I starve for it! You’ll come and
see me, eh? You promise? It’s the left-hand door. Knock three knocks,
for there’s a whole heap of damned squints about.”

After that whenever Nana grew too weary of life she went down and saw
Satin. She was always sure of finding her, for the girl never went out
before six in the evening. Satin occupied a couple of rooms which a
chemist had furnished for her in order to save her from the clutches of
the police, but in little more than a twelvemonth she had broken the
furniture, knocked in the chairs, dirtied the curtains, and that in a
manner so furiously filthy and untidy that the lodgings seemed as
though inhabited by a pack of mad cats. On the mornings when she grew
disgusted with herself and thought about cleaning up a bit, chair rails
and strips of curtain would come off in her hands during her struggle
with superincumbent dirt. On such days the place was fouler than ever,
and it was impossible to enter it, owing to the things which had fallen
down across the doorway. At length she ended by leaving her house
severely alone. When the lamp was lit the cupboard with plate-glass
doors, the clock and what remained of the curtains still served to
impose on the men. Besides, for six months past her landlord had been
threatening to evict her. Well then, for whom should she be keeping the
furniture nice? For him more than anyone else, perhaps! And so whenever
she got up in a merry mood she would shout “Gee up!” and give the sides
of the cupboard and the chest of drawers such a tremendous kick that
they cracked again.

Nana nearly always found her in bed. Even on the days when Satin went
out to do her marketing she felt so tired on her return upstairs that
she flung herself down on the bed and went to sleep again. During the
day she dragged herself about and dozed off on chairs. Indeed, she did
not emerge from this languid condition till the evening drew on and the
gas was lit outside. Nana felt very comfortable at Satin’s, sitting
doing nothing on the untidy bed, while basins stood about on the floor
at her feet and petticoats which had been bemired last night hung over
the backs of armchairs and stained them with mud. They had long gossips
together and were endlessly confidential, while Satin lay on her
stomach in her nightgown, waving her legs above her head and smoking
cigarettes as she listened. Sometimes on such afternoons as they had
troubles to retail they treated themselves to absinthe in order, as
they termed it, “to forget.” Satin did not go downstairs or put on a
petticoat but simply went and leaned over the banisters and shouted her
order to the portress’s little girl, a chit of ten, who when she
brought up the absinthe in a glass would look furtively at the lady’s
bare legs. Every conversation led up to one subject—the beastliness of
the men. Nana was overpowering on the subject of Fontan. She could not
say a dozen words without lapsing into endless repetitions of his
sayings and his doings. But Satin, like a good-natured girl, would
listen unwearyingly to everlasting accounts of how Nana had watched for
him at the window, how they had fallen out over a burnt dish of hash
and how they had made it up in bed after hours of silent sulking. In
her desire to be always talking about these things Nana had got to tell
of every slap that he dealt her. Last week he had given her a swollen
eye; nay, the night before he had given her such a box on the ear as to
throw her across the night table, and all because he could not find his
slippers. And the other woman did not evince any astonishment but blew
out cigarette smoke and only paused a moment to remark that, for her
part, she always ducked under, which sent the gentleman pretty nearly
sprawling. Both of them settled down with a will to these anecdotes
about blows; they grew supremely happy and excited over these same
idiotic doings about which they told one another a hundred times or
more, while they gave themselves up to the soft and pleasing sense of
weariness which was sure to follow the drubbings they talked of. It was
the delight of rediscussing Fontan’s blows and of explaining his works
and his ways, down to the very manner in which he took off his boots,
which brought Nana back daily to Satin’s place. The latter, moreover,
used to end by growing sympathetic in her turn and would cite even more
violent cases, as, for instance, that of a pastry cook who had left her
for dead on the floor. Yet she loved him, in spite of it all! Then came
the days on which Nana cried and declared that things could not go on
as they were doing. Satin would escort her back to her own door and
would linger an hour out in the street to see that he did not murder
her. And the next day the two women would rejoice over the
reconciliation the whole afternoon through. Yet though they did not say
so, they preferred the days when threshings were, so to speak, in the
air, for then their comfortable indignation was all the stronger.

They became inseparable. Yet Satin never went to Nana’s, Fontan having
announced that he would have no trollops in his house. They used to go
out together, and thus it was that Satin one day took her friend to see
another woman. This woman turned out to be that very Mme Robert who had
interested Nana and inspired her with a certain respect ever since she
had refused to come to her supper. Mme Robert lived in the Rue Mosnier,
a silent, new street in the Quartier de l’Europe, where there were no
shops, and the handsome houses with their small, limited flats were
peopled by ladies. It was five o’clock, and along the silent pavements
in the quiet, aristocratic shelter of the tall white houses were drawn
up the broughams of stock-exchange people and merchants, while men
walked hastily about, looking up at the windows, where women in
dressing jackets seemed to be awaiting them. At first Nana refused to
go up, remarking with some constraint that she had not the pleasure of
the lady’s acquaintance. But Satin would take no refusal. She was only
desirous of paying a civil call, for Mme Robert, whom she had met in a
restaurant the day before, had made herself extremely agreeable and had
got her to promise to come and see her. And at last Nana consented. At
the top of the stairs a little drowsy maid informed them that Madame
had not come home yet, but she ushered them into the drawing room
notwithstanding and left them there.

“The deuce, it’s a smart show!” whispered Satin. It was a stiff,
middle-class room, hung with dark-colored fabrics, and suggested the
conventional taste of a Parisian shopkeeper who has retired on his
fortune. Nana was struck and did her best to make merry about it. But
Satin showed annoyance and spoke up for Mme Robert’s strict adherence
to the proprieties. She was always to be met in the society of elderly,
grave-looking men, on whose arms she leaned. At present she had a
retired chocolate seller in tow, a serious soul. Whenever he came to
see her he was so charmed by the solid, handsome way in which the house
was arranged that he had himself announced and addressed its mistress
as “dear child.”

“Look, here she is!” continued Satin, pointing to a photograph which
stood in front of the clock. Nana scrutinized the portrait for a second
or so. It represented a very dark brunette with a longish face and lips
pursed up in a discreet smile. “A thoroughly fashionable lady,” one
might have said of the likeness, “but one who is rather more reserved
than the rest.”

“It’s strange,” murmured Nana at length, “but I’ve certainly seen that
face somewhere. Where, I don’t remember. But it can’t have been in a
pretty place—oh no, I’m sure it wasn’t in a pretty place.”

And turning toward her friend, she added, “So she’s made you promise to
come and see her? What does she want with you?”

“What does she want with me? ’Gad! To talk, I expect—to be with me a
bit. It’s her politeness.”

Nana looked steadily at Satin. “Tut, tut,” she said softly. After all,
it didn’t matter to her! Yet seeing that the lady was keeping them
waiting, she declared that she would not stay longer, and accordingly
they both took their departure.

The next day Fontan informed Nana that he was not coming home to
dinner, and she went down early to find Satin with a view to treating
her at a restaurant. The choice of the restaurant involved infinite
debate. Satin proposed various brewery bars, which Nana thought
detestable, and at last persuaded her to dine at Laure’s. This was a
table d’hôte in the Rue des Martyrs, where the dinner cost three
francs.

Tired of waiting for the dinner hour and not knowing what to do out in
the street, the pair went up to Laure’s twenty minutes too early. The
three dining rooms there were still empty, and they sat down at a table
in the very saloon where Laure Piedefer was enthroned on a high bench
behind a bar. This Laure was a lady of some fifty summers, whose
swelling contours were tightly laced by belts and corsets. Women kept
entering in quick procession, and each, in passing, craned upward so as
to overtop the saucers raised on the counter and kissed Laure on the
mouth with tender familiarity, while the monstrous creature tried, with
tears in her eyes, to divide her attentions among them in such a way as
to make no one jealous. On the other hand, the servant who waited on
the ladies was a tall, lean woman. She seemed wasted with disease, and
her eyes were ringed with dark lines and glowed with somber fire. Very
rapidly the three saloons filled up. There were some hundred customers,
and they had seated themselves wherever they could find vacant places.
The majority were nearing the age of forty: their flesh was puffy and
so bloated by vice as almost to hide the outlines of their flaccid
mouths. But amid all these gross bosoms and figures some slim, pretty
girls were observable. These still wore a modest expression despite
their impudent gestures, for they were only beginners in their art, who
had started life in the ballrooms of the slums and had been brought to
Laure’s by some customer or other. Here the tribe of bloated women,
excited by the sweet scent of their youth, jostled one another and,
while treating them to dainties, formed a perfect court round them,
much as old amorous bachelors might have done. As to the men, they were
not numerous. There were ten or fifteen of them at the outside, and if
we except four tall fellows who had come to see the sight and were
cracking jokes and taking things easy, they behaved humbly enough amid
this whelming flood of petticoats.

“I say, their stew’s very good, ain’t it?” said Satin.

Nana nodded with much satisfaction. It was the old substantial dinner
you get in a country hotel and consisted of vol-au-vent à la
financière, fowl boiled in rice, beans with a sauce and vanilla creams,
iced and flavored with burnt sugar. The ladies made an especial
onslaught on the boiled fowl and rice: their stays seemed about to
burst; they wiped their lips with slow, luxurious movements. At first
Nana had been afraid of meeting old friends who might have asked her
silly questions, but she grew calm at last, for she recognized no one
she knew among that extremely motley throng, where faded dresses and
lamentable hats contrasted strangely with handsome costumes, the
wearers of which fraternized in vice with their shabbier neighbors. She
was momentarily interested, however, at the sight of a young man with
short curly hair and insolent face who kept a whole tableful of vastly
fat women breathlessly attentive to his slightest caprice. But when the
young man began to laugh his bosom swelled.

“Good lack, it’s a woman!”

She let a little cry escape as she spoke, and Satin, who was stuffing
herself with boiled fowl, lifted up her head and whispered:

“Oh yes! I know her. A smart lot, eh? They do just fight for her.”

Nana pouted disgustingly. She could not understand the thing as yet.
Nevertheless, she remarked in her sensible tone that there was no
disputing about tastes or colors, for you never could tell what you
yourself might one day have a liking for. So she ate her cream with an
air of philosophy, though she was perfectly well aware that Satin with
her great blue virginal eyes was throwing the neighboring tables into a
state of great excitement. There was one woman in particular, a
powerful, fair-haired person who sat close to her and made herself
extremely agreeable. She seemed all aglow with affection and pushed
toward the girl so eagerly that Nana was on the point of interfering.

But at that very moment a woman who was entering the room gave her a
shock of surprise. Indeed, she had recognized Mme Robert. The latter,
looking, as was her wont, like a pretty brown mouse, nodded familiarly
to the tall, lean serving maid and came and leaned upon Laure’s
counter. Then both women exchanged a long kiss. Nana thought such an
attention on the part of a woman so distinguished looking very amusing,
the more so because Mme Robert had quite altered her usual modest
expression. On the contrary, her eye roved about the saloon as she kept
up a whispered conversation. Laure had resumed her seat and once more
settled herself down with all the majesty of an old image of Vice,
whose face has been worn and polished by the kisses of the faithful.
Above the range of loaded plates she sat enthroned in all the opulence
which a hotelkeeper enjoys after forty years of activity, and as she
sat there she swayed her bloated following of large women, in
comparison with the biggest of whom she seemed monstrous.

But Mme Robert had caught sight of Satin, and leaving Laure, she ran up
and behaved charmingly, telling her how much she regretted not having
been at home the day before. When Satin, however, who was ravished at
this treatment, insisted on finding room for her at the table, she
vowed she had already dined. She had simply come up to look about her.
As she stood talking behind her new friend’s chair she leaned lightly
on her shoulders and in a smiling, coaxing manner remarked:

“Now when shall I see you? If you were free—”

Nana unluckily failed to hear more. The conversation vexed her, and she
was dying to tell this honest lady a few home truths. But the sight of
a troop of new arrivals paralyzed her. It was composed of smart,
fashionably dressed women who were wearing their diamonds. Under the
influence of perverse impulse they had made up a party to come to
Laure’s—whom, by the by, they all treated with great familiarity—to eat
the three-franc dinner while flashing their jewels of great price in
the jealous and astonished eyes of poor, bedraggled prostitutes. The
moment they entered, talking and laughing in their shrill, clear tones
and seeming to bring sunshine with them from the outside world, Nana
turned her head rapidly away. Much to her annoyance she had recognized
Lucy Stewart and Maria Blond among them, and for nearly five minutes,
during which the ladies chatted with Laure before passing into the
saloon beyond, she kept her head down and seemed deeply occupied in
rolling bread pills on the cloth in front of her. But when at length
she was able to look round, what was her astonishment to observe the
chair next to hers vacant! Satin had vanished.

“Gracious, where can she be?” she loudly ejaculated.

The sturdy, fair woman who had been overwhelming Satin with civil
attentions laughed ill-temperedly, and when Nana, whom the laugh
irritated, looked threatening she remarked in a soft, drawling way:

“It’s certainly not me that’s done you this turn; it’s the other one!”

Thereupon Nana understood that they would most likely make game of her
and so said nothing more. She even kept her seat for some moments, as
she did not wish to show how angry she felt. She could hear Lucy
Stewart laughing at the end of the next saloon, where she was treating
a whole table of little women who had come from the public balls at
Montmartre and La Chapelle. It was very hot; the servant was carrying
away piles of dirty plates with a strong scent of boiled fowl and rice,
while the four gentlemen had ended by regaling quite half a dozen
couples with capital wine in the hope of making them tipsy and hearing
some pretty stiffish things. What at present most exasperated Nana was
the thought of paying for Satin’s dinner. There was a wench for you,
who allowed herself to be amused and then made off with never a
thank-you in company with the first petticoat that came by! Without
doubt it was only a matter of three francs, but she felt it was hard
lines all the same—her way of doing it was too disgusting.
Nevertheless, she paid up, throwing the six francs at Laure, whom at
the moment she despised more than the mud in the street. In the Rue des
Martyrs Nana felt her bitterness increasing. She was certainly not
going to run after Satin! It was a nice filthy business for one to be
poking one’s nose into! But her evening was spoiled, and she walked
slowly up again toward Montmartre, raging against Mme Robert in
particular. Gracious goodness, that woman had a fine cheek to go
playing the lady—yes, the lady in the dustbin! She now felt sure she
had met her at the Papillon, a wretched public-house ball in the Rue
des Poissonniers, where men conquered her scruples for thirty sous. And
to think a thing like that got hold of important functionaries with her
modest looks! And to think she refused suppers to which one did her the
honor of inviting her because, forsooth, she was playing the virtuous
game! Oh yes, she’d get virtued! It was always those conceited prudes
who went the most fearful lengths in low corners nobody knew anything
about.

Revolving these matters, Nana at length reached her home in the Rue
Veron and was taken aback on observing a light in the window. Fontan
had come home in a sulk, for he, too, had been deserted by the friend
who had been dining with him. He listened coldly to her explanations
while she trembled lest he should strike her. It scared her to find him
at home, seeing that she had not expected him before one in the
morning, and she told him a fib and confessed that she had certainly
spent six francs, but in Mme Maloir’s society. He was not ruffled,
however, and he handed her a letter which, though addressed to her, he
had quietly opened. It was a letter from Georges, who was still a
prisoner at Les Fondettes and comforted himself weekly with the
composition of glowing pages. Nana loved to be written to, especially
when the letters were full of grand, loverlike expressions with a
sprinkling of vows. She used to read them to everybody. Fontan was
familiar with the style employed by Georges and appreciated it. But
that evening she was so afraid of a scene that she affected complete
indifference, skimming through the letter with a sulky expression and
flinging it aside as soon as read. Fontan had begun beating a tattoo on
a windowpane; the thought of going to bed so early bored him, and yet
he did not know how to employ his evening. He turned briskly round:

“Suppose we answer that young vagabond at once,” he said.

It was the custom for him to write the letters in reply. He was wont to
vie with the other in point of style. Then, too, he used to be
delighted when Nana, grown enthusiastic after the letter had been read
over aloud, would kiss him with the announcement that nobody but he
could “say things like that.” Thus their latent affections would be
stirred, and they would end with mutual adoration.

“As you will,” she replied. “I’ll make tea, and we’ll go to bed after.”

Thereupon Fontan installed himself at the table on which pen, ink and
paper were at the same time grandly displayed. He curved his arm; he
drew a long face.

“My heart’s own,” he began aloud.

And for more than an hour he applied himself to his task, polishing
here, weighing a phrase there, while he sat with his head between his
hands and laughed inwardly whenever he hit upon a peculiarly tender
expression. Nana had already consumed two cups of tea in silence, when
at last he read out the letter in the level voice and with the two or
three emphatic gestures peculiar to such performances on the stage. It
was five pages long, and he spoke therein of “the delicious hours
passed at La Mignotte, those hours of which the memory lingered like
subtle perfume.” He vowed “eternal fidelity to that springtide of love”
and ended by declaring that his sole wish was to “recommence that happy
time if, indeed, happiness can recommence.”

“I say that out of politeness, y’know,” he explained. “The moment it
becomes laughable—eh, what! I think she’s felt it, she has!”

He glowed with triumph. But Nana was unskillful; she still suspected an
outbreak and now was mistaken enough not to fling her arms round his
neck in a burst of admiration. She thought the letter a respectable
performance, nothing more. Thereupon he was much annoyed. If his letter
did not please her she might write another! And so instead of bursting
out in loverlike speeches and exchanging kisses, as their wont was,
they sat coldly facing one another at the table. Nevertheless, she
poured him out a cup of tea.

“Here’s a filthy mess,” he cried after dipping his lips in the mixture.
“You’ve put salt in it, you have!”

Nana was unlucky enough to shrug her shoulders, and at that he grew
furious.

“Aha! Things are taking a wrong turn tonight!”

And with that the quarrel began. It was only ten by the clock, and this
was a way of killing time. So he lashed himself into a rage and threw
in Nana’s teeth a whole string of insults and all kinds of accusations
which followed one another so closely that she had no time to defend
herself. She was dirty; she was stupid; she had knocked about in all
sorts of low places! After that he waxed frantic over the money
question. Did he spend six francs when he dined out? No, somebody was
treating him to a dinner; otherwise he would have eaten his ordinary
meal at home. And to think of spending them on that old procuress of a
Maloir, a jade he would chuck out of the house tomorrow! Yes, by jingo,
they would get into a nice mess if he and she were to go throwing six
francs out of the window every day!

“Now to begin with, I want your accounts,” he shouted. “Let’s see; hand
over the money! Now where do we stand?”

All his sordid avaricious instincts came to the surface. Nana was cowed
and scared, and she made haste to fetch their remaining cash out of the
desk and to bring it him. Up to that time the key had lain on this
common treasury, from which they had drawn as freely as they wished.

“How’s this?” he said when he had counted up the money. “There are
scarcely seven thousand francs remaining out of seventeen thousand, and
we’ve only been together three months. The thing’s impossible.”

He rushed forward, gave the desk a savage shake and brought the drawer
forward in order to ransack it in the light of the lamp. But it
actually contained only six thousand eight hundred and odd francs.
Thereupon the tempest burst forth.

“Ten thousand francs in three months!” he yelled. “By God! What have
you done with it all? Eh? Answer! It all goes to your jade of an aunt,
eh? Or you’re keeping men; that’s plain! Will you answer?”

“Oh well, if you must get in a rage!” said Nana. “Why, the
calculation’s easily made! You haven’t allowed for the furniture;
besides, I’ve had to buy linen. Money goes quickly when one’s settling
in a new place.”

But while requiring explanations he refused to listen to them.

“Yes, it goes a deal too quickly!” he rejoined more calmly. “And look
here, little girl, I’ve had enough of this mutual housekeeping. You
know those seven thousand francs are mine. Yes, and as I’ve got ’em, I
shall keep ’em! Hang it, the moment you become wasteful I get anxious
not to be ruined. To each man his own.”

And he pocketed the money in a lordly way while Nana gazed at him,
dumfounded. He continued speaking complaisantly:

“You must understand I’m not such a fool as to keep aunts and likewise
children who don’t belong to me. You were pleased to spend your own
money—well, that’s your affair! But my money—no, that’s sacred! When in
the future you cook a leg of mutton I’ll pay for half of it. We’ll
settle up tonight—there!”

Straightway Nana rebelled. She could not help shouting:

“Come, I say, it’s you who’ve run through my ten thousand francs. It’s
a dirty trick, I tell you!”

But he did not stop to discuss matters further, for he dealt her a
random box on the ear across the table, remarking as he did so:

“Let’s have that again!”

She let him have it again despite his blow. Whereupon he fell upon her
and kicked and cuffed her heartily. Soon he had reduced her to such a
state that she ended, as her wont was, by undressing and going to bed
in a flood of tears.

He was out of breath and was going to bed, in his turn, when he noticed
the letter he had written to Georges lying on the table. Whereupon he
folded it up carefully and, turning toward the bed, remarked in
threatening accents:

“It’s very well written, and I’m going to post it myself because I
don’t like women’s fancies. Now don’t go moaning any more; it puts my
teeth on edge.”

Nana, who was crying and gasping, thereupon held her breath. When he
was in bed she choked with emotion and threw herself upon his breast
with a wild burst of sobs. Their scuffles always ended thus, for she
trembled at the thought of losing him and, like a coward, wanted always
to feel that he belonged entirely to her, despite everything. Twice he
pushed her magnificently away, but the warm embrace of this woman who
was begging for mercy with great, tearful eyes, as some faithful brute
might do, finally aroused desire. And he became royally condescending
without, however, lowering his dignity before any of her advances. In
fact, he let himself be caressed and taken by force, as became a man
whose forgiveness is worth the trouble of winning. Then he was seized
with anxiety, fearing that Nana was playing a part with a view to
regaining possession of the treasury key. The light had been
extinguished when he felt it necessary to reaffirm his will and
pleasure.

“You must know, my girl, that this is really very serious and that I
keep the money.”

Nana, who was falling asleep with her arms round his neck, uttered a
sublime sentiment.

“Yes, you need fear nothing! I’ll work for both of us!”

But from that evening onward their life in common became more and more
difficult. From one week’s end to the other the noise of slaps filled
the air and resembled the ticking of a clock by which they regulated
their existence. Through dint of being much beaten Nana became as
pliable as fine linen; her skin grew delicate and pink and white and so
soft to the touch and clear to the view that she may be said to have
grown more good looking than ever. Prullière, moreover, began running
after her like a madman, coming in when Fontan was away and pushing her
into corners in order to snatch an embrace. But she used to struggle
out of his grasp, full of indignation and blushing with shame. It
disgusted her to think of him wanting to deceive a friend. Prullière
would thereupon begin sneering with a wrathful expression. Why, she was
growing jolly stupid nowadays! How could she take up with such an ape?
For, indeed, Fontan was a regular ape with that great swingeing nose of
his. Oh, he had an ugly mug! Besides, the man knocked her about too!

“It’s possible I like him as he is,” she one day made answer in the
quiet voice peculiar to a woman who confesses to an abominable taste.

Bosc contented himself by dining with them as often as possible. He
shrugged his shoulders behind Prullière’s back—a pretty fellow, to be
sure, but a frivolous! Bosc had on more than one occasion assisted at
domestic scenes, and at dessert, when Fontan slapped Nana, he went on
chewing solemnly, for the thing struck him as being quite in the course
of nature. In order to give some return for his dinner he used always
to go into ecstasies over their happiness. He declared himself a
philosopher who had given up everything, glory included. At times
Prullière and Fontan lolled back in their chairs, losing count of time
in front of the empty table, while with theatrical gestures and
intonation they discussed their former successes till two in the
morning. But he would sit by, lost in thought, finishing the brandy
bottle in silence and only occasionally emitting a little contemptuous
sniff. Where was Talma’s tradition? Nowhere. Very well, let them leave
him jolly well alone! It was too stupid to go on as they were doing!

One evening he found Nana in tears. She took off her dressing jacket in
order to show him her back and her arms, which were black and blue. He
looked at her skin without being tempted to abuse the opportunity, as
that ass of a Prullière would have been. Then, sententiously:

“My dear girl, where there are women there are sure to be ructions. It
was Napoleon who said that, I think. Wash yourself with salt water.
Salt water’s the very thing for those little knocks. Tut, tut, you’ll
get others as bad, but don’t complain so long as no bones are broken.
I’m inviting myself to dinner, you know; I’ve spotted a leg of mutton.”

But Mme Lerat had less philosophy. Every time Nana showed her a fresh
bruise on the white skin she screamed aloud. They were killing her
niece; things couldn’t go on as they were doing. As a matter of fact,
Fontan had turned Mme Lerat out of doors and had declared that he would
not have her at his house in the future, and ever since that day, when
he returned home and she happened to be there, she had to make off
through the kitchen, which was a horrible humiliation to her.
Accordingly she never ceased inveighing against that brutal individual.
She especially blamed his ill breeding, pursing up her lips, as she did
so, like a highly respectable lady whom nobody could possibly
remonstrate with on the subject of good manners.

“Oh, you notice it at once,” she used to tell Nana; “he hasn’t the
barest notion of the very smallest proprieties. His mother must have
been common! Don’t deny it—the thing’s obvious! I don’t speak on my own
account, though a person of my years has a right to respectful
treatment, but YOU—how do YOU manage to put up with his bad manners?
For though I don’t want to flatter myself, I’ve always taught you how
to behave, and among our own people you always enjoyed the best
possible advice. We were all very well bred in our family, weren’t we
now?”

Nana used never to protest but would listen with bowed head.

“Then, too,” continued the aunt, “you’ve only known perfect gentlemen
hitherto. We were talking of that very topic with Zoé at my place
yesterday evening. She can’t understand it any more than I can. ‘How is
it,’ she said, ‘that Madame, who used to have that perfect gentleman,
Monsieur le Comte, at her beck and call’—for between you and me, it
seems you drove him silly—‘how is it that Madame lets herself be made
into mincemeat by that clown of a fellow?’ I remarked at the time that
you might put up with the beatings but that I would never have allowed
him to be lacking in proper respect. In fact, there isn’t a word to be
said for him. I wouldn’t have his portrait in my room even! And you
ruin yourself for such a bird as that; yes, you ruin yourself, my
darling; you toil and you moil, when there are so many others and such
rich men, too, some of them even connected with the government! Ah
well, it’s not I who ought to be telling you this, of course! But all
the same, when next he tries any of his dirty tricks on I should cut
him short with a ‘Monsieur, what d’you take me for?’ You know how to
say it in that grand way of yours! It would downright cripple him.”

Thereupon Nana burst into sobs and stammered out:

“Oh, Aunt, I love him!”

The fact of the matter was that Mme Lerat was beginning to feel anxious
at the painful way her niece doled out the sparse, occasional francs
destined to pay for little Louis’s board and lodging. Doubtless she was
willing to make sacrifices and to keep the child by her whatever might
happen while waiting for more prosperous times, but the thought that
Fontan was preventing her and the brat and its mother from swimming in
a sea of gold made her so savage that she was ready to deny the very
existence of true love. Accordingly she ended up with the following
severe remarks:

“Now listen, some fine day when he’s taken the skin off your back,
you’ll come and knock at my door, and I’ll open it to you.”

Soon money began to engross Nana’s whole attention. Fontan had caused
the seven thousand francs to vanish away. Without doubt they were quite
safe; indeed, she would never have dared ask him questions about them,
for she was wont to be blushingly diffident with that bird, as Mme
Lerat called him. She trembled lest he should think her capable of
quarreling with him about halfpence. He had certainly promised to
subscribe toward their common household expenses, and in the early days
he had given out three francs every morning. But he was as exacting as
a boarder; he wanted everything for his three francs—butter, meat,
early fruit and early vegetables—and if she ventured to make an
observation, if she hinted that you could not have everything in the
market for three francs, he flew into a temper and treated her as a
useless, wasteful woman, a confounded donkey whom the tradespeople were
robbing. Moreover, he was always ready to threaten that he would take
lodgings somewhere else. At the end of a month on certain mornings he
had forgotten to deposit the three francs on the chest of drawers, and
she had ventured to ask for them in a timid, roundabout way. Whereupon
there had been such bitter disputes and he had seized every pretext to
render her life so miserable that she had found it best no longer to
count upon him. Whenever, however, he had omitted to leave behind the
three one-franc pieces and found a dinner awaiting him all the same, he
grew as merry as a sandboy, kissed Nana gallantly and waltzed with the
chairs. And she was so charmed by this conduct that she at length got
to hope that nothing would be found on the chest of drawers, despite
the difficulty she experienced in making both ends meet. One day she
even returned him his three francs, telling him a tale to the effect
that she still had yesterday’s money. As he had given her nothing then,
he hesitated for some moments, as though he dreaded a lecture. But she
gazed at him with her loving eyes and hugged him in such utter
self-surrender that he pocketed the money again with that little
convulsive twitch or the fingers peculiar to a miser when he regains
possession of that which has been well-nigh lost. From that day forth
he never troubled himself about money again or inquired whence it came.
But when there were potatoes on the table he looked intoxicated with
delight and would laugh and smack his lips before her turkeys and legs
of mutton, though of course this did not prevent his dealing Nana
sundry sharp smacks, as though to keep his hand in amid all his
happiness.

Nana had indeed found means to provide for all needs, and the place on
certain days overflowed with good things. Twice a week, regularly, Bosc
had indigestion. One evening as Mme Lerat was withdrawing from the
scene in high dudgeon because she had noticed a copious dinner she was
not destined to eat in process of preparation, she could not prevent
herself asking brutally who paid for it all. Nana was taken by
surprise; she grew foolish and began crying.

“Ah, that’s a pretty business,” said the aunt, who had divined her
meaning.

Nana had resigned herself to it for the sake of enjoying peace in her
own home. Then, too, the Tricon was to blame. She had come across her
in the Rue de Laval one fine day when Fontan had gone out raging about
a dish of cod. She had accordingly consented to the proposals made her
by the Tricon, who happened just then to be in difficulty. As Fontan
never came in before six o’clock, she made arrangements for her
afternoons and used to bring back forty francs, sixty francs, sometimes
more. She might have made it a matter of ten and fifteen louis had she
been able to maintain her former position, but as matters stood she was
very glad thus to earn enough to keep the pot boiling. At night she
used to forget all her sorrows when Bosc sat there bursting with dinner
and Fontan leaned on his elbows and with an expression of lofty
superiority becoming a man who is loved for his own sake allowed her to
kiss him on the eyelids.

In due course Nana’s very adoration of her darling, her dear old duck,
which was all the more passionately blind, seeing that now she paid for
everything, plunged her back into the muddiest depths of her calling.
She roamed the streets and loitered on the pavement in quest of a
five-franc piece, just as when she was a slipshod baggage years ago.
One Sunday at La Rochefoucauld Market she had made her peace with Satin
after having flown at her with furious reproaches about Mme Robert. But
Satin had been content to answer that when one didn’t like a thing
there was no reason why one should want to disgust others with it. And
Nana, who was by way of being wide-minded, had accepted the philosophic
view that you never can tell where your tastes will lead you and had
forgiven her. Her curiosity was even excited, and she began questioning
her about obscure vices and was astounded to be adding to her
information at her time of life and with her knowledge. She burst out
laughing and gave vent to various expressions of surprise. It struck
her as so queer, and yet she was a little shocked by it, for she was
really quite the philistine outside the pale of her own habits. So she
went back to Laure’s and fed there when Fontan was dining out. She
derived much amusement from the stories and the amours and the
jealousies which inflamed the female customers without hindering their
appetites in the slightest degree. Nevertheless, she still was not
quite in it, as she herself phrased it. The vast Laure, meltingly
maternal as ever, used often to invite her to pass a day or two at her
Asnièries Villa, a country house containing seven spare bedrooms. But
she used to refuse; she was afraid. Satin, however, swore she was
mistaken about it, that gentlemen from Paris swung you in swings and
played tonneau with you, and so she promised to come at some future
time when it would be possible for her to leave town.

At that time Nana was much tormented by circumstances and not at all
festively inclined. She needed money, and when the Tricon did not want
her, which too often happened, she had no notion where to bestow her
charms. Then began a series of wild descents upon the Parisian
pavement, plunges into the baser sort of vice, whose votaries prowl in
muddy bystreets under the restless flicker of gas lamps. Nana went back
to the public-house balls in the suburbs, where she had kicked up her
heels in the early ill-shod days. She revisited the dark corners on the
outer boulevards, where when she was fifteen years old men used to hug
her while her father was looking for her in order to give her a hiding.
Both the women would speed along, visiting all the ballrooms and
restaurants in a quarter and climbing innumerable staircases which were
wet with spittle and spilled beer, or they would stroll quietly about,
going up streets and planting themselves in front of carriage gates.
Satin, who had served her apprenticeship in the Quartier Latin, used to
take Nana to Bullier’s and the public houses in the Boulevard
Saint-Michel. But the vacations were drawing on, and the Quarter looked
too starved. Eventually they always returned to the principal
boulevards, for it was there they ran the best chance of getting what
they wanted. From the heights of Montmartre to the observatory plateau
they scoured the whole town in the way we have been describing. They
were out on rainy evenings, when their boots got worn down, and on hot
evenings, when their linen clung to their skins. There were long
periods of waiting and endless periods of walking; there were jostlings
and disputes and the nameless, brutal caresses of the stray passer-by
who was taken by them to some miserable furnished room and came
swearing down the greasy stairs afterward.

The summer was drawing to a close, a stormy summer of burning nights.
The pair used to start out together after dinner, toward nine o’clock.
On the pavements of the Rue Notre Dame de la Lorette two long files of
women scudded along with tucked-up skirts and bent heads, keeping close
to the shops but never once glancing at the displays in the shopwindows
as they hurried busily down toward the boulevards. This was the hungry
exodus from the Quartier Breda which took place nightly when the street
lamps had just been lit. Nana and Satin used to skirt the church and
then march off along the Rue le Peletier. When they were some hundred
yards from the Café Riche and had fairly reached their scene of
operations they would shake out the skirts of their dresses, which up
till that moment they had been holding carefully up, and begin sweeping
the pavements, regardless of dust. With much swaying of the hips they
strolled delicately along, slackening their pace when they crossed the
bright light thrown from one of the great cafes. With shoulders thrown
back, shrill and noisy laughter and many backward glances at the men
who turned to look at them, they marched about and were completely in
their element. In the shadow of night their artificially whitened
faces, their rouged lips and their darkened eyelids became as charming
and suggestive as if the inmates of a make-believe trumpery oriental
bazaar had been sent forth into the open street. Till eleven at night
they sauntered gaily along among the rudely jostling crowds, contenting
themselves with an occasional “dirty ass!” hurled after the clumsy
people whose boot heels had torn a flounce or two from their dresses.
Little familiar salutations would pass between them and the cafe
waiters, and at times they would stop and chat in front of a small
table and accept of drinks, which they consumed with much deliberation,
as became people not sorry to sit down for a bit while waiting for the
theaters to empty. But as night advanced, if they had not made one or
two trips in the direction of the Rue la Rochefoucauld, they became
abject strumpets, and their hunt for men grew more ferocious than ever.
Beneath the trees in the darkening and fast-emptying boulevards fierce
bargainings took place, accompanied by oaths and blows. Respectable
family parties—fathers, mothers and daughters—who were used to such
scenes, would pass quietly by the while without quickening their pace.
Afterward, when they had walked from the opera to the GYMNASE some
half-score times and in the deepening night men were rapidly dropping
off homeward for good and all, Nana and Satin kept to the sidewalk in
the Rue du Faubourg Montmartre. There up till two o’clock in the
morning restaurants, bars and ham-and-beef shops were brightly lit up,
while a noisy mob of women hung obstinately round the doors of the
cafes. This suburb was the only corner of night Paris which was still
alight and still alive, the only market still open to nocturnal
bargains. These last were openly struck between group and group and
from one end of the street to the other, just as in the wide and open
corridor of a disorderly house. On such evenings as the pair came home
without having had any success they used to wrangle together. The Rue
Notre Dame de la Lorette stretched dark and deserted in front of them.
Here and there the crawling shadow of a woman was discernible, for the
Quarter was going home and going home late, and poor creatures,
exasperated at a night of fruitless loitering, were unwilling to give
up the chase and would still stand, disputing in hoarse voices with any
strayed reveler they could catch at the corner of the Rue Breda or the
Rue Fontaine.

Nevertheless, some windfalls came in their way now and then in the
shape of louis picked up in the society of elegant gentlemen, who
slipped their decorations into their pockets as they went upstairs with
them. Satin had an especially keen scent for these. On rainy evenings,
when the dripping city exhaled an unpleasant odor suggestive of a great
untidy bed, she knew that the soft weather and the fetid reek of the
town’s holes and corners were sure to send the men mad. And so she
watched the best dressed among them, for she knew by their pale eyes
what their state was. On such nights it was as though a fit of fleshly
madness were passing over Paris. The girl was rather nervous certainly,
for the most modish gentlemen were always the most obscene. All the
varnish would crack off a man, and the brute beast would show itself,
exacting, monstrous in lust, a past master in corruption. But besides
being nervous, that trollop of a Satin was lacking in respect. She
would blurt out awful things in front of dignified gentlemen in
carriages and assure them that their coachmen were better bred than
they because they behaved respectfully toward the women and did not
half kill them with their diabolical tricks and suggestions. The way in
which smart people sprawled head over heels into all the cesspools of
vice still caused Nana some surprise, for she had a few prejudices
remaining, though Satin was rapidly destroying them.

“Well then,” she used to say when talking seriously about the matter,
“there’s no such thing as virtue left, is there?”

From one end of the social ladder to the other everybody was on the
loose! Good gracious! Some nice things ought to be going on in Paris
between nine o’clock in the evening and three in the morning! And with
that she began making very merry and declaring that if one could only
have looked into every room one would have seen some funny sights—the
little people going it head over ears and a good lot of swells, too,
playing the swine rather harder than the rest. Oh, she was finishing
her education!

One evening when she came to call for Satin she recognized the Marquis
de Chouard. He was coming downstairs with quaking legs; his face was
ashen white, and he leaned heavily on the banisters. She pretended to
be blowing her nose. Upstairs she found Satin amid indescribable filth.
No household work had been done for a week; her bed was disgusting, and
ewers and basins were standing about in all directions. Nana expressed
surprise at her knowing the marquis. Oh yes, she knew him! He had jolly
well bored her confectioner and her when they were together. At present
he used to come back now and then, but he nearly bothered her life out,
going sniffing into all the dirty corners—yes, even into her slippers!

“Yes, dear girl, my slippers! Oh, he’s the dirtiest old beast, always
wanting one to do things!”

The sincerity of these low debauches rendered Nana especially uneasy.
Seeing the courtesans around her slowly dying of it every day, she
recalled to mind the comedy of pleasure she had taken part in when she
was in the heyday of success. Moreover, Satin inspired her with an
awful fear of the police. She was full of anecdotes about them.
Formerly she had been the mistress of a plain-clothes man, had
consented to this in order to be left in peace, and on two occasions he
had prevented her from being put “on the lists.” But at present she was
in a great fright, for if she were to be nabbed again there was a clear
case against her. You had only to listen to her! For the sake of
perquisites the police used to take up as many women as possible. They
laid hold of everybody and quieted you with a slap if you shouted, for
they were sure of being defended in their actions and rewarded, even
when they had taken a virtuous girl among the rest. In the summer they
would swoop upon the boulevard in parties of twelve or fifteen,
surround a whole long reach of sidewalk and fish up as many as thirty
women in an evening. Satin, however, knew the likely places, and the
moment she saw a plain-clothes man heaving in sight she took to her
heels, while the long lines of women on the pavements scattered in
consternation and fled through the surrounding crowd. The dread of the
law and of the magistracy was such that certain women would stand as
though paralyzed in the doorways of the cafes while the raid was
sweeping the avenue without. But Satin was even more afraid of being
denounced, for her pastry cook had proved blackguard enough to threaten
to sell her when she had left him. Yes, that was a fake by which men
lived on their mistresses! Then, too, there were the dirty women who
delivered you up out of sheer treachery if you were prettier than they!
Nana listened to these recitals and felt her terrors growing upon her.
She had always trembled before the law, that unknown power, that form
of revenge practiced by men able and willing to crush her in the
certain absence of all defenders. Saint-Lazare she pictured as a grave,
a dark hole, in which they buried live women after they had cut off
their hair. She admitted that it was only necessary to leave Fontan and
seek powerful protectors. But as matters stood it was in vain that
Satin talked to her of certain lists of women’s names, which it was the
duty of the plainclothes men to consult, and of certain photographs
accompanying the lists, the originals of which were on no account to be
touched. The reassurance did not make her tremble the less, and she
still saw herself hustled and dragged along and finally subjected to
the official medical inspection. The thought of the official armchair
filled her with shame and anguish, for had she not bade it defiance a
score of times?

Now it so happened that one evening toward the close of September, as
she was walking with Satin in the Boulevard Poissonnière, the latter
suddenly began tearing along at a terrible pace. And when Nana asked
her what she meant thereby:

“It’s the plain-clothes men!” whispered Satin. “Off with you! Off with
you!” A wild stampede took place amid the surging crowd. Skirts
streamed out behind and were torn. There were blows and shrieks. A
woman fell down. The crowd of bystanders stood hilariously watching
this rough police raid while the plain-clothes men rapidly narrowed
their circle. Meanwhile Nana had lost Satin. Her legs were failing her,
and she would have been taken up for a certainty had not a man caught
her by the arm and led her away in front of the angry police. It was
Prullière, and he had just recognized her. Without saying a word he
turned down the Rue Rougemont with her. It was just then quite
deserted, and she was able to regain breath there, but at first her
faintness and exhaustion were such that he had to support her. She did
not even thank him.

“Look here,” he said, “you must recover a bit. Come up to my rooms.”

He lodged in the Rue Bergère close by. But she straightened herself up
at once.

“No, I don’t want to.”

Thereupon he waxed coarse and rejoined:

“Why don’t you want to, eh? Why, everybody visits my rooms.”

“Because I don’t.”

In her opinion that explained everything. She was too fond of Fontan to
betray him with one of his friends. The other people ceased to count
the moment there was no pleasure in the business, and necessity
compelled her to it. In view of her idiotic obstinacy Prullière, as
became a pretty fellow whose vanity had been wounded, did a cowardly
thing.

“Very well, do as you like!” he cried. “Only I don’t side with you, my
dear. You must get out of the scrape by yourself.”

And with that he left her. Terrors got hold of her again, and scurrying
past shops and turning white whenever a man drew nigh, she fetched an
immense compass before reaching Montmartre.

On the morrow, while still suffering from the shock of last night’s
terrors, Nana went to her aunt’s and at the foot of a small empty
street in the Batignolles found herself face to face with Labordette.
At first they both appeared embarrassed, for with his usual
complaisance he was busy on a secret errand. Nevertheless, he was the
first to regain his self-possession and to announce himself fortunate
in meeting her. Yes, certainly, everybody was still wondering at Nana’s
total eclipse. People were asking for her, and old friends were pining.
And with that he grew quite paternal and ended by sermonizing.

“Frankly speaking, between you and me, my dear, the thing’s getting
stupid. One can understand a mash, but to go to that extent, to be
trampled on like that and to get nothing but knocks! Are you playing up
for the ‘Virtue Prizes’ then?”

She listened to him with an embarrassed expression. But when he told
her about Rose, who was triumphantly enjoying her conquest of Count
Muffat, a flame came into her eyes.

“Oh, if I wanted to—” she muttered.

As became an obliging friend, he at once offered to act as intercessor.
But she refused his help, and he thereupon attacked her in an opposite
quarter.

He informed her that Bordenave was busy mounting a play of Fauchery’s
containing a splendid part for her.

“What, a play with a part!” she cried in amazement. “But he’s in it and
he’s told me nothing about it!”

She did not mention Fontan by name. However, she grew calm again
directly and declared that she would never go on the stage again.
Labordette doubtless remained unconvinced, for he continued with
smiling insistence.

“You know, you need fear nothing with me. I get your Muffat ready for
you, and you go on the stage again, and I bring him to you like a
little dog!”

“No!” she cried decisively.

And she left him. Her heroic conduct made her tenderly pitiful toward
herself. No blackguard of a man would ever have sacrificed himself like
that without trumpeting the fact abroad. Nevertheless, she was struck
by one thing: Labordette had given her exactly the same advice as
Francis had given her. That evening when Fontan came home she
questioned him about Fauchery’s piece. The former had been back at the
Variétés for two months past. Why then had he not told her about the
part?

“What part?” he said in his ill-humored tone. “The grand lady’s part,
maybe? The deuce, you believe you’ve got talent then! Why, such a part
would utterly do for you, my girl! You’re meant for comic
business—there’s no denying it!”

She was dreadfully wounded. All that evening he kept chaffing her,
calling her Mlle Mars. But the harder he hit the more bravely she
suffered, for she derived a certain bitter satisfaction from this
heroic devotion of hers, which rendered her very great and very loving
in her own eyes. Ever since she had gone with other men in order to
supply his wants her love for him had increased, and the fatigues and
disgusts encountered outside only added to the flame. He was fast
becoming a sort of pet vice for which she paid, a necessity of
existence it was impossible to do without, seeing that blows only
stimulated her desires. He, on his part, seeing what a good tame thing
she had become, ended by abusing his privileges. She was getting on his
nerves, and he began to conceive so fierce a loathing for her that he
forgot to keep count of his real interests. When Bosc made his
customary remarks to him he cried out in exasperation, for which there
was no apparent cause, that he had had enough of her and of her good
dinners and that he would shortly chuck her out of doors if only for
the sake of making another woman a present of his seven thousand
francs. Indeed, that was how their liaison ended.

One evening Nana came in toward eleven o’clock and found the door
bolted. She tapped once—there was no answer; twice—still no answer.
Meanwhile she saw light under the door, and Fontan inside did not
trouble to move. She rapped again unwearyingly; she called him and
began to get annoyed. At length Fontan’s voice became audible; he spoke
slowly and rather unctuously and uttered but this one word.

“MERDE!”

She beat on the door with her fists.

“MERDE!”

She banged hard enough to smash in the woodwork.

“MERDE!”

And for upward of a quarter of an hour the same foul expression
buffeted her, answering like a jeering echo to every blow wherewith she
shook the door. At length, seeing that she was not growing tired, he
opened sharply, planted himself on the threshold, folded his arms and
said in the same cold, brutal voice:

“By God, have you done yet? What d’you want? Are you going to let us
sleep in peace, eh? You can quite see I’ve got company tonight.”

He was certainly not alone, for Nana perceived the little woman from
the Bouffes with the untidy tow hair and the gimlet-hole eyes, standing
enjoying herself in her shift among the furniture she had paid for. But
Fontan stepped out on the landing. He looked terrible, and he spread
out and crooked his great fingers as if they were pincers.

“Hook it or I’ll strangle you!”

Whereupon Nana burst into a nervous fit of sobbing. She was frightened
and she made off. This time it was she that was being kicked out of
doors. And in her fury the thought of Muffat suddenly occurred to her.
Ah, to be sure, Fontan, of all men, ought never to have done her such a
turn!

When she was out in the street her first thought was to go and sleep
with Satin, provided the girl had no one with her. She met her in front
of her house, for she, too, had been turned out of doors by her
landlord. He had just had a padlock affixed to her door—quite
illegally, of course, seeing that she had her own furniture. She swore
and talked of having him up before the commissary of police. In the
meantime, as midnight was striking, they had to begin thinking of
finding a bed. And Satin, deeming it unwise to let the plain-clothes
men into her secrets, ended by taking Nana to a woman who kept a little
hotel in the Rue de Laval. Here they were assigned a narrow room on the
first floor, the window of which opened on the courtyard. Satin
remarked:

“I should gladly have gone to Mme Robert’s. There’s always a corner
there for me. But with you it’s out of the question. She’s getting
absurdly jealous; she beat me the other night.”

When they had shut themselves in, Nana, who had not yet relieved her
feelings, burst into tears and again and again recounted Fontan’s dirty
behavior. Satin listened complaisantly, comforted her, grew even more
angry than she in denunciation of the male sex.

“Oh, the pigs, the pigs! Look here, we’ll have nothing more to do with
them!”

Then she helped Nana to undress with all the small, busy attentions,
becoming a humble little friend. She kept saying coaxingly:

“Let’s go to bed as fast as we can, pet. We shall be better off there!
Oh, how silly you are to get crusty about things! I tell you, they’re
dirty brutes. Don’t think any more about ’em. I—I love you very much.
Don’t cry, and oblige your own little darling girl.”

And once in bed, she forthwith took Nana in her arms and soothed and
comforted her. She refused to hear Fontan’s name mentioned again, and
each time it recurred to her friend’s lips she stopped it with a kiss.
Her lips pouted in pretty indignation; her hair lay loose about her,
and her face glowed with tenderness and childlike beauty. Little by
little her soft embrace compelled Nana to dry her tears. She was
touched and replied to Satin’s caresses. When two o’clock struck the
candle was still burning, and a sound of soft, smothered laughter and
lovers’ talk was audible in the room.

But suddenly a loud noise came up from the lower floors of the hotel,
and Satin, with next to nothing on, got up and listened intently.

“The police!” she said, growing very pale.

“Oh, blast our bad luck! We’re bloody well done for!”

Often had she told stories about the raids on hotel made by the
plainclothes men. But that particular night neither of them had
suspected anything when they took shelter in the Rue de Laval. At the
sound of the word “police” Nana lost her head. She jumped out of bed
and ran across the room with the scared look of a madwoman about to
jump out of the window. Luckily, however, the little courtyard was
roofed with glass, which was covered with an iron-wire grating at the
level of the girls’ bedroom. At sight of this she ceased to hesitate;
she stepped over the window prop, and with her chemise flying and her
legs bared to the night air she vanished in the gloom.

“Stop! Stop!” said Satin in a great fright. “You’ll kill yourself.”

Then as they began hammering at the door, she shut the window like a
good-natured girl and threw her friend’s clothes down into a cupboard.
She was already resigned to her fate and comforted herself with the
thought that, after all, if she were to be put on the official list she
would no longer be so “beastly frightened” as of yore. So she pretended
to be heavy with sleep. She yawned; she palavered and ended by opening
the door to a tall, burly fellow with an unkempt beard, who said to
her:

“Show your hands! You’ve got no needle pricks on them: you don’t work.
Now then, dress!”

“But I’m not a dressmaker; I’m a burnisher,” Satin brazenly declared.

Nevertheless, she dressed with much docility, knowing that argument was
out of the question. Cries were ringing through the hotel; a girl was
clinging to doorposts and refusing to budge an inch. Another girl, in
bed with a lover, who was answering for her legality, was acting the
honest woman who had been grossly insulted and spoke of bringing an
action against the prefect of police. For close on an hour there was a
noise of heavy shoes on the stairs, of fists hammering on doors, of
shrill disputes terminating in sobs, of petticoats rustling along the
walls, of all the sounds, in fact, attendant on the sudden awakening
and scared departure of a flock of women as they were roughly packed
off by three plain-clothes men, headed by a little oily-mannered,
fair-haired commissary of police. After they had gone the hotel
relapsed into deep silence.

Nobody had betrayed her; Nana was saved. Shivering and half dead with
fear, she came groping back into the room. Her bare feet were cut and
bleeding, for they had been torn by the grating. For a long while she
remained sitting on the edge of the bed, listening and listening.
Toward morning, however, she went to sleep again, and at eight o’clock,
when she woke up, she escaped from the hotel and ran to her aunt’s.
When Mme Lerat, who happened just then to be drinking her morning
coffee with Zoé, beheld her bedraggled plight and haggard face, she
took note of the hour and at once understood the state of the case.

“It’s come to it, eh?” she cried. “I certainly told you that he would
take the skin off your back one of these days. Well, well, come in;
you’ll always find a kind welcome here.”

Zoé had risen from her chair and was muttering with respectful
familiarity:

“Madame is restored to us at last. I was waiting for Madame.”

But Mme Lerat insisted on Nana’s going and kissing Louiset at once,
because, she said, the child took delight in his mother’s nice ways.
Louiset, a sickly child with poor blood, was still asleep, and when
Nana bent over his white, scrofulous face, the memory of all she had
undergone during the last few months brought a choking lump into her
throat.

“Oh, my poor little one, my poor little one!” she gasped, bursting into
a final fit of sobbing.




 CHAPTER IX


The Petite Duchesse was being rehearsed at the Variétés. The first act
had just been carefully gone through, and the second was about to
begin. Seated in old armchairs in front of the stage, Fauchery and
Bordenave were discussing various points while the prompter, Father
Cossard, a little humpbacked man perched on a straw-bottomed chair, was
turning over the pages of the manuscript, a pencil between his lips.

“Well, what are they waiting for?” cried Bordenave on a sudden, tapping
the floor savagely with his heavy cane. “Barillot, why don’t they
begin?”

“It’s Monsieur Bosc that has disappeared,” replied Barillot, who was
acting as second stage manager.’

Then there arose a tempest, and everybody shouted for Bosc while
Bordenave swore.

“Always the same thing, by God! It’s all very well ringing for ’em:
they’re always where they’ve no business to be. And then they grumble
when they’re kept till after four o’clock.”

But Bosc just then came in with supreme tranquillity.

“Eh? What? What do they want me for? Oh, it’s my turn! You ought to
have said so. All right! Simonne gives the cue: ‘Here are the guests,’
and I come in. Which way must I come in?”

“Through the door, of course,” cried Fauchery in great exasperation.

“Yes, but where is the door?”

At this Bordenave fell upon Barillot and once more set to work swearing
and hammering the boards with his cane.

“By God! I said a chair was to be put there to stand for the door, and
every day we have to get it done again. Barillot! Where’s Barillot?
Another of ’em! Why, they’re all going!”

Nevertheless, Barillot came and planted the chair down in person,
mutely weathering the storm as he did so. And the rehearsal began
again. Simonne, in her hat and furs, began moving about like a
maidservant busy arranging furniture. She paused to say:

“I’m not warm, you know, so I keep my hands in my muff.”

Then changing her voice, she greeted Bosc with a little cry:

“La, it’s Monsieur le Comte. You’re the first to come, Monsieur le
Comte, and Madame will be delighted.”

Bosc had muddy trousers and a huge yellow overcoat, round the collar of
which a tremendous comforter was wound. On his head he wore an old hat,
and he kept his hands in his pockets. He did not act but dragged
himself along, remarking in a hollow voice:

“Don’t disturb your mistress, Isabelle; I want to take her by
surprise.”

The rehearsal took its course. Bordenave knitted his brows. He had
slipped down low in his armchair and was listening with an air of
fatigue. Fauchery was nervous and kept shifting about in his seat.
Every few minutes he itched with the desire to interrupt, but he
restrained himself. He heard a whispering in the dark and empty house
behind him.

“Is she there?” he asked, leaning over toward Bordenave.

The latter nodded affirmatively. Before accepting the part of
Geraldine, which he was offering her, Nana had been anxious to see the
piece, for she hesitated to play a courtesan’s part a second time. She,
in fact, aspired to an honest woman’s part. Accordingly she was hiding
in the shadows of a corner box in company with Labordette, who was
managing matters for her with Bordenave. Fauchery glanced in her
direction and then once more set himself to follow the rehearsal.

Only the front of the stage was lit up. A flaring gas burner on a
support, which was fed by a pipe from the footlights, burned in front
of a reflector and cast its full brightness over the immediate
foreground. It looked like a big yellow eye glaring through the
surrounding semiobscurity, where it flamed in a doubtful, melancholy
way. Cossard was holding up his manuscript against the slender stem of
this arrangement. He wanted to see more clearly, and in the flood of
light his hump was sharply outlined. As to Bordenave and Fauchery, they
were already drowned in shadow. It was only in the heart of this
enormous structure, on a few square yards of stage, that a faint glow
suggested the light cast by some lantern nailed up in a railway
station. It made the actors look like eccentric phantoms and set their
shadows dancing after them. The remainder of the stage was full of mist
and suggested a house in process of being pulled down, a church nave in
utter ruin. It was littered with ladders, with set pieces and with
scenery, of which the faded painting suggested heaped-up rubbish.
Hanging high in air, the scenes had the appearance of great ragged
clouts suspended from the rafters of some vast old-clothes shop, while
above these again a ray of bright sunlight fell from a window and clove
the shadow round the flies with a bar of gold.

Meanwhile actors were chatting at the back of the stage while awaiting
their cues. Little by little they had raised their voices.

“Confound it, will you be silent?” howled Bordenave, raging up and down
in his chair. “I can’t hear a word. Go outside if you want to talk; WE
are at work. Barillot, if there’s any more talking I clap on fines all
round!”

They were silent for a second or two. They were sitting in a little
group on a bench and some rustic chairs in the corner of a scenic
garden, which was standing ready to be put in position as it would be
used in the opening act the same evening. In the middle of this group
Fontan and Prullière were listening to Rose Mignon, to whom the manager
of the Folies-Dramatique Theatre had been making magnificent offers.
But a voice was heard shouting:

“The duchess! Saint-Firmin! The duchess and Saint-Firmin are wanted!”

Only when the call was repeated did Prullière remember that he was
Saint-Firmin! Rose, who was playing the Duchess Helene, was already
waiting to go on with him while old Bosc slowly returned to his seat,
dragging one foot after the other over the sonorous and deserted
boards. Clarisse offered him a place on the bench beside her.

“What’s he bawling like that for?” she said in allusion to Bordenave.
“Things will be getting rosy soon! A piece can’t be put on nowadays
without its getting on his nerves.”

Bosc shrugged his shoulders; he was above such storms. Fontan
whispered:

“He’s afraid of a fiasco. The piece strikes me as idiotic.”

Then he turned to Clarisse and again referred to what Rose had been
telling them:

“D’you believe in the offers of the Folies people, eh? Three hundred
francs an evening for a hundred nights! Why not a country house into
the bargain? If his wife were to be given three hundred francs Mignon
would chuck my friend Bordenave and do it jolly sharp too!”

Clarisse was a believer in the three hundred francs. That man Fontan
was always picking holes in his friends’ successes! Just then Simonne
interrupted her. She was shivering with cold. Indeed, they were all
buttoned up to the ears and had comforters on, and they looked up at
the ray of sunlight which shone brightly above them but did not
penetrate the cold gloom of the theater. In the streets outside there
was a frost under a November sky.

“And there’s no fire in the greenroom!” said Simonne. “It’s disgusting;
he IS just becoming a skinflint! I want to be off; I don’t want to get
seedy.”

“Silence, I say!” Bordenave once more thundered.

Then for a minute or so a confused murmur alone was audible as the
actors went on repeating their parts. There was scarcely any
appropriate action, and they spoke in even tones so as not to tire
themselves. Nevertheless, when they did emphasize a particular shade of
meaning they cast a glance at the house, which lay before them like a
yawning gulf. It was suffused with vague, ambient shadow, which
resembled the fine dust floating pent in some high, windowless loft.
The deserted house, whose sole illumination was the twilight radiance
of the stage, seemed to slumber in melancholy and mysterious
effacement. Near the ceiling dense night smothered the frescoes, while
from the several tiers of stage boxes on either hand huge widths of
gray canvas stretched down to protect the neighboring hangings. In
fact, there was no end to these coverings; bands of canvas had been
thrown over the velvet-covered ledges in front of the various galleries
which they shrouded thickly. Their pale hue stained the surrounding
shadows, and of the general decorations of the house only the dark
recesses of the boxes were distinguishable. These served to outline the
framework of the several stories, where the seats were so many stains
of red velvet turned black. The chandelier had been let down as far as
it would go, and it so filled the region of the stalls with its
pendants as to suggest a flitting and to set one thinking that the
public had started on a journey from which they would never return.

Just about then Rose, as the little duchess who has been misled into
the society of a courtesan, came to the footlights, lifted up her hands
and pouted adorably at the dark and empty theater, which was as sad as
a house of mourning.

“Good heavens, what queer people!” she said, emphasizing the phrase and
confident that it would have its effect.

Far back in the corner box in which she was hiding Nana sat enveloped
in a great shawl. She was listening to the play and devouring Rose with
her eyes. Turning toward Labordette, she asked him in a low tone:

“You are sure he’ll come?”

“Quite sure. Without doubt he’ll come with Mignon, so as to have an
excuse for coming. As soon as he makes his appearance you’ll go up into
Mathilde’s dressing room, and I’ll bring him to you there.”

They were talking of Count Muffat. Labordette had arranged this
interview with him on neutral ground. He had had a serious talk with
Bordenave, whose affairs had been gravely damaged by two successive
failures. Accordingly Bordenave had hastened to lend him his theater
and to offer Nana a part, for he was anxious to win the count’s favor
and hoped to be able to borrow from him.

“And this part of Geraldine, what d’you thing of it?” continued
Labordette.

But Nana sat motionless and vouchsafed no reply. After the first act,
in which the author showed how the Duc de Beaurivage played his wife
false with the blonde Geraldine, a comic-opera celebrity, the second
act witnessed the Duchess Helene’s arrival at the house of the actress
on the occasion of a masked ball being given by the latter. The duchess
has come to find out by what magical process ladies of that sort
conquer and retain their husbands’ affections. A cousin, the handsome
Oscar de Saint-Firmin, introduces her and hopes to be able to debauch
her. And her first lesson causes her great surprise, for she hears
Geraldine swearing like a hodman at the duke, who suffers with most
ecstatic submissiveness. The episode causes her to cry out, “Dear me,
if that’s the way one ought to talk to the men!” Geraldine had scarce
any other scene in the act save this one. As to the duchess, she is
very soon punished for her curiosity, for an old buck, the Baron de
Tardiveau, takes her for a courtesan and becomes very gallant, while on
her other side Beaurivage sits on a lounging chair and makes his peace
with Geraldine by dint of kisses and caresses. As this last lady’s part
had not yet been assigned to anyone, Father Cossard had got up to read
it, and he was now figuring away in Bosc’s arms and emphasizing it
despite himself. At this point, while the rehearsal was dragging
monotonously on, Fauchery suddenly jumped from his chair. He had
restrained himself up to that moment, but now his nerves got the better
of him.

“That’s not it!” he cried.

The actors paused awkwardly enough while Fontan sneered and asked in
his most contemptuous voice:

“Eh? What’s not it? Who’s not doing it right?”

“Nobody is! You’re quite wrong, quite wrong!” continued Fauchery, and,
gesticulating wildly, he came striding over the stage and began himself
to act the scene.

“Now look here, you Fontan, do please comprehend the way Tardiveau gets
packed off. You must lean forward like this in order to catch hold of
the duchess. And then you, Rose, must change your position like that
but not too soon—only when you hear the kiss.”

He broke off and in the heat of explanation shouted to Cossard:

“Geraldine, give the kiss! Loudly, so that it may be heard!”

Father Cossard turned toward Bosc and smacked his lips vigorously.

“Good! That’s the kiss,” said Fauchery triumphantly. “Once more; let’s
have it once more. Now you see, Rose, I’ve had time to move, and then I
give a little cry—so: ‘Oh, she’s given him a kiss.’ But before I do
that, Tardiveau must go up the stage. D’you hear, Fontan? You go up.
Come, let’s try it again, all together.”

The actors continued the scene again, but Fontan played his part with
such an ill grace that they made no sort of progress. Twice Fauchery
had to repeat his explanation, each time acting it out with more warmth
than before. The actors listened to him with melancholy faces, gazed
momentarily at one another, as though he had asked them to walk on
their heads, and then awkwardly essayed the passage, only to pull up
short directly afterward, looking as stiff as puppets whose strings
have just been snapped.

“No, it beats me; I can’t understand it,” said Fontan at length,
speaking in the insolent manner peculiar to him.

Bordenave had never once opened his lips. He had slipped quite down in
his armchair, so that only the top of his hat was now visible in the
doubtful flicker of the gaslight on the stand. His cane had fallen from
his grasp and lay slantwise across his waistcoat. Indeed, he seemed to
be asleep. But suddenly he sat bolt upright.

“It’s idiotic, my boy,” he announced quietly to Fauchery.

“What d’you mean, idiotic?” cried the author, growing very pale. “It’s
you that are the idiot, my dear boy!”

Bordenave began to get angry at once. He repeated the word “idiotic”
and, seeking a more forcible expression, hit upon “imbecile” and
“damned foolish.” The public would hiss, and the act would never be
finished! And when Fauchery, without, indeed, being very deeply wounded
by these big phrases, which always recurred when a new piece was being
put on, grew savage and called the other a brute, Bordenave went beyond
all bounds, brandished his cane in the air, snorted like a bull and
shouted:

“Good God! Why the hell can’t you shut up? We’ve lost a quarter of an
hour over this folly. Yes, folly! There’s no sense in it. And it’s so
simple, after all’s said and done! You, Fontan, mustn’t move. You,
Rose, must make your little movement, just that, no more; d’ye see? And
then you come down. Now then, let’s get it done this journey. Give the
kiss, Cossard.”

Then ensued confusion. The scene went no better than before. Bordenave,
in his turn, showed them how to act it about as gracefully as an
elephant might have done, while Fauchery sneered and shrugged
pityingly. After that Fontan put his word in, and even Bosc made so
bold as to give advice. Rose, thoroughly tired out, had ended by
sitting down on the chair which indicated the door. No one knew where
they had got to, and by way of finish to it all Simonne made a
premature entry, under the impression that her cue had been given her,
and arrived amid the confusion. This so enraged Bordenave that he
whirled his stick round in a terrific manner and caught her a sounding
thwack to the rearward. At rehearsal he used frequently to drub his
former mistress. Simonne ran away, and this furious outcry followed
her:

“Take that, and, by God, if I’m annoyed again I shut the whole shop up
at once!”

Fauchery pushed his hat down over his forehead and pretended to be
going to leave the theater. But he stopped at the top of the stage and
came down again when he saw Bordenave perspiringly resuming his seat.
Then he, too, took up his old position in the other armchair. For some
seconds they sat motionless side by side while oppressive silence
reigned in the shadowy house. The actors waited for nearly two minutes.
They were all heavy with exhaustion and felt as though they had
performed an overwhelming task.

“Well, let’s go on,” said Bordenave at last. He spoke in his usual
voice and was perfectly calm.

“Yes, let’s go on,” Fauchery repeated. “We’ll arrange the scene
tomorrow.”

And with that they dragged on again and rehearsed their parts with as
much listlessness and as fine an indifference as ever. During the
dispute between manager and author Fontan and the rest had been taking
things very comfortably on the rustic bench and seats at the back of
the stage, where they had been chuckling, grumbling and saying fiercely
cutting things. But when Simonne came back, still smarting from her
blow and choking with sobs, they grew melodramatic and declared that
had they been in her place they would have strangled the swine. She
began wiping her eyes and nodding approval. It was all over between
them, she said. She was leaving him, especially as Steiner had offered
to give her a grand start in life only the day before. Clarisse was
much astonished at this, for the banker was quite ruined, but Prullière
began laughing and reminded them of the neat manner in which that
confounded Israelite had puffed himself alongside of Rose in order to
get his Landes saltworks afloat on ’change. Just at that time he was
airing a new project, namely, a tunnel under the Bosporus. Simonne
listened with the greatest interest to this fresh piece of information.

As to Clarisse, she had been raging for a week past. Just fancy, that
beast La Faloise, whom she had succeeded in chucking into Gaga’s
venerable embrace, was coming into the fortune of a very rich uncle! It
was just her luck; she had always been destined to make things cozy for
other people. Then, too, that pig Bordenave had once more given her a
mere scrap of a part, a paltry fifty lines, just as if she could not
have played Geraldine! She was yearning for that role and hoping that
Nana would refuse it.

“Well, and what about me?” said Prullière with much bitterness. “I
haven’t got more than two hundred lines. I wanted to give the part up.
It’s too bad to make me play that fellow Saint-Firmin; why, it’s a
regular failure! And then what a style it’s written in, my dears! It’ll
fall dead flat, you may be sure.”

But just then Simonne, who had been chatting with Father Barillot, came
back breathless and announced:

“By the by, talking of Nana, she’s in the house.”

“Where, where?” asked Clarisse briskly, getting up to look for her.

The news spread at once, and everyone craned forward. The rehearsal
was, as it were, momentarily interrupted. But Bordenave emerged from
his quiescent condition, shouting:

“What’s up, eh? Finish the act, I say. And be quiet out there; it’s
unbearable!”

Nana was still following the piece from the corner box. Twice
Labordette showed an inclination to chat, but she grew impatient and
nudged him to make him keep silent. The second act was drawing to a
close, when two shadows loomed at the back of the theater. They were
creeping softly down, avoiding all noise, and Nana recognized Mignon
and Count Muffat. They came forward and silently shook hands with
Bordenave.

“Ah, there they are,” she murmured with a sigh of relief.

Rose Mignon delivered the last sentences of the act. Thereupon
Bordenave said that it was necessary to go through the second again
before beginning the third. With that he left off attending to the
rehearsal and greeted the count with looks of exaggerated politeness,
while Fauchery pretended to be entirely engrossed with his actors, who
now grouped themselves round him. Mignon stood whistling carelessly,
with his hands behind his back and his eyes fixed complacently on his
wife, who seemed rather nervous.

“Well, shall we go upstairs?” Labordette asked Nana. “I’ll install you
in the dressing room and come down again and fetch him.”

Nana forthwith left the corner box. She had to grope her way along the
passage outside the stalls, but Bordenave guessed where she was as she
passed along in the dark and caught her up at the end of the corridor
passing behind the scenes, a narrow tunnel where the gas burned day and
night. Here, in order to bluff her into a bargain, he plunged into a
discussion of the courtesan’s part.

“What a part it is, eh? What a wicked little part! It’s made for you.
Come and rehearse tomorrow.”

Nana was frigid. She wanted to know what the third act was like.

“Oh, it’s superb, the third act is! The duchess plays the courtesan in
her own house and this disgusts Beaurivage and makes him amend his way.
Then there’s an awfully funny QUID PRO QUO, when Tardiveau arrives and
is under the impression that he’s at an opera dancer’s house.”

“And what does Geraldine do in it all?” interrupted Nana.

“Geraldine?” repeated Bordenave in some embarrassment. “She has a
scene—not a very long one, but a great success. It’s made for you, I
assure you! Will you sign?”

She looked steadily at him and at length made answer:

“We’ll see about that all in good time.”

And she rejoined Labordette, who was waiting for her on the stairs.
Everybody in the theater had recognized her, and there was now much
whispering, especially between Prullière, who was scandalized at her
return, and Clarisse who was very desirous of the part. As to Fontan,
he looked coldly on, pretending unconcern, for he did not think it
becoming to round on a woman he had loved. Deep down in his heart,
though, his old love had turned to hate, and he nursed the fiercest
rancor against her in return for the constant devotion, the personal
beauty, the life in common, of which his perverse and monstrous tastes
had made him tire.

In the meantime, when Labordette reappeared and went up to the count,
Rose Mignon, whose suspicions Nana’s presence had excited, understood
it all forthwith. Muffat was bothering her to death, but she was beside
herself at the thought of being left like this. She broke the silence
which she usually maintained on such subjects in her husband’s society
and said bluntly:

“You see what’s going on? My word, if she tries the Steiner trick on
again I’ll tear her eyes out!”

Tranquilly and haughtily Mignon shrugged his shoulders, as became a man
from whom nothing could be hidden.

“Do be quiet,” he muttered. “Do me the favor of being quiet, won’t
you?”

He knew what to rely on now. He had drained his Muffat dry, and he knew
that at a sign from Nana he was ready to lie down and be a carpet under
her feet. There is no fighting against passions such as that.
Accordingly, as he knew what men were, he thought of nothing but how to
turn the situation to the best possible account.

It would be necessary to wait on the course of events. And he waited on
them.

“Rose, it’s your turn!” shouted Bordenave. “The second act’s being
begun again.”

“Off with you then,” continued Mignon, “and let me arrange matters.”

Then he began bantering, despite all his troubles, and was pleased to
congratulate Fauchery on his piece. A very strong piece! Only why was
his great lady so chaste? It wasn’t natural! With that he sneered and
asked who had sat for the portrait of the Duke of Beaurivage,
Geraldine’s wornout roue. Fauchery smiled; he was far from annoyed. But
Bordenave glanced in Muffat’s direction and looked vexed, and Mignon
was struck at this and became serious again.

“Let’s begin, for God’s sake!” yelled the manager. “Now then, Barillot!
Eh? What? Isn’t Bosc there? Is he bloody well making game of me now?”

Bosc, however, made his appearance quietly enough, and the rehearsal
began again just as Labordette was taking the count away with him. The
latter was tremulous at the thought of seeing Nana once more. After the
rupture had taken place between them there had been a great void in his
life. He was idle and fancied himself about to suffer through the
sudden change his habits had undergone, and accordingly he had let them
take him to see Rose. Besides, his brain had been in such a whirl that
he had striven to forget everything and had strenuously kept from
seeking out Nana while avoiding an explanation with the countess. He
thought, indeed, that he owed his dignity such a measure of
forgetfulness. But mysterious forces were at work within, and Nana
began slowly to reconquer him. First came thoughts of her, then fleshly
cravings and finally a new set of exclusive, tender, well-nigh paternal
feelings.

The abominable events attendant on their last interview were gradually
effacing themselves. He no longer saw Fontan; he no longer heard the
stinging taunt about his wife’s adultery with which Nana cast him out
of doors. These things were as words whose memory vanished. Yet deep
down in his heart there was a poignant smart which wrung him with such
increasing pain that it nigh choked him. Childish ideas would occur to
him; he imagined that she would never have betrayed him if he had
really loved her, and he blamed himself for this. His anguish was
becoming unbearable; he was really very wretched. His was the pain of
an old wound rather than the blind, present desire which puts up with
everything for the sake of immediate possession. He felt a jealous
passion for the woman and was haunted by longings for her and her
alone, her hair, her mouth, her body. When he remembered the sound of
her voice a shiver ran through him; he longed for her as a miser might
have done, with refinements of desire beggaring description. He was, in
fact, so dolorously possessed by his passion that when Labordette had
begun to broach the subject of an assignation he had thrown himself
into his arms in obedience to irresistible impulse. Directly afterward
he had, of course, been ashamed of an act of self-abandonment which
could not but seem very ridiculous in a man of his position; but
Labordette was one who knew when to see and when not to see things, and
he gave a further proof of his tact when he left the count at the foot
of the stairs and without effort let slip only these simple words:

“The right-hand passage on the second floor. The door’s not shut.”

Muffat was alone in that silent corner of the house. As he passed
before the players’ waiting room, he had peeped through the open doors
and noticed the utter dilapidation of the vast chamber, which looked
shamefully stained and worn in broad daylight. But what surprised him
most as he emerged from the darkness and confusion of the stage was the
pure, clear light and deep quiet at present pervading the lofty
staircase, which one evening when he had seen it before had been bathed
in gas fumes and loud with the footsteps of women scampering over the
different floors. He felt that the dressing rooms were empty, the
corridors deserted; not a soul was there; not a sound broke the
stillness, while through the square windows on the level of the stairs
the pale November sunlight filtered and cast yellow patches of light,
full of dancing dust, amid the dead, peaceful air which seemed to
descend from the regions above.

He was glad of this calm and the silence, and he went slowly up, trying
to regain breath as he went, for his heart was thumping, and he was
afraid lest he might behave childishly and give way to sighs and tears.
Accordingly on the first-floor landing he leaned up against a wall—for
he was sure of not being observed—and pressed his handkerchief to his
mouth and gazed at the warped steps, the iron balustrade bright with
the friction of many hands, the scraped paint on the walls—all the
squalor, in fact, which that house of tolerance so crudely displayed at
the pale afternoon hour when courtesans are asleep. When he reached the
second floor he had to step over a big yellow cat which was lying
curled up on a step. With half-closed eyes this cat was keeping
solitary watch over the house, where the close and now frozen odors
which the women nightly left behind them had rendered him somnolent.

In the right-hand corridor the door of the dressing room had, indeed,
not been closed entirely. Nana was waiting. That little Mathilde, a
drab of a young girl, kept her dressing room in a filthy state. Chipped
jugs stood about anyhow; the dressing table was greasy, and there was a
chair covered with red stains, which looked as if someone had bled over
the straw. The paper pasted on walls and ceiling was splashed from top
to bottom with spots of soapy water and this smelled so disagreeably of
lavender scent turned sour that Nana opened the window and for some
moments stayed leaning on the sill, breathing the fresh air and craning
forward to catch sight of Mme Bron underneath. She could hear her broom
wildly at work on the mildewed pantiles of the narrow court which was
buried in shadow. A canary, whose cage hung on a shutter, was trilling
away piercingly. The sound of carriages in the boulevard and
neighboring streets was no longer audible, and the quiet and the wide
expanse of sleeping sunlight suggested the country. Looking farther
afield, her eye fell on the small buildings and glass roofs of the
galleries in the passage and, beyond these, on the tall houses in the
Rue Vivienne, the backs of which rose silent and apparently deserted
over against her. There was a succession of terrace roofs close by, and
on one of these a photographer had perched a big cagelike construction
of blue glass. It was all very gay, and Nana was becoming absorbed in
contemplation, when it struck her someone had knocked at the door.

She turned round and shouted:

“Come in!”

At sight of the count she shut the window, for it was not warm, and
there was no need for the eavesdropping Mme Bron to listen. The pair
gazed at one another gravely. Then as the count still kept standing
stiffly in front of her, looking ready to choke with emotion, she burst
out laughing and said:

“Well! So you’re here again, you silly big beast!”

The tumult going on within him was so great that he seemed a man frozen
to ice. He addressed Nana as “madame” and esteemed himself happy to see
her again. Thereupon she became more familiar than ever in order to
bounce matters through.

“Don’t do it in the dignified way! You wanted to see me, didn’t you?
But you didn’t intend us to stand looking at one another like a couple
of chinaware dogs. We’ve both been in the wrong—Oh, I certainly forgive
you!”

And herewith they agreed not to talk of that affair again, Muffat
nodding his assent as Nana spoke. He was calmer now but as yet could
find nothing to say, though a thousand things rose tumultuously to his
lips. Surprised at his apparent coldness, she began acting a part with
much vigor.

“Come,” she continued with a faint smile, “you’re a sensible man! Now
that we’ve made our peace let’s shake hands and be good friends in
future.”

“What? Good friends?” he murmured in sudden anxiety.

“Yes; it’s idiotic, perhaps, but I should like you to think well of me.
We’ve had our little explanation out, and if we meet again we shan’t,
at any rate look like a pair of boobies.”

He tried to interrupt her with a movement of the hand.

“Let me finish! There’s not a man, you understand, able to accuse me of
doing him a blackguardly turn; well, and it struck me as horrid to
begin in your case. We all have our sense of honor, dear boy.”

“But that’s not my meaning!” he shouted violently. “Sit down—listen to
me!” And as though he were afraid of seeing her take her departure, he
pushed her down on the solitary chair in the room. Then he paced about
in growing agitation. The little dressing room was airless and full of
sunlight, and no sound from the outside world disturbed its pleasant,
peaceful, dampish atmosphere. In the pauses of conversation the
shrillings of the canary were alone audible and suggested the distant
piping of a flute.

“Listen,” he said, planting himself in front of her, “I’ve come to
possess myself of you again. Yes, I want to begin again. You know that
well; then why do you talk to me as you do? Answer me; tell me you
consent.”

Her head was bent, and she was scratching the blood-red straw of the
seat underneath her. Seeing him so anxious, she did not hurry to
answer. But at last she lifted up her face. It had assumed a grave
expression, and into the beautiful eyes she had succeeded in infusing a
look of sadness.

“Oh, it’s impossible, little man. Never, never, will I live with you
again.”

“Why?” he stuttered, and his face seemed contracted in unspeakable
suffering.

“Why? Hang it all, because—It’s impossible; that’s about it. I don’t
want to.”

He looked ardently at her for some seconds longer. Then his legs curved
under him and he fell on the floor. In a bored voice she added this
simple advice:

“Ah, don’t be a baby!”

But he was one already. Dropping at her feet, he had put his arms round
her waist and was hugging her closely, pressing his face hard against
her knees. When he felt her thus—when he once more divined the presence
of her velvety limbs beneath the thin fabric of her dress—he was
suddenly convulsed and trembled, as it were, with fever, while madly,
savagely, he pressed his face against her knees as though he had been
anxious to force through her flesh. The old chair creaked, and beneath
the low ceiling, where the air was pungent with stale perfumes,
smothered sobs of desire were audible.

“Well, and after?” Nana began saying, letting him do as he would. “All
this doesn’t help you a bit, seeing that the thing’s impossible. Good
God, what a child you are!”

His energy subsided, but he still stayed on the floor, nor did he relax
his hold of her as he said in a broken voice:

“Do at least listen to what I came to offer you. I’ve already seen a
town house close to the Parc Monceau—I would gladly realize your
smallest wish. In order to have you all to myself, I would give my
whole fortune. Yes, that would be my only condition, that I should have
you all to myself! Do you understand? And if you were to consent to be
mine only, oh, then I should want you to be the loveliest, the richest,
woman on earth. I should give you carriages and diamonds and dresses!”

At each successive offer Nana shook her head proudly. Then seeing that
he still continued them, that he even spoke of settling money on
her—for he was at loss what to lay at her feet—she apparently lost
patience.

“Come, come, have you done bargaining with me? I’m a good sort, and I
don’t mind giving in to you for a minute or two, as your feelings are
making you so ill, but I’ve had enough of it now, haven’t I? So let me
get up. You’re tiring me.”

She extricated herself from his clasp, and once on her feet:

“No, no, no!” she said. “I don’t want to!”

With that he gathered himself up painfully and feebly dropped into a
chair, in which he leaned back with his face in his hands. Nana began
pacing up and down in her turn. For a second or two she looked at the
stained wallpaper, the greasy toilet table, the whole dirty little room
as it basked in the pale sunlight. Then she paused in front of the
count and spoke with quiet directness.

“It’s strange how rich men fancy they can have everything for their
money. Well, and if I don’t want to consent—what then? I don’t care a
pin for your presents! You might give me Paris, and yet I should say
no! Always no! Look here, it’s scarcely clean in this room, yet I
should think it very nice if I wanted to live in it with you. But one’s
fit to kick the bucket in your palaces if one isn’t in love. Ah, as to
money, my poor pet, I can lay my hands on that if I want to, but I tell
you, I trample on it; I spit on it!”

And with that she assumed a disgusted expression. Then she became
sentimental and added in a melancholy tone:

“I know of something worth more than money. Oh, if only someone were to
give me what I long for!”

He slowly lifted his head, and there was a gleam of hope in his eyes.

“Oh, you can’t give it me,” she continued; “it doesn’t depend on you,
and that’s the reason I’m talking to you about it. Yes, we’re having a
chat, so I may as well mention to you that I should like to play the
part of the respectable woman in that show of theirs.”

“What respectable woman?” he muttered in astonishment.

“Why, their Duchess Helene! If they think I’m going to play Geraldine,
a part with nothing in it, a scene and nothing besides—if they think
that! Besides, that isn’t the reason. The fact is I’ve had enough of
courtesans. Why, there’s no end to ’em! They’ll be fancying I’ve got
’em on the brain; to be sure they will! Besides, when all’s said and
done, it’s annoying, for I can quite see they seem to think me
uneducated. Well, my boy, they’re jolly well in the dark about it, I
can tell you! When I want to be a perfect lady, why then I am a swell,
and no mistake! Just look at this.”

And she withdrew as far as the window and then came swelling back with
the mincing gait and circumspect air of a portly hen that fears to
dirty her claws. As to Muffat, he followed her movements with eyes
still wet with tears. He was stupefied by this sudden transition from
anguish to comedy. She walked about for a moment or two in order the
more thoroughly to show off her paces, and as she walked she smiled
subtlely, closed her eyes demurely and managed her skirts with great
dexterity. Then she posted herself in front of him again.

“I guess I’ve hit it, eh?”

“Oh, thoroughly,” he stammered with a broken voice and a troubled
expression.

“I tell you I’ve got hold of the honest woman! I’ve tried at my own
place. Nobody’s got my little knack of looking like a duchess who don’t
care a damn for the men. Did you notice it when I passed in front of
you? Why, the thing’s in my blood! Besides, I want to play the part of
an honest woman. I dream about it day and night—I’m miserable about it.
I must have the part, d’you hear?”

And with that she grew serious, speaking in a hard voice and looking
deeply moved, for she was really tortured by her stupid, tiresome wish.
Muffat, still smarting from her late refusals, sat on without appearing
to grasp her meaning. There was a silence during which the very flies
abstained from buzzing through the quiet, empty place.

“Now, look here,” she resumed bluntly, “you’re to get them to give me
the part.”

He was dumfounded, and with a despairing gesture:

“Oh, it’s impossible! You yourself were saying just now that it didn’t
depend on me.”

She interrupted him with a shrug of the shoulders.

“You’ll just go down, and you’ll tell Bordenave you want the part. Now
don’t be such a silly! Bordenave wants money—well, you’ll lend him
some, since you can afford to make ducks and drakes of it.”

And as he still struggled to refuse her, she grew angry.

“Very well, I understand; you’re afraid of making Rose angry. I didn’t
mention the woman when you were crying down on the floor—I should have
had too much to say about it all. Yes, to be sure, when one has sworn
to love a woman forever one doesn’t usually take up with the first
creature that comes by directly after. Oh, that’s where the shoe
pinches, I remember! Well, dear boy, there’s nothing very savory in the
Mignon’s leavings! Oughtn’t you to have broken it off with that dirty
lot before coming and squirming on my knees?”

He protested vaguely and at last was able to get out a phrase.

“Oh, I don’t care a jot for Rose; I’ll give her up at once.”

Nana seemed satisfied on this point. She continued:

“Well then, what’s bothering you? Bordenave’s master here. You’ll tell
me there’s Fauchery after Bordenave—”

She had sunk her voice, for she was coming to the delicate part of the
matter. Muffat sat silent, his eyes fixed on the ground. He had
remained voluntarily ignorant of Fauchery’s assiduous attentions to the
countess, and time had lulled his suspicions and set him hoping that he
had been deceiving himself during that fearful night passed in a
doorway of the Rue Taitbout. But he still felt a dull, angry repugnance
to the man.

“Well, what then? Fauchery isn’t the devil!” Nana repeated, feeling her
way cautiously and trying to find out how matters stood between husband
and lover. “One can get over his soft side. I promise you, he’s a good
sort at bottom! So it’s a bargain, eh? You’ll tell him that it’s for my
sake?”

The idea of taking such a step disgusted the count.

“No, no! Never!” he cried.

She paused, and this sentence was on the verge of utterance:

“Fauchery can refuse you nothing.”

But she felt that by way of argument it was rather too much of a good
thing. So she only smiled a queer smile which spoke as plainly as
words. Muffat had raised his eyes to her and now once more lowered
them, looking pale and full of embarrassment.

“Ah, you’re not good natured,” she muttered at last.

“I cannot,” he said with a voice and a look of the utmost anguish.
“I’ll do whatever you like, but not that, dear love! Oh, I beg you not
to insist on that!”

Thereupon she wasted no more time in discussion but took his head
between her small hands, pushed it back a little, bent down and glued
her mouth to his in a long, long kiss. He shivered violently; he
trembled beneath her touch; his eyes were closed, and he was beside
himself. She lifted him to his feet.

“Go,” said she simply.

He walked off, making toward the door. But as he passed out she took
him in her arms again, became meek and coaxing, lifted her face to his
and rubbed her cheek against his waistcoat, much as a cat might have
done.

“Where’s the fine house?” she whispered in laughing embarrassment, like
a little girl who returns to the pleasant things she has previously
refused.

“In the Avenue de Villiers.”

“And there are carriages there?”

“Yes.”

“Lace? Diamonds?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, how good you are, my old pet! You know it was all jealousy just
now! And this time I solemnly promise you it won’t be like the first,
for now you understand what’s due to a woman. You give all, don’t you?
Well then, I don’t want anybody but you! Why, look here, there’s some
more for you! There and there AND there!”

When she had pushed him from the room after firing his blood with a
rain of kisses on hands and on face, she panted awhile. Good heavens,
what an unpleasant smell there was in that slut Mathilde’s dressing
room! It was warm, if you will, with the tranquil warmth peculiar to
rooms in the south when the winter sun shines into them, but really, it
smelled far too strong of stale lavender water, not to mention other
less cleanly things! She opened the window and, again leaning on the
window sill, began watching the glass roof of the passage below in
order to kill time.

Muffat went staggering downstairs. His head was swimming. What should
he say? How should he broach the matter which, moreover, did not
concern him? He heard sounds of quarreling as he reached the stage. The
second act was being finished, and Prullière was beside himself with
wrath, owing to an attempt on Fauchery’s part to cut short one of his
speeches.

“Cut it all out then,” he was shouting. “I should prefer that! Just
fancy, I haven’t two hundred lines, and they’re still cutting me down.
No, by Jove, I’ve had enough of it; I give the part up.”

He took a little crumpled manuscript book out of his pocket and
fingered its leaves feverishly, as though he were just about to throw
it on Cossard’s lap. His pale face was convulsed by outraged vanity;
his lips were drawn and thin, his eyes flamed; he was quite unable to
conceal the struggle that was going on inside him. To think that he,
Prullière, the idol of the public, should play a part of only two
hundred lines!

“Why not make me bring in letters on a tray?” he continued bitterly.

“Come, come, Prullière, behave decently,” said Bordenave, who was
anxious to treat him tenderly because of his influence over the boxes.
“Don’t begin making a fuss. We’ll find some points. Eh, Fauchery,
you’ll add some points? In the third act it would even be possible to
lengthen a scene out.”

“Well then, I want the last speech of all,” the comedian declared. “I
certainly deserve to have it.”

Fauchery’s silence seemed to give consent, and Prullière, still greatly
agitated and discontented despite everything, put his part back into
his pocket. Bosc and Fontan had appeared profoundly indifferent during
the course of this explanation. Let each man fight for his own hand,
they reflected; the present dispute had nothing to do with them; they
had no interest therein! All the actors clustered round Fauchery and
began questioning him and fishing for praise, while Mignon listened to
the last of Prullière’s complaints without, however, losing sight of
Count Muffat, whose return he had been on the watch for.

Entering in the half-light, the count had paused at the back of the
stage, for he hesitated to interrupt the quarrel. But Bordenave caught
sight of him and ran forward.

“Aren’t they a pretty lot?” he muttered. “You can have no idea what
I’ve got to undergo with that lot, Monsieur le Comte. Each man’s vainer
than his neighbor, and they’re wretched players all the same, a scabby
lot, always mixed up in some dirty business or other! Oh, they’d be
delighted if I were to come to smash. But I beg pardon—I’m getting
beside myself.”

He ceased speaking, and silence reigned while Muffat sought how to
broach his announcement gently. But he failed and, in order to get out
of his difficulty the more quickly, ended by an abrupt announcement:

“Nana wants the duchess’s part.”

Bordenave gave a start and shouted:

“Come now, it’s sheer madness!”

Then looking at the count and finding him so pale and so shaken, he was
calm at once.

“Devil take it!” he said simply.

And with that there ensued a fresh silence. At bottom he didn’t care a
pin about it. That great thing Nana playing the duchess might possibly
prove amusing! Besides, now that this had happened he had Muffat well
in his grasp. Accordingly he was not long in coming to a decision, and
so he turned round and called out:

“Fauchery!”

The count had been on the point of stopping him. But Fauchery did not
hear him, for he had been pinned against the curtain by Fontan and was
being compelled to listen patiently to the comedian’s reading of the
part of Tardiveau. Fontan imagined Tardiveau to be a native of
Marseilles with a dialect, and he imitated the dialect. He was
repeating whole speeches. Was that right? Was this the thing?
Apparently he was only submitting ideas to Fauchery of which he was
himself uncertain, but as the author seemed cold and raised various
objections, he grew angry at once.

Oh, very well, the moment the spirit of the part escaped him it would
be better for all concerned that he shouldn’t act it at all!

“Fauchery!” shouted Bordenave once more.

Thereupon the young man ran off, delighted to escape from the actor,
who was wounded not a little by his prompt retreat.

“Don’t let’s stay here,” continued Bordenave. “Come this way,
gentlemen.”

In order to escape from curious listeners he led them into the property
room behind the scenes, while Mignon watched their disappearance in
some surprise. They went down a few steps and entered a square room,
whose two windows opened upon the courtyard. A faint light stole
through the dirty panes and hung wanly under the low ceiling. In
pigeonholes and shelves, which filled the whole place up, lay a
collection of the most varied kind of bric-a-brac. Indeed, it suggested
an old-clothes shop in the Rue de Lappe in process of selling off, so
indescribable was the hotchpotch of plates, gilt pasteboard cups, old
red umbrellas, Italian jars, clocks in all styles, platters and
inkpots, firearms and squirts, which lay chipped and broken and in
unrecognizable heaps under a layer of dust an inch deep. An unendurable
odor of old iron, rags and damp cardboard emanated from the various
piles, where the débris of forgotten dramas had been collecting for
half a century.

“Come in,” Bordenave repeated. “We shall be alone, at any rate.”

The count was extremely embarrassed, and he contrived to let the
manager risk his proposal for him. Fauchery was astonished.

“Eh? What?” he asked.

“Just this,” said Bordenave finally. “An idea has occurred to us. Now
whatever you do, don’t jump! It’s most serious. What do you think of
Nana for the duchess’s part?”

The author was bewildered; then he burst out with:

“Ah no, no! You’re joking, aren’t you? People would laugh far too
much.”

“Well, and it’s a point gained already if they do laugh! Just reflect,
my dear boy. The idea pleases Monsieur le Comte very much.”

In order to keep himself in countenance Muffat had just picked out of
the dust on a neighboring shelf an object which he did not seem to
recognize. It was an eggcup, and its stem had been mended with plaster.
He kept hold of it unconsciously and came forward, muttering:

“Yes, yes, it would be capital.”

Fauchery turned toward him with a brisk, impatient gesture. The count
had nothing to do with his piece, and he said decisively:

“Never! Let Nana play the courtesan as much as she likes, but a
lady—No, by Jove!”

“You are mistaken, I assure you,” rejoined the count, growing bolder.
“This very minute she has been playing the part of a pure woman for my
benefit.”

“Where?” queried Fauchery with growing surprise.

“Upstairs in a dressing room. Yes, she has, indeed, and with such
distinction! She’s got a way of glancing at you as she goes by
you—something like this, you know!”

And eggcup in hand, he endeavored to imitate Nana, quite forgetting his
dignity in his frantic desire to convince the others. Fauchery gazed at
him in a state of stupefaction. He understood it all now, and his anger
had ceased. The count felt that he was looking at him mockingly and
pityingly, and he paused with a slight blush on his face.

“Egad, it’s quite possible!” muttered the author complaisantly.
“Perhaps she would do very well, only the part’s been assigned. We
can’t take it away from Rose.”

“Oh, if that’s all the trouble,” said Bordenave, “I’ll undertake to
arrange matters.”

But presently, seeing them both against him and guessing that Bordenave
had some secret interest at stake, the young man thought to avoid
aquiescence by redoubling the violence of his refusal. The consultation
was on the verge of being broken up.

“Oh, dear! No, no! Even if the part were unassigned I should never give
it her! There, is that plain? Do let me alone; I have no wish to ruin
my play!”

He lapsed into silent embarrassment. Bordenave, deeming himself DE
TROP, went away, but the count remained with bowed head. He raised it
with an effort and said in a breaking voice:

“Supposing, my dear fellow, I were to ask this of you as a favor?”

“I cannot, I cannot,” Fauchery kept repeating as he writhed to get
free.

Muffat’s voice became harder.

“I pray and beseech you for it! I want it!”

And with that he fixed his eyes on him. The young man read menaces in
that darkling gaze and suddenly gave way with a splutter of confused
phrases:

“Do what you like—I don’t care a pin about it. Yes, yes, you’re abusing
your power, but you’ll see, you’ll see!”

At this the embarrassment of both increased. Fauchery was leaning up
against a set of shelves and was tapping nervously on the ground with
his foot. Muffat seemed busy examining the eggcup, which he was still
turning round and about.

“It’s an eggcup,” Bordenave obligingly came and remarked.

“Yes, to be sure! It’s an eggcup,” the count repeated.

“Excuse me, you’re covered with dust,” continued the manager, putting
the thing back on a shelf. “If one had to dust every day there’d be no
end to it, you understand. But it’s hardly clean here—a filthy mess,
eh? Yet you may believe me or not when I tell you there’s money in it.
Now look, just look at all that!”

He walked Muffat round in front of the pigeonholes and shelves and in
the greenish light which filtered through the courtyard, told him the
names of different properties, for he was anxious to interest him in
his marine-stores inventory, as he jocosely termed it.

Presently, when they had returned into Fauchery’s neighborhood, he said
carelessly enough:

“Listen, since we’re all of one mind, we’ll finish the matter at once.
Here’s Mignon, just when he’s wanted.”

For some little time past Mignon had been prowling in the adjoining
passage, and the very moment Bordenave began talking of a modification
of their agreement he burst into wrathful protest. It was infamous—they
wanted to spoil his wife’s career—he’d go to law about it! Bordenave,
meanwhile, was extremely calm and full of reasons. He did not think the
part worthy of Rose, and he preferred to reserve her for an operetta,
which was to be put on after the Petite Duchesse. But when her husband
still continued shouting he suddenly offered to cancel their
arrangement in view of the offers which the Folies-Dramatiques had been
making the singer. At this Mignon was momentarily put out, so without
denying the truth of these offers he loudly professed a vast disdain
for money. His wife, he said, had been engaged to play the Duchess
Helene, and she would play the part even if he, Mignon, were to be
ruined over it. His dignity, his honor, were at stake! Starting from
this basis, the discussion grew interminable. The manager, however,
always returned to the following argument: since the Folies had offered
Rose three hundred francs a night during a hundred performances, and
since she only made a hundred and fifty with him, she would be the
gainer by fifteen thousand francs the moment he let her depart. The
husband, on his part, did not desert the artist’s position. What would
people say if they saw his wife deprived of her part? Why, that she was
not equal to it; that it had been deemed necessary to find a substitute
for her! And this would do great harm to Rose’s reputation as an
artist; nay, it would diminish it. Oh no, no! Glory before gain! Then
without a word of warning he pointed out a possible arrangement: Rose,
according to the terms of her agreement, was pledged to pay a forfeit
of ten thousand francs in case she gave up the part. Very well then,
let them give her ten thousand francs, and she would go to the
Folies-Dramatiques. Bordenave was utterly dumfounded while Mignon, who
had never once taken his eyes off the count, tranquilly awaited
results.

“Then everything can be settled,” murmured Muffat in tones of relief;
“we can come to an understanding.”

“The deuce, no! That would be too stupid!” cried Bordenave, mastered by
his commercial instincts. “Ten thousand francs to let Rose go! Why,
people would make game of me!”

But the count, with a multiplicity of nods, bade him accept. He
hesitated, and at last with much grumbling and infinite regret over the
ten thousand francs which, by the by, were not destined to come out of
his own pocket he bluntly continued:

“After all, I consent. At any rate, I shall have you off my hands.”

For a quarter of an hour past Fontan had been listening in the
courtyard. Such had been his curiosity that he had come down and posted
himself there, but the moment he understood the state of the case he
went upstairs again and enjoyed the treat of telling Rose. Dear me!
They were just haggling in her behalf! He dinned his words into her
ears; she ran off to the property room. They were silent as she
entered. She looked at the four men. Muffat hung his head; Fauchery
answered her questioning glance with a despairing shrug of the
shoulders; as to Mignon, he was busy discussing the terms of the
agreement with Bordenave.

“What’s up?” she demanded curtly.

“Nothing,” said her husband. “Bordenave here is giving ten thousand
francs in order to get you to give up your part.”

She grew tremulous with anger and very pale, and she clenched her
little fists. For some moments she stared at him, her whole nature in
revolt. Ordinarily in matters of business she was wont to trust
everything obediently to her husband, leaving him to sign agreements
with managers and lovers. Now she could but cry:

“Oh, come, you’re too base for anything!”

The words fell like a lash. Then she sped away, and Mignon, in utter
astonishment, ran after her. What next? Was she going mad? He began
explaining to her in low tones that ten thousand francs from one party
and fifteen thousand from the other came to twenty-five thousand. A
splendid deal! Muffat was getting rid of her in every sense of the
word; it was a pretty trick to have plucked him of this last feather!
But Rose in her anger vouchsafed no answer. Whereupon Mignon in disdain
left her to her feminine spite and, turning to Bordenave, who was once
more on the stage with Fauchery and Muffat, said:

“We’ll sign tomorrow morning. Have the money in readiness.”

At this moment Nana, to whom Labordette had brought the news, came down
to the stage in triumph. She was quite the honest woman now and wore a
most distinguished expression in order to overwhelm her friends and
prove to the idiots that when she chose she could give them all points
in the matter of smartness. But she nearly got into trouble, for at the
sight of her Rose darted forward, choking with rage and stuttering:

“Yes, you, I’ll pay you out! Things can’t go on like this; d’you
understand?” Nana forgot herself in face of this brisk attack and was
going to put her arms akimbo and give her what for. But she controlled
herself and, looking like a marquise who is afraid of treading on an
orange peel, fluted in still more silvery tones.

“Eh, what?” said she. “You’re mad, my dear!”

And with that she continued in her graceful affectation while Rose took
her departure, followed by Mignon, who now refused to recognize her.
Clarisse was enraptured, having just obtained the part of Geraldine
from Bordenave. Fauchery, on the other hand, was gloomy; he shifted
from one foot to the other; he could not decide whether to leave the
theater or no. His piece was bedeviled, and he was seeking how best to
save it. But Nana came up, took him by both hands and, drawing him
toward her, asked whether he thought her so very atrocious after all.
She wasn’t going to eat his play—not she! Then she made him laugh and
gave him to understand that he would be foolish to be angry with her,
in view of his relationship to the Muffats. If, she said, her memory
failed her she would take her lines from the prompter. The house, too,
would be packed in such a way as to ensure applause. Besides, he was
mistaken about her, and he would soon see how she would rattle through
her part. By and by it was arranged that the author should make a few
changes in the role of the duchess so as to extend that of Prullière.
The last-named personage was enraptured. Indeed, amid all the joy which
Nana now quite naturally diffused, Fontan alone remained unmoved. In
the middle of the yellow lamplight, against which the sharp outline of
his goatlike profile shone out with great distinctness, he stood
showing off his figure and affecting the pose of one who has been
cruelly abandoned. Nana went quietly up and shook hands with him.

“How are you getting on?”

“Oh, pretty fairly. And how are you?”

“Very well, thank you.”

That was all. They seemed to have only parted at the doors of the
theater the day before. Meanwhile the players were waiting about, but
Bordenave said that the third act would not be rehearsed. And so it
chanced that old Bosc went grumbling away at the proper time, whereas
usually the company were needlessly detained and lost whole afternoons
in consequence. Everyone went off. Down on the pavement they were
blinded by the broad daylight and stood blinking their eyes in a dazed
sort of way, as became people who had passed three hours squabbling
with tight-strung nerves in the depths of a cellar. The count, with
racked limbs and vacant brain, got into a conveyance with Nana, while
Labordette took Fauchery off and comforted him.

A month later the first night of the Petite Duchesse proved supremely
disastrous to Nana. She was atrociously bad and displayed such
pretentions toward high comedy that the public grew mirthful. They did
not hiss—they were too amused. From a stage box Rose Mignon kept
greeting her rival’s successive entrances with a shrill laugh, which
set the whole house off. It was the beginning of her revenge.
Accordingly, when at night Nana, greatly chagrined, found herself alone
with Muffat, she said furiously:

“What a conspiracy, eh? It’s all owing to jealousy. Oh, if they only
knew how I despise ’em! What do I want them for nowadays? Look here!
I’ll bet a hundred louis that I’ll bring all those who made fun today
and make ’em lick the ground at my feet! Yes, I’ll fine-lady your Paris
for you, I will!”




 CHAPTER X


Thereupon Nana became a smart woman, mistress of all that is foolish
and filthy in man, marquise in the ranks of her calling. It was a
sudden but decisive start, a plunge into the garish day of gallant
notoriety and mad expenditure and that daredevil wastefulness peculiar
to beauty. She at once became queen among the most expensive of her
kind. Her photographs were displayed in shopwindows, and she was
mentioned in the papers. When she drove in her carriage along the
boulevards the people would turn and tell one another who that was with
all the unction of a nation saluting its sovereign, while the object of
their adoration lolled easily back in her diaphanous dresses and smiled
gaily under the rain of little golden curls which ran riot above the
blue of her made-up eyes and the red of her painted lips. And the
wonder of wonders was that the great creature, who was so awkward on
the stage, so very absurd the moment she sought to act the chaste
woman, was able without effort to assume the role of an enchantress in
the outer world. Her movements were lithe as a serpent’s, and the
studied and yet seemingly involuntary carelessness with which she
dressed was really exquisite in its elegance. There was a nervous
distinction in all she did which suggested a wellborn Persian cat; she
was an aristocrat in vice and proudly and rebelliously trampled upon a
prostrate Paris like a sovereign whom none dare disobey. She set the
fashion, and great ladies imitated her.

Nana’s fine house was situated at the corner of the Rue Cardinet, in
the Avenue de Villiers. The avenue was part of the luxurious quarter at
that time springing up in the vague district which had once been the
Plaine Monceau. The house had been built by a young painter, who was
intoxicated by a first success, and had been perforce resold almost as
soon as it was habitable. It was in the palatial Renaissance manner and
had fantastic interior arrangements which consisted of modern
conveniences framed in a setting of somewhat artificial originality.
Count Muffat had bought the house ready furnished and full of hosts of
beautiful objects—lovely Eastern hangings, old credences, huge chairs
of the Louis XIII epoch. And thus Nana had come into artistic
surroundings of the choicest kind and of the most extravagantly various
dates. But since the studio, which occupied the central portion of the
house, could not be of any use to her, she had upset existing
arrangements, establishing a small drawing room on the first floor,
next to her bedroom and dressing room, and leaving a conservatory, a
large drawing room and a dining room to look after themselves
underneath. She astonished the architect with her ideas, for, as became
a Parisian workgirl who understands the elegancies of life by instinct,
she had suddenly developed a very pretty taste for every species of
luxurious refinement. Indeed, she did not spoil her house overmuch;
nay, she even added to the richness of the furniture, save here and
there, where certain traces of tender foolishness and vulgar
magnificence betrayed the ex-flower seller who had been wont to dream
in front of shopwindows in the arcades.

A carpet was spread on the steps beneath the great awning over the
front door in the court, and the moment you entered the hall you were
greeted by a perfume as of violets and a soft, warm atmosphere which
thick hangings helped to produce. A window, whose yellow-and
rose-colored panes suggested the warm pallor of human flesh, gave light
to the wide staircase, at the foot of which a Negro in carved wood held
out a silver tray full of visiting cards and four white marble women,
with bosoms displayed, raised lamps in their uplifted hands. Bronzes
and Chinese vases full of flowers, divans covered with old Persian
rugs, armchairs upholstered in old tapestry, furnished the entrance
hall, adorned the stairheads and gave the first-floor landing the
appearance of an anteroom. Here men’s overcoats and hats were always in
evidence, and there were thick hangings which deadened every sound. It
seemed a place apart: on entering it you might have fancied yourself in
a chapel, whose very air was thrilling with devotion, whose very
silence and seclusion were fraught with mystery.

Nana only opened the large and somewhat too-sumptuous Louis XVI drawing
room on those gala nights when she received society from the Tuileries
or strangers of distinction. Ordinarily she only came downstairs at
mealtimes, and she would feel rather lost on such days as she lunched
by herself in the lofty dining room with its Gobelin tapestry and its
monumental sideboard, adorned with old porcelain and marvelous pieces
of ancient plate. She used to go upstairs again as quickly as possible,
for her home was on the first floor, in the three rooms, the bed,
dressing and small drawing room above described. Twice already she had
done the bedchamber up anew: on the first occasion in mauve satin, on
the second in blue silk under lace. But she had not been satisfied with
this; it had struck her as “nohowish,” and she was still unsuccessfully
seeking for new colors and designs. On the elaborately upholstered bed,
which was as low as a sofa, there were twenty thousand francs’ worth of
POINT DE VENISE lace. The furniture was lacquered blue and white under
designs in silver filigree, and everywhere lay such numbers of white
bearskins that they hid the carpet. This was a luxurious caprice on
Nana’s part, she having never been able to break herself of the habit
of sitting on the floor to take her stockings off. Next door to the
bedroom the little saloon was full of an amusing medley of exquisitely
artistic objects. Against the hangings of pale rose-colored silk—a
faded Turkish rose color, embroidered with gold thread—a whole world of
them stood sharply outlined. They were from every land and in every
possible style. There were Italian cabinets, Spanish and Portuguese
coffers, models of Chinese pagodas, a Japanese screen of precious
workmanship, besides china, bronzes, embroidered silks, hangings of the
finest needlework. Armchairs wide as beds and sofas deep as alcoves
suggested voluptuous idleness and the somnolent life of the seraglio.
The prevailing tone of the room was old gold blended with green and
red, and nothing it contained too forcibly indicated the presence of
the courtesan save the luxuriousness of the seats. Only two “biscuit”
statuettes, a woman in her shift, hunting for fleas, and another with
nothing at all on, walking on her hands and waving her feet in the air,
sufficed to sully the room with a note of stupid originality.

Through a door, which was nearly always ajar, the dressing room was
visible. It was all in marble and glass with a white bath, silver jugs
and basins and crystal and ivory appointments. A drawn curtain filled
the place with a clear twilight which seemed to slumber in the warm
scent of violets, that suggestive perfume peculiar to Nana wherewith
the whole house, from the roof to the very courtyard, was penetrated.

The furnishing of the house was a most important undertaking. Nana
certainly had Zoé with her, that girl so devoted to her fortunes. For
months she had been tranquilly awaiting this abrupt, new departure, as
became a woman who was certain of her powers of prescience, and now she
was triumphant; she was mistress of the house and was putting by a
round sum while serving Madame as honestly as possible. But a solitary
lady’s maid was no longer sufficient. A butler, a coachman, a porter
and a cook were wanted. Besides, it was necessary to fill the stables.
It was then that Labordette made himself most useful. He undertook to
perform all sorts of errands which bored the count; he made a
comfortable job of the purchase of horses; he visited the
coachbuilders; he guided the young woman in her choice of things. She
was to be met with at the shops, leaning on his arm. Labordette even
got in the servants—Charles, a great, tall coachman, who had been in
service with the Duc de Corbreuse; Julien, a little, smiling,
much-becurled butler, and a married couple, of whom the wife Victorine
became cook while the husband Francois was taken on as porter and
footman. The last mentioned in powder and breeches wore Nana’s livery,
which was a sky-blue one adorned with silver lace, and he received
visitors in the hall. The whole thing was princely in the correctness
of its style.

At the end of two months the house was set going. The cost had been
more than three hundred thousand francs. There were eight horses in the
stables, and five carriages in the coach houses, and of these five one
was a landau with silver embellishments, which for the moment occupied
the attention of all Paris. And amid this great wealth Nana began
settling down and making her nest. After the third representation of
the Petite Duchesse she had quitted the theater, leaving Bordenave to
struggle on against a bankruptcy which, despite the count’s money, was
imminent. Nevertheless, she was still bitter about her failure. It
added to that other bitterness, the lesson Fontan had given her, a
shameful lesson for which she held all men responsible. Accordingly she
now declared herself very firm and quite proof against sudden
infatuations, but thoughts of vengeance took no hold of her volatile
brain. What did maintain a hold on it in the hours when she was not
indignant was an ever-wakeful lust of expenditure, added to a natural
contempt for the man who paid and to a perpetual passion for
consumption and waste, which took pride in the ruin of her lovers.

At starting Nana put the count on a proper footing and clearly mapped
out the conditions of their relationship. The count gave twelve
thousand francs monthly, presents excepted, and demanded nothing in
return save absolute fidelity. She swore fidelity but insisted also on
being treated with the utmost consideration, on enjoying complete
liberty as mistress of the house and on having her every wish
respected. For instance, she was to receive her friends every day, and
he was to come only at stated times. In a word, he was to repose a
blind confidence in her in everything. And when he was seized with
jealous anxiety and hesitated to grant what she wanted, she stood on
her dignity and threatened to give him back all he had given or even
swore by little Louiset to perform what she promised. This was to
suffice him. There was no love where mutual esteem was wanting. At the
end of the first month Muffat respected her.

But she desired and obtained still more. Soon she began to influence
him, as became a good-natured courtesan. When he came to her in a moody
condition she cheered him up, confessed him and then gave him good
advice. Little by little she interested herself in the annoyances of
his home life, in his wife, in his daughter, in his love affairs and
financial difficulties; she was very sensible, very fair and
right-minded. On one occasion only did she let anger get the better of
her, and that was when he confided to her that doubtless Daguenet was
going to ask for his daughter Estelle in marriage. When the count began
making himself notorious Daguenet had thought it a wise move to break
off with Nana. He had treated her like a base hussy and had sworn to
snatch his future father-in-law out of the creature’s clutches. In
return Nana abused her old Mimi in a charming fashion. He was a
renegade who had devoured his fortune in the company of vile women; he
had no moral sense. True, he did not let them pay him money, but he
profited by that of others and only repaid them at rare intervals with
a bouquet or a dinner. And when the count seemed inclined to find
excuses for these failings she bluntly informed him that Daguenet had
enjoyed her favors, and she added disgusting particulars. Muffat had
grown ashen-pale. There was no question of the young man now. This
would teach him to be lacking in gratitude!

Meanwhile the house had not been entirely furnished, when one evening
after she had lavished the most energetic promises of fidelity on
Muffat Nana kept the Count Xavier de Vandeuvres for the night. For the
last fortnight he had been paying her assiduous court, visiting her and
sending presents of flowers, and now she gave way not so much out of
sudden infatuation as to prove that she was a free woman. The idea of
gain followed later when, the day after, Vandeuvres helped her to pay a
bill which she did not wish to mention to the other man. From
Vandeuvres she would certainly derive from eight to ten thousand francs
a month, and this would prove very useful as pocket money. In those
days he was finishing the last of his fortune in an access of burning,
feverish folly. His horses and Lucy had devoured three of his farms,
and at one gulp Nana was going to swallow his last château, near
Amiens. He seemed in a hurry to sweep everything away, down to the
ruins of the old tower built by a Vandeuvres under Philip Augustus. He
was mad for ruin and thought it a great thing to leave the last golden
bezants of his coat of arms in the grasp of this courtesan, whom the
world of Paris desired. He, too, accepted Nana’s conditions, leaving
her entire freedom of action and claiming her caresses only on certain
days. He was not even naively impassioned enough to require her to make
vows. Muffat suspected nothing. As to Vandeuvres, he knew things would
take place for a certainty, but he never made the least allusion to
them and pretended total ignorance, while his lips wore the subtle
smile of the skeptical man of pleasure who does not seek the
impossible, provided he can have his day and that Paris is aware of it.

From that time forth Nana’s house was really properly appointed. The
staff of servants was complete in the stable, in the kitchen and in my
lady’s chamber. Zoé organized everything and passed successfully
through the most unforeseen difficulties. The household moved as easily
as the scenery in a theater and was regulated like a grand
administrative concern. Indeed, it worked with such precision that
during the early months there were no jars and no derangements. Madame,
however, pained Zoé extremely with her imprudent acts, her sudden fits
of unwisdom, her mad bravado. Still the lady’s maid grew gradually
lenient, for she had noticed that she made increased profits in seasons
of wanton waste when Madame had committed a folly which must be made up
for. It was then that the presents began raining on her, and she fished
up many a louis out of the troubled waters.

One morning when Muffat had not yet left the bedroom Zoé ushered a
gentleman into the dressing room, where Nana was changing her
underwear. He was trembling violently.

“Good gracious! It’s Zizi!” said the young woman in great astonishment.

It was, indeed, Georges. But when he saw her in her shift, with her
golden hair over her bare shoulders, he threw his arms round her neck
and round her waist and kissed her in all directions. She began
struggling to get free, for she was frightened, and in smothered tones
she stammered:

“Do leave off! He’s there! Oh, it’s silly of you! And you, Zoé, are you
out of your senses? Take him away and keep him downstairs; I’ll try and
come down.”

Zoé had to push him in front of her. When Nana was able to rejoin them
in the drawing room downstairs she scolded them both, and Zoé pursed up
her lips and took her departure with a vexed expression, remarking that
she had only been anxious to give Madame a pleasure. Georges was so
glad to see Nana again and gazed at her with such delight that his fine
eyes began filling with tears. The miserable days were over now; his
mother believed him to have grown reasonable and had allowed him to
leave Les Fondettes. Accordingly, the moment he had reached the
terminus, he had got a conveyance in order the more quickly to come and
kiss his sweet darling. He spoke of living at her side in future, as he
used to do down in the country when he waited for her, barefooted, in
the bedroom at La Mignotte. And as he told her about himself, he let
his fingers creep forward, for he longed to touch her after that cruel
year of separation. Then he got possession of her hands, felt about the
wide sleeves of her dressing jacket, traveled up as far as her
shoulders.

“You still love your baby?” he asked in his child voice.

“Oh, I certainly love him!” answered Nana, briskly getting out of his
clutches. “But you come popping in without warning. You know, my little
man, I’m not my own mistress; you must be good!”

Georges, when he got out of his cab, had been so dizzy with the feeling
that his long desire was at last about to be satisfied that he had not
even noticed what sort of house he was entering. But now he became
conscious of a change in the things around him. He examined the
sumptuous dining room with its lofty decorated ceiling, its Gobelin
hangings, its buffet blazing with plate.

“Yes, yes!” he remarked sadly.

And with that she made him understand that he was never to come in the
mornings but between four and six in the afternoon, if he cared to.
That was her reception time. Then as he looked at her with suppliant,
questioning eyes and craved no boon at all, she, in her turn, kissed
him on the forehead in the most amiable way.

“Be very good,” she whispered. “I’ll do all I can.”

But the truth was that this remark now meant nothing. She thought
Georges very nice and would have liked him as a companion, but as
nothing else. Nevertheless, when he arrived daily at four o’clock he
seemed so wretched that she was often fain to be as compliant as of old
and would hide him in cupboards and constantly allow him to pick up the
crumbs from Beauty’s table. He hardly ever left the house now and
became as much one of its inmates as the little dog Bijou. Together
they nestled among Mistress’s skirts and enjoyed a little of her at a
time, even when she was with another man, while doles of sugar and
stray caresses not seldom fell to their share in her hours of
loneliness and boredom.

Doubtless Mme Hugon found out that the lad had again returned to that
wicked woman’s arms, for she hurried up to Paris and came and sought
aid from her other son, the Lieutenant Philippe, who was then in
garrison at Vincennes. Georges, who was hiding from his elder brother,
was seized with despairing apprehension, for he feared the latter might
adopt violent tactics, and as his tenderness for Nana was so nervously
expansive that he could not keep anything from her, he soon began
talking of nothing but his big brother, a great, strong fellow, who was
capable of all kinds of things.

“You know,” he explained, “Mamma won’t come to you while she can send
my brother. Oh, she’ll certainly send Philippe to fetch me.”

The first time he said this Nana was deeply wounded. She said frigidly:

“Gracious me, I should like to see him come! For all that he’s a
lieutenant in the army, Francois will chuck him out in double-quick
time!”

Soon, as the lad kept returning to the subject of his brother, she
ended by taking a certain interest in Philippe, and in a week’s time
she knew him from head to foot—knew him as very tall and very strong
and merry and somewhat rough. She learned intimate details, too, and
found out that he had hair on his arms and a birthmark on his shoulder.
So thoroughly did she learn her lesson that one day, when she was full
of the image of the man who was to be turned out of doors by her
orders, she cried out:

“I say, Zizi, your brother’s not coming. He’s a base deserter!”

The next day, when Georges and Nana were alone together, Francois came
upstairs to ask whether Madame would receive Lieutenant Philippe Hugon.
Georges grew extremely white and murmured:

“I suspected it; Mamma was talking about it this morning.”

And he besought the young woman to send down word that she could not
see visitors. But she was already on her feet and seemed all aflame as
she said:

“Why should I not see him? He would think me afraid. Dear me, we’ll
have a good laugh! Just leave the gentleman in the drawing room for a
quarter of an hour, Francois; afterward bring him up to me.”

She did not sit down again but began pacing feverishly to and fro
between the fireplace and a Venetian mirror hanging above an Italian
chest. And each time she reached the latter she glanced at the glass
and tried the effect of a smile, while Georges sat nervously on a sofa,
trembling at the thought of the coming scene. As she walked up and down
she kept jerking out such little phrases as:

“It will calm the fellow down if he has to wait a quarter of an hour.
Besides, if he thinks he’s calling on a tottie the drawing room will
stun him! Yes, yes, have a good look at everything, my fine fellow! It
isn’t imitation, and it’ll teach you to respect the lady who owns it.
Respect’s what men need to feel! The quarter of an hour’s gone by, eh?
No? Only ten minutes? Oh, we’ve got plenty of time.”

She did not stay where she was, however. At the end of the quarter of
an hour she sent Georges away after making him solemnly promise not to
listen at the door, as such conduct would scarcely look proper in case
the servants saw him. As he went into her bedroom Zizi ventured in a
choking sort of way to remark:

“It’s my brother, you know—”

“Don’t you fear,” she said with much dignity; “if he’s polite I’ll be
polite.”

Francois ushered in Philippe Hugon, who wore morning dress. Georges
began crossing on tiptoe on the other side of the room, for he was
anxious to obey the young woman. But the sound of voices retained him,
and he hesitated in such anguish of mind that his knees gave way under
him. He began imagining that a dread catastrophe would befall, that
blows would be struck, that something abominable would happen, which
would make Nana everlastingly odious to him. And so he could not
withstand the temptation to come back and put his ear against the door.
He heard very ill, for the thick portières deadened every sound, but he
managed to catch certain words spoken by Philippe, stern phrases in
which such terms as “mere child,” “family,” “honor,” were distinctly
audible. He was so anxious about his darling’s possible answers that
his heart beat violently and filled his head with a confused, buzzing
noise. She was sure to give vent to a “Dirty blackguard!” or to a
“Leave me bloody well alone! I’m in my own house!” But nothing
happened—not a breath came from her direction. Nana seemed dead in
there! Soon even his brother’s voice grew gentler, and he could not
make it out at all, when a strange murmuring sound finally stupefied
him. Nana was sobbing! For a moment or two he was the prey of
contending feelings and knew not whether to run away or to fall upon
Philippe. But just then Zoé came into the room, and he withdrew from
the door, ashamed at being thus surprised.

She began quietly to put some linen away in a cupboard while he stood
mute and motionless, pressing his forehead against a windowpane. He was
tortured by uncertainty. After a short silence the woman asked:

“It’s your brother that’s with Madame?”

“Yes,” replied the lad in a choking voice.

There was a fresh silence.

“And it makes you anxious, doesn’t it, Monsieur Georges?”

“Yes,” he rejoined in the same painful, suffering tone.

Zoé was in no hurry. She folded up some lace and said slowly:

“You’re wrong; Madame will manage it all.”

And then the conversation ended; they said not another word. Still she
did not leave the room. A long quarter of an hour passed, and she
turned round again without seeming to notice the look of exasperation
overspreading the lad’s face, which was already white with the effects
of uncertainty and constraint. He was casting sidelong glances in the
direction of the drawing room.

Maybe Nana was still crying. The other must have grown savage and have
dealt her blows. Thus when Zoé finally took her departure he ran to the
door and once more pressed his ear against it. He was thunderstruck;
his head swam, for he heard a brisk outburst of gaiety, tender,
whispering voices and the smothered giggles of a woman who is being
tickled. Besides, almost directly afterward, Nana conducted Philippe to
the head of the stairs, and there was an exchange of cordial and
familiar phrases.

When Georges again ventured into the drawing room the young woman was
standing before the mirror, looking at herself.

“Well?” he asked in utter bewilderment.

“Well, what?” she said without turning round. Then negligently:

“What did you mean? He’s very nice, is your brother!”

“So it’s all right, is it?”

“Oh, certainly it’s all right! Goodness me, what’s come over you? One
would have thought we were going to fight!”

Georges still failed to understand.

“I thought I heard—that is, you didn’t cry?” he stammered out.

“Me cry!” she exclaimed, looking fixedly at him. “Why, you’re dreaming!
What makes you think I cried?”

Thereupon the lad was treated to a distressing scene for having
disobeyed and played Paul Pry behind the door. She sulked, and he
returned with coaxing submissiveness to the old subject, for he wished
to know all about it.

“And my brother then?”

“Your brother saw where he was at once. You know, I might have been a
tottie, in which case his interference would have been accounted for by
your age and the family honor! Oh yes, I understand those kinds of
feelings! But a single glance was enough for him, and he behaved like a
well-bred man at once. So don’t be anxious any longer. It’s all
over—he’s gone to quiet your mamma!”

And she went on laughingly:

“For that matter, you’ll see your brother here. I’ve invited him, and
he’s going to return.”

“Oh, he’s going to return,” said the lad, growing white. He added
nothing, and they ceased talking of Philippe. She began dressing to go
out, and he watched her with his great, sad eyes. Doubtless he was very
glad that matters had got settled, for he would have preferred death to
a rupture of their connection, but deep down in his heart there was a
silent anguish, a profound sense of pain, which he had no experience of
and dared not talk about. How Philippe quieted their mother’s fears he
never knew, but three days later she returned to Les Fondettes,
apparently satisfied. On the evening of her return, at Nana’s house, he
trembled when Francois announced the lieutenant, but the latter jested
gaily and treated him like a young rascal, whose escapade he had
favored as something not likely to have any consequences. The lad’s
heart was sore within him; he scarcely dared move and blushed girlishly
at the least word that was spoken to him. He had not lived much in
Philippe’s society; he was ten years his junior, and he feared him as
he would a father, from whom stories about women are concealed.
Accordingly he experienced an uneasy sense of shame when he saw him so
free in Nana’s company and heard him laugh uproariously, as became a
man who was plunging into a life of pleasure with the gusto born of
magnificent health. Nevertheless, when his brother shortly began to
present himself every day, Georges ended by getting somewhat used to it
all. Nana was radiant.

This, her latest installation, had been involving all the riotous waste
attendant on the life of gallantry, and now her housewarming was being
defiantly celebrated in a grand mansion positively overflowing with
males and with furniture.

One afternoon when the Hugons were there Count Muffat arrived out of
hours. But when Zoé told him that Madame was with friends he refused to
come in and took his departure discreetly, as became a gallant
gentleman. When he made his appearance again in the evening Nana
received him with the frigid indignation of a grossly affronted woman.

“Sir,” she said, “I have given you no cause why you should insult me.
You must understand this: when I am at home to visitors, I beg you to
make your appearance just like other people.”

The count simply gaped in astonishment. “But, my dear—” he endeavored
to explain.

“Perhaps it was because I had visitors! Yes, there were men here, but
what d’you suppose I was doing with those men? You only advertise a
woman’s affairs when you act the discreet lover, and I don’t want to be
advertised; I don’t!”

He obtained his pardon with difficulty, but at bottom he was enchanted.
It was with scenes such as these that she kept him in unquestioning and
docile submission. She had long since succeeded in imposing Georges on
him as a young vagabond who, she declared, amused her. She made him
dine with Philippe, and the count behaved with great amiability. When
they rose from table he took the young man on one side and asked news
of his mother. From that time forth the young Hugons, Vandeuvres and
Muffat were openly about the house and shook hands as guests and
intimates might have done. It was a more convenient arrangement than
the previous one. Muffat alone still abstained discreetly from
too-frequent visits, thus adhering to the ceremonious policy of an
ordinary strange caller. At night when Nana was sitting on her
bearskins drawing off her stockings, he would talk amicably about the
other three gentlemen and lay especial stress on Philippe, who was
loyalty itself.

“It’s very true; they’re nice,” Nana would say as she lingered on the
floor to change her shift. “Only, you know, they see what I am. One
word about it and I should chuck ’em all out of doors for you!”

Nevertheless, despite her luxurious life and her group of courtiers,
Nana was nearly bored to death. She had men for every minute of the
night, and money overflowed even among the brushes and combs in the
drawers of her dressing table. But all this had ceased to satisfy her;
she felt that there was a void somewhere or other, an empty place
provocative of yawns. Her life dragged on, devoid of occupation, and
successive days only brought back the same monotonous hours. Tomorrow
had ceased to be; she lived like a bird: sure of her food and ready to
perch and roost on any branch which she came to. This certainty of food
and drink left her lolling effortless for whole days, lulled her to
sleep in conventual idleness and submission as though she were the
prisoner of her trade. Never going out except to drive, she was losing
her walking powers. She reverted to low childish tastes, would kiss
Bijou from morning to night and kill time with stupid pleasures while
waiting for the man whose caresses she tolerated with an appearance of
complaisant lassitude. Amid this species of self-abandonment she now
took no thought about anything save her personal beauty; her sole care
was to look after herself, to wash and to perfume her limbs, as became
one who was proud of being able to undress at any moment and in face of
anybody without having to blush for her imperfections.

At ten in the morning Nana would get up. Bijou, the Scotch griffon dog,
used to lick her face and wake her, and then would ensue a game of play
lasting some five minutes, during which the dog would race about over
her arms and legs and cause Count Muffat much distress. Bijou was the
first little male he had ever been jealous of. It was not at all
proper, he thought, that an animal should go poking its nose under the
bedclothes like that! After this Nana would proceed to her dressing
room, where she took a bath. Toward eleven o’clock Francois would come
and do up her hair before beginning the elaborate manipulations of the
afternoon.

At breakfast, as she hated feeding alone, she nearly always had Mme
Maloir at table with her. This lady would arrive from unknown regions
in the morning, wearing her extravagantly quaint hats, and would return
at night to that mysterious existence of hers, about which no one ever
troubled. But the hardest to bear were the two or three hours between
lunch and the toilet. On ordinary occasions she proposed a game of
bezique to her old friend; on others she would read the Figaro, in
which the theatrical echoes and the fashionable news interested her.
Sometimes she even opened a book, for she fancied herself in literary
matters. Her toilet kept her till close on five o’clock, and then only
she would wake from her daylong drowse and drive out or receive a whole
mob of men at her own house. She would often dine abroad and always go
to bed very late, only to rise again on the morrow with the same
languor as before and to begin another day, differing in nothing from
its predecessor.

The great distraction was to go to the Batignolles and see her little
Louis at her aunt’s. For a fortnight at a time she forgot all about
him, and then would follow an access of maternal love, and she would
hurry off on foot with all the modesty and tenderness becoming a good
mother. On such occasions she would be the bearer of snuff for her aunt
and of oranges and biscuits for the child, the kind of presents one
takes to a hospital. Or again she would drive up in her landau on her
return from the Bois, decked in costumes, the resplendence of which
greatly excited the dwellers in the solitary street. Since her niece’s
magnificent elevation Mme Lerat had been puffed up with vanity. She
rarely presented herself in the Avenue de Villiers, for she was pleased
to remark that it wasn’t her place to do so, but she enjoyed triumphs
in her own street. She was delighted when the young woman arrived in
dresses that had cost four or five thousand francs and would be
occupied during the whole of the next day in showing off her presents
and in citing prices which quite stupefied the neighbors. As often as
not, Nana kept Sunday free for the sake of “her family,” and on such
occasions, if Muffat invited her, she would refuse with the smile of a
good little shopwoman. It was impossible, she would answer; she was
dining at her aunt’s; she was going to see Baby. Moreover, that poor
little man Louiset was always ill. He was almost three years old,
growing quite a great boy! But he had had an eczema on the back of his
neck, and now concretions were forming in his ears, which pointed, it
was feared, to decay of the bones of the skull. When she saw how pale
he looked, with his spoiled blood and his flabby flesh all out in
yellow patches, she would become serious, but her principal feeling
would be one of astonishment. What could be the matter with the little
love that he should grow so weakly? She, his mother, was so strong and
well!

On the days when her child did not engross attention Nana would again
sink back into the noisy monotony of her existence, with its drives in
the Bois, first nights at the theater, dinners and suppers at the
Maison-d’Or or the Café Anglais, not to mention all the places of
public resort, all the spectacles to which crowds rushed—Mabille, the
reviews, the races. But whatever happened she still felt that stupid,
idle void, which caused her, as it were, to suffer internal cramps.
Despite the incessant infatuations that possessed her heart, she would
stretch out her arms with a gesture of immense weariness the moment she
was left alone. Solitude rendered her low spirited at once, for it
brought her face to face with the emptiness and boredom within her.
Extremely gay by nature and profession, she became dismal in solitude
and would sum up her life in the following ejaculation, which recurred
incessantly between her yawns:

“Oh, how the men bother me!”

One afternoon as she was returning home from a concert, Nana, on the
sidewalk in the Rue Montmartre, noticed a woman trotting along in
down-at-the-heel boots, dirty petticoats and a hat utterly ruined by
the rain. She recognized her suddenly.

“Stop, Charles!” she shouted to the coachman and began calling: “Satin,
Satin!”

Passers-by turned their heads; the whole street stared. Satin had drawn
near and was still further soiling herself against the carriage wheels.

“Do get in, my dear girl,” said Nana tranquilly, disdaining the
onlookers.

And with that she picked her up and carried her off, though she was in
disgusting contrast to her light blue landau and her dress of
pearl-gray silk trimmed with Chantilly, while the street smiled at the
coachman’s loftily dignified demeanor.

From that day forth Nana had a passion to occupy her thoughts. Satin
became her vicious foible. Washed and dressed and duly installed in the
house in the Avenue de Villiers, during three days the girl talked of
Saint-Lazare and the annoyances the sisters had caused her and how
those dirty police people had put her down on the official list. Nana
grew indignant and comforted her and vowed she would get her name taken
off, even though she herself should have to go and find out the
minister of the interior. Meanwhile there was no sort of hurry: nobody
would come and search for her at Nana’s—that was certain. And thereupon
the two women began to pass tender afternoons together, making
numberless endearing little speeches and mingling their kisses with
laughter. The same little sport, which the arrival of the plainclothes
men had interrupted in the Rue de Laval, was beginning again in a
jocular sort of spirit. One fine evening, however, it became serious,
and Nana, who had been so disgusted at Laure’s, now understood what it
meant. She was upset and enraged by it, the more so because Satin
disappeared on the morning of the fourth day. No one had seen her go
out. She had, indeed, slipped away in her new dress, seized by a
longing for air, full of sentimental regret for her old street
existence.

That day there was such a terrible storm in the house that all the
servants hung their heads in sheepish silence. Nana had come near
beating Francois for not throwing himself across the door through which
Satin escaped. She did her best, however, to control herself, and
talked of Satin as a dirty swine. Oh, it would teach her to pick filthy
things like that out of the gutter!

When Madame shut herself up in her room in the afternoon Zoé heard her
sobbing. In the evening she suddenly asked for her carriage and had
herself driven to Laure’s. It had occurred to her that she would find
Satin at the table d’hôte in the Rue des Martyrs. She was not going
there for the sake of seeing her again but in order to catch her one in
the face! As a matter of fact Satin was dining at a little table with
Mme Robert. Seeing Nana, she began to laugh, but the former, though
wounded to the quick, did not make a scene. On the contrary, she was
very sweet and very compliant. She paid for champagne made five or six
tablefuls tipsy and then carried off Satin when Mme Robert was in the
closets. Not till they were in the carriage did she make a mordant
attack on her, threatening to kill her if she did it again.

After that day the same little business began again continually. On
twenty different occasions Nana, tragically furious, as only a jilted
woman can be ran off in pursuit of this sluttish creature, whose
flights were prompted by the boredom she suffered amid the comforts of
her new home. Nana began to talk of boxing Mme Robert’s ears; one day
she even meditated a duel; there was one woman too many, she said.

In these latter times, whenever she dined at Laure’s, she donned her
diamonds and occasionally brought with her Louise Violaine, Maria Blond
and Tatan Nene, all of them ablaze with finery; and while the sordid
feast was progressing in the three saloons and the yellow gaslight
flared overhead, these four resplendent ladies would demean themselves
with a vengeance, for it was their delight to dazzle the little local
courtesans and to carry them off when dinner was over. On days such as
these Laure, sleek and tight-laced as ever would kiss everyone with an
air of expanded maternity. Yet notwithstanding all these circumstances
Satin’s blue eyes and pure virginal face remained as calm as
heretofore; torn, beaten and pestered by the two women, she would
simply remark that it was a funny business, and they would have done
far better to make it up at once. It did no good to slap her; she
couldn’t cut herself in two, however much she wanted to be nice to
everybody. It was Nana who finally carried her off in triumph, so
assiduously had she loaded Satin with kindnesses and presents. In order
to be revenged, however, Mme Robert wrote abominable, anonymous letters
to her rival’s lovers.

For some time past Count Muffat had appeared suspicious, and one
morning, with considerable show of feeling, he laid before Nana an
anonymous letter, where in the very first sentences she read that she
was accused of deceiving the count with Vandeuvres and the young
Hugons.

“It’s false! It’s false!” she loudly exclaimed in accents of
extraordinary candor.

“You swear?” asked Muffat, already willing to be comforted.

“I’ll swear by whatever you like—yes, by the head of my child!”

But the letter was long. Soon her connection with Satin was described
in the broadest and most ignoble terms. When she had done reading she
smiled.

“Now I know who it comes from,” she remarked simply.

And as Muffat wanted her denial to the charges therein contained, she
resumed quietly enough:

“That’s a matter which doesn’t concern you, dear old pet. How can it
hurt you?”

She did not deny anything. He used some horrified expressions.
Thereupon she shrugged her shoulders. Where had he been all this time?
Why, it was done everywhere! And she mentioned her friends and swore
that fashionable ladies went in for it. In fact, to hear her speak,
nothing could be commoner or more natural. But a lie was a lie, and so
a moment ago he had seen how angry she grew in the matter of Vandeuvres
and the young Hugons! Oh, if that had been true he would have been
justified in throttling her! But what was the good of lying to him
about a matter of no consequence? And with that she repeated her
previous expression:

“Come now, how can it hurt you?”

Then as the scene still continued, she closed it with a rough speech:

“Besides, dear boy, if the thing doesn’t suit you it’s very simple: the
house door’s open! There now, you must take me as you find me!”

He hung his head, for the young woman’s vows of fidelity made him happy
at bottom. She, however, now knew her power over him and ceased to
consider his feelings. And from that time forth Satin was openly
installed in the house on the same footing as the gentlemen. Vandeuvres
had not needed anonymous letters in order to understand how matters
stood, and accordingly he joked and tried to pick jealous quarrels with
Satin. Philippe and Georges, on their parts, treated her like a jolly
good fellow, shaking hands with her and cracking the riskiest jokes
imaginable.

Nana had an adventure one evening when this slut of a girl had given
her the go-by and she had gone to dine in the Rue des Martyrs without
being able to catch her. While she was dining by herself Daguenet had
appeared on the scene, for although he had reformed, he still
occasionally dropped in under the influence of his old vicious
inclinations. He hoped of course that no one would meet him in these
black recesses, dedicated to the town’s lowest depravity. Accordingly
even Nana’s presence seemed to embarrass him at the outset. But he was
not the man to run away and, coming forward with a smile, he asked if
Madame would be so kind as to allow him to dine at her table. Noticing
his jocular tone, Nana assumed her magnificently frigid demeanor and
icily replied:

“Sit down where you please, sir. We are in a public place.”

Thus begun, the conversation proved amusing. But at dessert Nana, bored
and burning for a triumph, put her elbows on the table and began in the
old familiar way:

“Well, what about your marriage, my lad? Is it getting on all right?”

“Not much,” Daguenet averred.

As a matter of fact, just when he was about to venture on his request
at the Muffats’, he had met with such a cold reception from the count
that he had prudently refrained. The business struck him as a failure.
Nana fixed her clear eyes on him; she was sitting, leaning her chin on
her hand, and there was an ironical curve about her lips.

“Oh yes! I’m a baggage,” she resumed slowly. “Oh yes, the future
father-in-law will have to be dragged from between my claws! Dear me,
dear me, for a fellow with NOUS, you’re jolly stupid! What! D’you mean
to say you’re going to tell your tales to a man who adores me and tells
me everything? Now just listen: you shall marry if I wish it, my little
man!”

For a minute or two he had felt the truth of this, and now he began
scheming out a method of submission. Nevertheless, he still talked
jokingly, not wishing the matter to grow serious, and after he had put
on his gloves he demanded the hand of Mlle Estelle de Beuville in the
strict regulation manner. Nana ended by laughing, as though she had
been tickled. Oh, that Mimi! It was impossible to bear him a grudge!
Daguenet’s great successes with ladies of her class were due to the
sweetness of his voice, a voice of such musical purity and pliancy as
to have won him among courtesans the sobriquet of “Velvet-Mouth.” Every
woman would give way to him when he lulled her with his sonorous
caresses. He knew this power and rocked Nana to sleep with endless
words, telling her all kinds of idiotic anecdotes. When they left the
table d’hôte she was blushing rosy-red; she trembled as she hung on his
arm; he had reconquered her. As it was very fine, she sent her carriage
away and walked with him as far as his own place, where she went
upstairs with him naturally enough. Two hours later, as she was
dressing again, she said:

“So you hold to this marriage of yours, Mimi?”

“Egad,” he muttered, “it’s the best thing I could possibly do after
all! You know I’m stony broke.”

She summoned him to button her boots, and after a pause:

“Good heavens! I’ve no objection. I’ll shove you on! She’s as dry as a
lath, is that little thing, but since it suits your game—oh, I’m
agreeable: I’ll run the thing through for you.”

Then with bosom still uncovered, she began laughing:

“Only what will you give me?”

He had caught her in his arms and was kissing her on the shoulders in a
perfect access of gratitude while she quivered with excitement and
struggled merrily and threw herself backward in her efforts to be free.

“Oh, I know,” she cried, excited by the contest. “Listen to what I want
in the way of commission. On your wedding day you shall make me a
present of your innocence. Before your wife, d’you understand?”

“That’s it! That’s it!” he said, laughing even louder than Nana.

The bargain amused them—they thought the whole business very good,
indeed.

Now as it happened, there was a dinner at Nana’s next day. For the
matter of that, it was the customary Thursday dinner, and Muffat,
Vandeuvres, the young Hugons and Satin were present. The count arrived
early. He stood in need of eighty thousand francs wherewith to free the
young woman from two or three debts and to give her a set of sapphires
she was dying to possess. As he had already seriously lessened his
capital, he was in search of a lender, for he did not dare to sell
another property. With the advice of Nana herself he had addressed
himself to Labordette, but the latter, deeming it too heavy an
undertaking, had mentioned it to the hairdresser Francis, who willingly
busied himself in such affairs in order to oblige his lady clients. The
count put himself into the hands of these gentlemen but expressed a
formal desire not to appear in the matter, and they both undertook to
keep in hand the bill for a hundred thousand francs which he was to
sign, excusing themselves at the same time for charging a matter of
twenty thousand francs interest and loudly denouncing the blackguard
usurers to whom, they declared, it had been necessary to have recourse.
When Muffat had himself announced, Francis was putting the last touches
to Nana’s coiffure. Labordette also was sitting familiarly in the
dressing room, as became a friend of no consequence. Seeing the count,
he discreetly placed a thick bundle of bank notes among the powders and
pomades, and the bill was signed on the marble-topped dressing table.
Nana was anxious to keep Labordette to dinner, but he declined—he was
taking a rich foreigner about Paris. Muffat, however, led him aside and
begged him to go to Becker, the jeweler, and bring him back thence the
set of sapphires, which he wanted to present the young woman by way of
surprise that very evening. Labordette willingly undertook the
commission, and half an hour later Julien handed the jewel case
mysteriously to the count.

During dinnertime Nana was nervous. The sight of the eighty thousand
francs had excited her. To think all that money was to go to
tradespeople! It was a disgusting thought. After soup had been served
she grew sentimental, and in the splendid dining room, glittering with
plate and glass, she talked of the bliss of poverty. The men were in
evening dress, Nana in a gown of white embroidered satin, while Satin
made a more modest appearance in black silk with a simple gold heart at
her throat, which was a present from her kind friend. Julien and
Francois waited behind the guests and were assisted in this by Zoé. All
three looked most dignified.

“It’s certain I had far greater fun when I hadn’t a cent!” Nana
repeated.

She had placed Muffat on her right hand and Vandeuvres on her left, but
she scarcely looked at them, so taken up was she with Satin, who sat in
state between Philippe and Georges on the opposite side of the table.

“Eh, duckie?” she kept saying at every turn. “How we did use to laugh
in those days when we went to Mother Josse’s school in the Rue
Polonceau!”

When the roast was being served the two women plunged into a world of
reminiscences. They used to have regular chattering fits of this kind
when a sudden desire to stir the muddy depths of their childhood would
possess them. These fits always occurred when men were present: it was
as though they had given way to a burning desire to treat them to the
dunghill on which they had grown to woman’s estate. The gentlemen paled
visibly and looked embarrassed. The young Hugons did their best to
laugh, while Vandeuvres nervously toyed with his beard and Muffat
redoubled his gravity.

“You remember Victor?” said Nana. “There was a wicked little fellow for
you! Why, he used to take the little girls into cellars!”

“I remember him perfectly,” replied Satin. “I recollect the big
courtyard at your place very well. There was a portress there with a
broom!”

“Mother Boche—she’s dead.”

“And I can still picture your shop. Your mother was a great fatty. One
evening when we were playing your father came in drunk. Oh, so drunk!”

At this point Vandeuvres tried to intercept the ladies’ reminiscences
and to effect a diversion,

“I say, my dear, I should be very glad to have some more truffles.
They’re simply perfect. Yesterday I had some at the house of the Duc de
Corbreuse, which did not come up to them at all.”

“The truffles, Julien!” said Nana roughly.

Then returning to the subject:

“By Jove, yes, Dad hadn’t any sense! And then what a smash there was!
You should have seen it—down, down, down we went, starving away all the
time. I can tell you I’ve had to bear pretty well everything and it’s a
miracle I didn’t kick the bucket over it, like Daddy and Mamma.”

This time Muffat, who was playing with his knife in a state of infinite
exasperation, made so bold as to intervene.

“What you’re telling us isn’t very cheerful.”

“Eh, what? Not cheerful!” she cried with a withering glance. “I believe
you; it isn’t cheerful! Somebody had to earn a living for us dear boy.
Oh yes, you know, I’m the right sort; I don’t mince matters. Mamma was
a laundress; Daddy used to get drunk, and he died of it! There! If it
doesn’t suit you—if you’re ashamed of my family—”

They all protested. What was she after now? They had every sort of
respect for her family! But she went on:

“If you’re ashamed of my family you’ll please leave me, because I’m not
one of those women who deny their father and mother. You must take me
and them together, d’you understand?”

They took her as required; they accepted the dad, the mamma, the past;
in fact, whatever she chose. With their eyes fixed on the tablecloth,
the four now sat shrinking and insignificant while Nana, in a transport
of omnipotence, trampled on them in the old muddy boots worn long since
in the Rue de la Goutte-d’Or. She was determined not to lay down the
cudgels just yet. It was all very fine to bring her fortunes, to build
her palaces; she would never leave off regretting the time when she
munched apples! Oh, what bosh that stupid thing money was! It was made
for the tradespeople! Finally her outburst ended in a sentimentally
expressed desire for a simple, openhearted existence, to be passed in
an atmosphere of universal benevolence.

When she got to this point she noticed Julien waiting idly by.

“Well, what’s the matter? Hand the champagne then!” she said. “Why
d’you stand staring at me like a goose?”

During this scene the servants had never once smiled. They apparently
heard nothing, and the more their mistress let herself down, the more
majestic they became. Julien set to work to pour out the champagne and
did so without mishap, but Francois, who was handing round the fruit,
was so unfortunate as to tilt the fruit dish too low, and the apples,
the pears and the grapes rolled on the table.

“You bloody clumsy lot!” cried Nana.

The footman was mistaken enough to try and explain that the fruit had
not been firmly piled up. Zoé had disarranged it by taking out some
oranges.

“Then it’s Zoé that’s the goose!” said Nana.

“Madame—” murmured the lady’s maid in an injured tone.

Straightway Madame rose to her feet, and in a sharp voice and with
royally authoritative gesture:

“We’ve had enough of this, haven’t we? Leave the room, all of you! We
don’t want you any longer!”

This summary procedure calmed her down, and she was forthwith all
sweetness and amiability. The dessert proved charming, and the
gentlemen grew quite merry waiting on themselves. But Satin, having
peeled a pear, came and ate it behind her darling, leaning on her
shoulder the while and whispering sundry little remarks in her ear, at
which they both laughed very loudly. By and by she wanted to share her
last piece of pear with Nana and presented it to her between her teeth.
Whereupon there was a great nibbling of lips, and the pear was finished
amid kisses. At this there was a burst of comic protest from the
gentlemen, Philippe shouting to them to take it easy and Vandeuvres
asking if one ought to leave the room. Georges, meanwhile, had come and
put his arm round Satin’s waist and had brought her back to her seat.

“How silly of you!” said Nana. “You’re making her blush, the poor,
darling duck. Never mind, dear girl, let them chaff. It’s our own
little private affair.”

And turning to Muffat, who was watching them with his serious
expression:

“Isn’t it, my friend?”

“Yes, certainly,” he murmured with a slow nod of approval.

He no longer protested now. And so amid that company of gentlemen with
the great names and the old, upright traditions, the two women sat face
to face, exchanging tender glances, conquering, reigning, in tranquil
defiance of the laws of sex, in open contempt for the male portion of
the community. The gentlemen burst into applause.

The company went upstairs to take coffee in the little drawing room,
where a couple of lamps cast a soft glow over the rosy hangings and the
lacquer and old gold of the knickknacks. At that hour of the evening
the light played discreetly over coffers, bronzes and china, lighting
up silver or ivory inlaid work, bringing into view the polished
contours of a carved stick and gleaming over a panel with glossy silky
reflections. The fire, which had been burning since the afternoon, was
dying out in glowing embers. It was very warm—the air behind the
curtains and hangings was languid with warmth. The room was full of
Nana’s intimate existence: a pair of gloves, a fallen handkerchief, an
open book, lay scattered about, and their owner seemed present in
careless attire with that well-known odor of violets and that species
of untidiness which became her in her character of good-natured
courtesan and had such a charming effect among all those rich
surroundings. The very armchairs, which were as wide as beds, and the
sofas, which were as deep as alcoves, invited to slumber oblivious of
the flight of time and to tender whispers in shadowy corners.

Satin went and lolled back in the depths of a sofa near the fireplace.
She had lit a cigarette, but Vandeuvres began amusing himself by
pretending to be ferociously jealous. Nay, he even threatened to send
her his seconds if she still persisted in keeping Nana from her duty.
Philippe and Georges joined him and teased her and badgered her so
mercilessly that at last she shouted out:

“Darling! Darling! Do make ’em keep quiet! They’re still after me!”

“Now then, let her be,” said Nana seriously. “I won’t have her
tormented; you know that quite well. And you, my pet, why d’you always
go mixing yourself up with them when they’ve got so little sense?”

Satin, blushing all over and putting out her tongue, went into the
dressing room, through the widely open door of which you caught a
glimpse of pale marbles gleaming in the milky light of a gas flame in a
globe of rough glass. After that Nana talked to the four men as
charmingly as hostess could. During the day she had read a novel which
was at that time making a good deal of noise. It was the history of a
courtesan, and Nana was very indignant, declaring the whole thing to be
untrue and expressing angry dislike to that kind of monstrous
literature which pretends to paint from nature. “Just as though one
could describe everything,” she said. Just as though a novel ought not
to be written so that the reader may while away an hour pleasantly! In
the matter of books and of plays Nana had very decided opinions: she
wanted tender and noble productions, things that would set her dreaming
and would elevate her soul. Then allusion being made in the course of
conversation to the troubles agitating Paris, the incendiary articles
in the papers, the incipient popular disturbances which followed the
calls to arms nightly raised at public meetings, she waxed wroth with
the Republicans. What on earth did those dirty people who never washed
really want? Were folks not happy? Had not the emperor done everything
for the people? A nice filthy lot of people! She knew ’em; she could
talk about ’em, and, quite forgetting the respect which at dinner she
had just been insisting should be paid to her humble circle in the Rue
de la Goutte-d’Or, she began blackguarding her own class with all the
terror and disgust peculiar to a woman who had risen successfully above
it. That very afternoon she had read in the Figaro an account of the
proceedings at a public meeting which had verged on the comic. Owing to
the slang words that had been used and to the piggish behavior of a
drunken man who had got himself chucked, she was laughing at those
proceedings still.

“Oh, those drunkards!” she said with a disgusted air. “No, look you
here, their republic would be a great misfortune for everybody! Oh, may
God preserve us the emperor as long as possible!”

“God will hear your prayer, my dear,” Muffat replied gravely. “To be
sure, the emperor stands firm.”

He liked her to express such excellent views. Both, indeed, understood
one another in political matters. Vandeuvres and Philippe Hugon
likewise indulged in endless jokes against the “cads,” the quarrelsome
set who scuttled off the moment they clapped eyes on a bayonet. But
Georges that evening remained pale and somber.

“What can be the matter with that baby?” asked Nana, noticing his
troubled appearance.

“With me? Nothing—I am listening,” he muttered.

But he was really suffering. On rising from table he had heard Philippe
joking with the young woman, and now it was Philippe, and not himself,
who sat beside her. His heart, he knew not why, swelled to bursting. He
could not bear to see them so close together; such vile thoughts
oppressed him that shame mingled with his anguish. He who laughed at
Satin, who had accepted Steiner and Muffat and all the rest, felt
outraged and murderous at the thought that Philippe might someday touch
that woman.

“Here, take Bijou,” she said to comfort him, and she passed him the
little dog which had gone to sleep on her dress.

And with that Georges grew happy again, for with the beast still warm
from her lap in his arms, he held, as it were, part of her.

Allusion had been made to a considerable loss which Vandeuvres had last
night sustained at the Imperial Club. Muffat, who did not play,
expressed great astonishment, but Vandeuvres smilingly alluded to his
imminent ruin, about which Paris was already talking. The kind of death
you chose did not much matter, he averred; the great thing was to die
handsomely. For some time past Nana had noticed that he was nervous and
had a sharp downward droop of the mouth and a fitful gleam in the
depths of his clear eyes. 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. Then carelessly:

“By the by, I’ve taken the liberty of giving your name to my outsider,
the filly. Nana, Nana—that sounds well. You’re not vexed?”

“Vexed, why?” she said in a state of inward ecstasy.

The conversation continued, and same mention was made of an execution
shortly to take place. The young woman said she was burning to go to it
when Satin appeared at the dressing-room door and called her in tones
of entreaty. She got up at once and left the gentlemen lolling lazily
about, while they finished their cigars and discussed the grave
question as to how far a murderer subject to chronic alcoholism is
responsible for his act. In the dressing room Zoé sat helpless on a
chair, crying her heart out, while Satin vainly endeavored to console
her.

“What’s the matter?” said Nana in surprise.

“Oh, darling, do speak to her!” said Satin. “I’ve been trying to make
her listen to reason for the last twenty minutes. She’s crying because
you called her a goose.”

“Yes, madame, it’s very hard—very hard,” stuttered Zoé, choked by a
fresh fit of sobbing.

This sad sight melted the young woman’s heart at once. She spoke
kindly, and when the other woman still refused to grow calm she sank
down in front of her and took her round the waist with truly cordial
familiarity:

“But, you silly, I said ‘goose’ just as I might have said anything
else. How shall I explain? I was in a passion—it was wrong of me; now
calm down.”

“I who love Madame so,” stuttered Zoé; “after all I’ve done for
Madame.”

Thereupon Nana kissed the lady’s maid and, wishing to show her she
wasn’t vexed, gave her a dress she had worn three times. Their quarrels
always ended up in the giving of presents! Zoé plugged her handkerchief
into her eyes. She carried the dress off over her arm and added before
leaving that they were very sad in the kitchen and that Julien and
Francois had been unable to eat, so entirely had Madame’s anger taken
away their appetites. Thereupon Madame sent them a louis as a pledge of
reconciliation. She suffered too much if people around her were
sorrowful.

Nana was returning to the drawing room, happy in the thought that she
had patched up a disagreement which was rendering her quietly
apprehensive of the morrow, when Satin came and whispered vehemently in
her ear. She was full of complaint, threatened to be off if those men
still went on teasing her and kept insisting that her darling should
turn them all out of doors for that night, at any rate. It would be a
lesson to them. And then it would be so nice to be alone, both of them!
Nana, with a return of anxiety, declared it to be impossible. Thereupon
the other shouted at her like a violent child and tried hard to
overrule her.

“I wish it, d’you see? Send ’em away or I’m off!”

And she went back into the drawing room, stretched herself out in the
recesses of a divan, which stood in the background near the window, and
lay waiting, silent and deathlike, with her great eyes fixed upon Nana.

The gentlemen were deciding against the new criminological theories.
Granted that lovely invention of irresponsibility in certain
pathological cases, and criminals ceased to exist and sick people alone
remained. The young woman, expressing approval with an occasional nod,
was busy considering how best to dismiss the count. The others would
soon be going, but he would assuredly prove obstinate. In fact, when
Philippe got up to withdraw, Georges followed him at once—he seemed
only anxious not to leave his brother behind. Vandeuvres lingered some
minutes longer, feeling his way, as it were, and waiting to find out
if, by any chance, some important business would oblige Muffat to cede
him his place. Soon, however, when he saw the count deliberately taking
up his quarters for the night, he desisted from his purpose and said
good-by, as became a man of tact. But on his way to the door, he
noticed Satin staring fixedly at Nana, as usual. Doubtless he
understood what this meant, for he seemed amused and came and shook
hands with her.

“We’re not angry, eh?” he whispered. “Pray pardon me. You’re the nicer
attraction of the two, on my honor!”

Satin deigned no reply. Nor did she take her eyes off Nana and the
count, who were now alone. Muffat, ceasing to be ceremonious, had come
to sit beside the young woman. He took her fingers and began kissing
them. Whereupon Nana, seeking to change the current of his thoughts,
asked him if his daughter Estelle were better. The previous night he
had been complaining of the child’s melancholy behavior—he could not
even spend a day happily at his own house, with his wife always out and
his daughter icily silent.

In family matters of this kind Nana was always full of good advice, and
when Muffat abandoned all his usual self-control under the influence of
mental and physical relaxation and once more launched out into his
former plaints, she remembered the promise she had made.

“Suppose you were to marry her?” she said. And with that she ventured
to talk of Daguenet. At the mere mention of the name the count was
filled with disgust. “Never,” he said after what she had told him!

She pretended great surprise and then burst out laughing and put her
arm round his neck.

“Oh, the jealous man! To think of it! Just argue it out a little. Why,
they slandered me to you—I was furious. At present I should be ever so
sorry if—”

But over Muffat’s shoulder she met Satin’s gaze. And she left him
anxiously and in a grave voice continued:

“This marriage must come off, my friend; I don’t want to prevent your
daughter’s happiness. The young man’s most charming; you could not
possibly find a better sort.”

And she launched into extraordinary praise of Daguenet. The count had
again taken her hands; he no longer refused now; he would see about it,
he said, they would talk the matter over. By and by, when he spoke of
going to bed, she sank her voice and excused herself. It was
impossible; she was not well. If he loved her at all he would not
insist! Nevertheless, he was obstinate; he refused to go away, and she
was beginning to give in when she met Satin’s eyes once more. Then she
grew inflexible. No, the thing was out of the question! The count,
deeply moved and with a look of suffering, had risen and was going in
quest of his hat. But in the doorway he remembered the set of
sapphires; he could feel the case in his pocket. He had been wanting to
hide it at the bottom of the bed so that when she entered it before him
she should feel it against her legs. Since dinnertime he had been
meditating this little surprise like a schoolboy, and now, in trouble
and anguish of heart at being thus dismissed, he gave her the case
without further ceremony.

“What is it?” she queried. “Sapphires? Dear me! Oh yes, it’s that set.
How sweet you are! But I say, my darling, d’you believe it’s the same
one? In the shopwindow it made a much greater show.”

That was all the thanks he got, and she let him go away. He noticed
Satin stretched out silent and expectant, and with that he gazed at
both women and without further insistence submitted to his fate and
went downstairs. The hall door had not yet closed when Satin caught
Nana round the waist and danced and sang. Then she ran to the window.

“Oh, just look at the figure he cuts down in the street!” The two women
leaned upon the wrought-iron window rail in the shadow of the curtains.
One o’clock struck. The Avenue de Villiers was deserted, and its double
file of gas lamps stretched away into the darkness of the damp March
night through which great gusts of wind kept sweeping, laden with rain.
There were vague stretches of land on either side of the road which
looked like gulfs of shadow, while scaffoldings round mansions in
process of construction loomed upward under the dark sky. They laughed
uncontrollably as they watched Muffat’s rounded back and glistening
shadow disappearing along the wet sidewalk into the glacial, desolate
plains of new Paris. But Nana silenced Satin.

“Take care; there are the police!”

Thereupon they smothered their laughter and gazed in secret fear at two
dark figures walking with measured tread on the opposite side of the
avenue. Amid all her luxurious surroundings, amid all the royal
splendors of the woman whom all must obey, Nana still stood in horror
of the police and did not like to hear them mentioned any oftener than
death. She felt distinctly unwell when a policeman looked up at her
house. One never knew what such people might do! They might easily take
them for loose women if they heard them laughing at that hour of the
night. Satin, with a little shudder, had squeezed herself up against
Nana. Nevertheless, the pair stayed where they were and were soon
interested in the approach of a lantern, the light of which danced over
the puddles in the road. It was an old ragpicker woman who was busy
raking in the gutters. Satin recognized her.

“Dear me,” she exclaimed, “it’s Queen Pomare with her wickerwork
shawl!”

And while a gust of wind lashed the fine rain in their faces she told
her beloved the story of Queen Pomare. Oh, she had been a splendid girl
once upon a time: all Paris had talked of her beauty. And such devilish
go and such cheek! Why, she led the men about like dogs, and great
people stood blubbering on her stairs! Now she was in the habit of
getting tipsy, and the women round about would make her drink absinthe
for the sake of a laugh, after which the street boys would throw stones
at her and chase her. In fact, it was a regular smashup; the queen had
tumbled into the mud! Nana listened, feeling cold all over.

“You shall see,” added Satin.

She whistled a man’s whistle, and the ragpicker, who was then below the
window, lifted her head and showed herself by the yellow flare of her
lantern. Framed among rags, a perfect bundle of them, a face looked out
from under a tattered kerchief—a blue, seamed face with a toothless,
cavernous mouth and fiery bruises where the eyes should be. And Nana,
seeing the frightful old woman, the wanton drowned in drink, had a
sudden fit of recollection and saw far back amid the shadows of
consciousness the vision of Chamont—Irma d’Anglars, the old harlot
crowned with years and honors, ascending the steps in front of her
château amid abjectly reverential villagers. Then as Satin whistled
again, making game of the old hag, who could not see her:

“Do leave off; there are the police!” she murmured in changed tones.
“In with us, quick, my pet!”

The measured steps were returning, and they shut the window. Turning
round again, shivering, and with the damp of night on her hair, Nana
was momentarily astounded at sight of her drawing room. It seemed as
though she had forgotten it and were entering an unknown chamber. So
warm, so full of perfume, was the air she encountered that she
experienced a sense of delighted surprise. The heaped-up wealth of the
place, the Old World furniture, the fabrics of silk and gold, the
ivory, the bronzes, were slumbering in the rosy light of the lamps,
while from the whole of the silent house a rich feeling of great luxury
ascended, the luxury of the solemn reception rooms, of the comfortable,
ample dining room, of the vast retired staircase, with their soft
carpets and seats. Her individuality, with its longing for domination
and enjoyment and its desire to possess everything that she might
destroy everything, was suddenly increased. Never before had she felt
so profoundly the puissance of her sex. She gazed slowly round and
remarked with an expression of grave philosophy:

“Ah well, all the same, one’s jolly well right to profit by things when
one’s young!”

But now Satin was rolling on the bearskins in the bedroom and calling
her.

“Oh, do come! Do come!”

Nana undressed in the dressing room, and in order to be quicker about
it she took her thick fell of blonde hair in both hands and began
shaking it above the silver wash hand basin, while a downward hail of
long hairpins rang a little chime on the shining metal.




 CHAPTER XI


One Sunday the race for the Grand Prix de Paris was being run in the
Bois de Boulogne beneath skies rendered sultry by the first heats of
June. The sun that morning had risen amid a mist of dun-colored dust,
but toward eleven o’clock, just when the carriages were reaching the
Longchamps course, a southerly wind had swept away the clouds; long
streamers of gray vapor were disappearing across the sky, and gaps
showing an intense blue beyond were spreading from one end of the
horizon to the other. In the bright bursts of sunlight which alternated
with the clouds the whole scene shone again, from the field which was
gradually filling with a crowd of carriages, horsemen and pedestrians,
to the still-vacant course, where the judge’s box stood, together with
the posts and the masts for signaling numbers, and thence on to the
five symmetrical stands of brickwork and timber, rising gallery upon
gallery in the middle of the weighing enclosure opposite. Beyond these,
bathed in the light of noon, lay the vast level plain, bordered with
little trees and shut in to the westward by the wooded heights of
Saint-Cloud and the Suresnes, which, in their turn, were dominated by
the severe outlines of Mont-Valerien.

Nana, as excited as if the Grand Prix were going to make her fortune,
wanted to take up a position by the railing next the winning post. She
had arrived very early—she was, in fact, one of the first to come—in a
landau adorned with silver and drawn, à la Daumont, by four splendid
white horses. This landau was a present from Count Muffat. When she had
made her appearance at the entrance to the field with two postilions
jogging blithely on the near horses and two footmen perching motionless
behind the carriage, the people had rushed to look as though a queen
were passing. She sported the blue and white colors of the Vandeuvres
stable, and her dress was remarkable. It consisted of a little blue
silk bodice and tunic, which fitted closely to the body and bulged out
enormously behind her waist, thereby bringing her lower limbs into bold
relief in such a manner as to be extremely noticeable in that epoch of
voluminous skirts. Then there was a white satin dress with white satin
sleeves and a sash worn crosswise over the shoulders, the whole
ornamented with silver guipure which shone in the sun. In addition to
this, in order to be still more like a jockey, she had stuck a blue
toque with a white feather jauntily upon her chignon, the fair tresses
from which flowed down beyond her shoulders and resembled an enormous
russet pigtail.

Twelve struck. The public would have to wait more than three hours for
the Grand Prix to be run. When the landau had drawn up beside the
barriers Nana settled herself comfortably down as though she were in
her own house. A whim had prompted her to bring Bijou and Louiset with
her, and the dog crouched among her skirts, shivering with cold despite
the heat of the day, while amid a bedizenment of ribbons and laces the
child’s poor little face looked waxen and dumb and white in the open
air. Meanwhile the young woman, without troubling about the people near
her, talked at the top of her voice with Georges and Philippe Hugon,
who were seated opposite on the front seat among such a mountain of
bouquets of white roses and blue myosotis that they were buried up to
their shoulders.

“Well then,” she was saying, “as he bored me to death, I showed him the
door. And now it’s two days that he’s been sulking.”

She was talking of Muffat, but she took care not to confess to the
young men the real reason for this first quarrel, which was that one
evening he had found a man’s hat in her bedroom. She had indeed brought
home a passer-by out of sheer ennui—a silly infatuation.

“You have no idea how funny he is,” she continued, growing merry over
the particulars she was giving. “He’s a regular bigot at bottom, so he
says his prayers every evening. Yes, he does. He’s under the impression
I notice nothing because I go to bed first so as not to be in his way,
but I watch him out of the corner of my eye. Oh, he jaws away, and then
he crosses himself when he turns round to step over me and get to the
inside of the bed.”

“Jove, it’s sly,” muttered Philippe. “That’s what happens before, but
afterward, what then?”

She laughed merrily.

“Yes, just so, before and after! When I’m going to sleep I hear him
jawing away again. But the biggest bore of all is that we can’t argue
about anything now without his growing ‘pi.’ I’ve always been
religious. Yes, chaff as much as you like; that won’t prevent me
believing what I do believe! Only he’s too much of a nuisance: he
blubbers; he talks about remorse. The day before yesterday, for
instance, he had a regular fit of it after our usual row, and I wasn’t
the least bit reassured when all was over.”

But she broke off, crying out:

“Just look at the Mignons arriving. Dear me, they’ve brought the
children! Oh, how those little chaps are dressed up!”

The Mignons were in a landau of severe hue; there was something
substantially luxurious about their turnout, suggesting rich retired
tradespeople. Rose was in a gray silk gown trimmed with red knots and
with puffs; she was smiling happily at the joyous behavior of Henri and
Charles, who sat on the front seat, looking awkward in their
ill-fitting collegians’ tunics. But when the landau had drawn up by the
rails and she perceived Nana sitting in triumph among her bouquets,
with her four horses and her liveries, she pursed up her lips, sat bolt
upright and turned her head away. Mignon, on the other hand, looking
the picture of freshness and gaiety, waved her a salutation. He made it
a matter of principle to keep out of feminine disagreements.

“By the by,” Nana resumed, “d’you know a little old man who’s very
clean and neat and has bad teeth—a Monsieur Venot? He came to see me
this morning.”

“Monsieur Venot?” said Georges in great astonishment. “It’s impossible!
Why, the man’s a Jesuit!”

“Precisely; I spotted that. Oh, you have no idea what our conversation
was like! It was just funny! He spoke to me about the count, about his
divided house, and begged me to restore a family its happiness. He was
very polite and very smiling for the matter of that. Then I answered to
the effect that I wanted nothing better, and I undertook to reconcile
the count and his wife. You know it’s not humbug. I should be delighted
to see them all happy again, the poor things! Besides, it would be a
relief to me for there are days—yes, there are days—when he bores me to
death.”

The weariness of the last months escaped her in this heartfelt
outburst. Moreover, the count appeared to be in big money difficulties;
he was anxious and it seemed likely that the bill which Labordette had
put his name to would not be met.

“Dear me, the countess is down yonder,” said Georges, letting his gaze
wander over the stands.

“Where, where?” cried Nana. “What eyes that baby’s got! Hold my
sunshade, Philippe.”

But with a quick forward dart Georges had outstripped his brother. It
enchanted him to be holding the blue silk sunshade with its silver
fringe. Nana was scanning the scene through a huge pair of field
glasses.

“Ah yes! I see her,” she said at length. “In the right-hand stand, near
a pillar, eh? She’s in mauve, and her daughter in white by her side.
Dear me, there’s Daguenet going to bow to them.”

Thereupon Philippe talked of Daguenet’s approaching marriage with that
lath of an Estelle. It was a settled matter—the banns were being
published. At first the countess had opposed it, but the count, they
said, had insisted. Nana smiled.

“I know, I know,” she murmured. “So much the better for Paul. He’s a
nice boy—he deserves it.”

And leaning toward Louiset:

“You’re enjoying yourself, eh? What a grave face!”

The child never smiled. With a very old expression he was gazing at all
those crowds, as though the sight of them filled him with melancholy
reflections. Bijou, chased from the skirts of the young woman who was
moving about a great deal, had come to nestle, shivering, against the
little fellow.

Meanwhile the field was filling up. Carriages, a compact, interminable
file of them, were continually arriving through the Porte de la
Cascade. There were big omnibuses such as the Pauline, which had
started from the Boulevard des Italiens, freighted with its fifty
passengers, and was now going to draw up to the right of the stands.
Then there were dogcarts, victorias, landaus, all superbly well turned
out, mingled with lamentable cabs which jolted along behind sorry old
hacks, and four-in-hands, sending along their four horses, and mail
coaches, where the masters sat on the seats above and left the servants
to take care of the hampers of champagne inside, and “spiders,” the
immense wheels of which were a flash of glittering steel, and light
tandems, which looked as delicately formed as the works of a clock and
slipped along amid a peal of little bells. Every few seconds an
equestrian rode by, and a swarm of people on foot rushed in a scared
way among the carriages. On the green the far-off rolling sound which
issued from the avenues in the Bois died out suddenly in dull
rustlings, and now nothing was audible save the hubbub of the
ever-increasing crowds and cries and calls and the crackings of whips
in the open. When the sun, amid bursts of wind, reappeared at the edge
of a cloud, a long ray of golden light ran across the field, lit up the
harness and the varnished coach panels and touched the ladies’ dresses
with fire, while amid the dusty radiance the coachmen, high up on their
boxes, flamed beside their great whips.

Labordette was getting out of an open carriage where Gaga, Clarisse and
Blanche de Sivry had kept a place for him. As he was hurrying to cross
the course and enter the weighing enclosure Nana got Georges to call
him. Then when he came up:

“What’s the betting on me?” she asked laughingly.

She referred to the filly Nana, the Nana who had let herself be
shamefully beaten in the race for the Prix de Diane and had not even
been placed in April and May last when she ran for the Prix des Cars
and the Grande Poule des Produits, both of which had been gained by
Lusignan, the other horse in the Vandeuvres stable. Lusignan had all at
once become prime favorite, and since yesterday he had been currently
taken at two to one.

“Always fifty to one against,” replied Labordette.

“The deuce! I’m not worth much,” rejoined Nana, amused by the jest. “I
don’t back myself then; no, by jingo! I don’t put a single louis on
myself.”

Labordette went off again in a great hurry, but she recalled him. She
wanted some advice. Since he kept in touch with the world of trainers
and jockeys he had special information about various stables. His
prognostications had come true a score of times already, and people
called him the “King of Tipsters.”

“Let’s see, what horses ought I to choose?” said the young woman.
“What’s the betting on the Englishman?”

“Spirit? Three to one against. Valerio II, the same. As to the others,
they’re laying twenty-five to one against Cosinus, forty to one against
Hazard, thirty to one against Bourn, thirty-five to one against
Pichenette, ten to one against Frangipane.”

“No, I don’t bet on the Englishman, I don’t. I’m a patriot. Perhaps
Valerio II would do, eh? The Duc de Corbreuse was beaming a little
while ago. Well, no, after all! Fifty louis on Lusignan; what do you
say to that?”

Labordette looked at her with a singular expression. She leaned forward
and asked him questions in a low voice, for she was aware that
Vandeuvres commissioned him to arrange matters with the bookmakers so
as to be able to bet the more easily. Supposing him to have got to know
something, he might quite well tell it her. But without entering into
explanations Labordette persuaded her to trust to his sagacity. He
would put on her fifty louis for her as he might think best, and she
would not repent of his arrangement.

“All the horses you like!” she cried gaily, letting him take his
departure, “but no Nana; she’s a jade!”

There was a burst of uproarious laughter in the carriage. The young men
thought her sally very amusing, while Louiset in his ignorance lifted
his pale eyes to his mother’s face, for her loud exclamations surprised
him. However, there was no escape for Labordette as yet. Rose Mignon
had made a sign to him and was now giving him her commands while he
wrote figures in a notebook. Then Clarisse and Gaga called him back in
order to change their bets, for they had heard things said in the
crowd, and now they didn’t want to have anything more to do with
Valerio II and were choosing Lusignan. He wrote down their wishes with
an impassible expression and at length managed to escape. He could be
seen disappearing between two of the stands on the other side of the
course.

Carriages were still arriving. They were by this time drawn up five
rows deep, and a dense mass of them spread along the barriers,
checkered by the light coats of white horses. Beyond them other
carriages stood about in comparative isolation, looking as though they
had stuck fast in the grass. Wheels and harness were here, there and
everywhere, according as the conveyances to which they belonged were
side by side, at an angle, across and across or head to head. Over such
spaces of turf as still remained unoccupied cavaliers kept trotting,
and black groups of pedestrians moved continually. The scene resembled
the field where a fair is being held, and above it all, amid the
confused motley of the crowd, the drinking booths raised their gray
canvas roofs which gleamed white in the sunshine. But a veritable
tumult, a mob, an eddy of hats, surged round the several bookmakers,
who stood in open carriages gesticulating like itinerant dentists while
their odds were pasted up on tall boards beside them.

“All the same, it’s stupid not to know on what horse one’s betting,”
Nana was remarking. “I really must risk some louis in person.”

She had stood up to select a bookmaker with a decent expression of face
but forgot what she wanted on perceiving a perfect crowd of her
acquaintance. Besides the Mignons, besides Gaga, Clarisse and Blanche,
there were present, to the right and left, behind and in the middle of
the mass of carriages now hemming in her landau, the following ladies:
Tatan Nene and Maria Blond in a victoria, Caroline Hequet with her
mother and two gentlemen in an open carriage, Louise Violaine quite
alone, driving a little basket chaise decked with orange and green
ribbons, the colors of the Mechain stables, and finally, Léa de Horn on
the lofty seat of a mail coach, where a band of young men were making a
great din. Farther off, in a HUIT RESSORTS of aristocratic appearance,
Lucy Stewart, in a very simple black silk dress, sat, looking
distinguished beside a tall young man in the uniform of a naval cadet.
But what most astounded Nana was the arrival of Simonne in a tandem
which Steiner was driving, while a footman sat motionless, with folded
arms, behind them. She looked dazzling in white satin striped with
yellow and was covered with diamonds from waist to hat. The banker, on
his part, was handling a tremendous whip and sending along his two
horses, which were harnessed tandemwise, the leader being a little
warm-colored chestnut with a mouselike trot, the shaft horse a big
brown bay, a stepper, with a fine action.

“Deuce take it!” said Nana. “So that thief Steiner has cleared the
Bourse again, has he? I say, isn’t Simonne a swell! It’s too much of a
good thing; he’ll get into the clutches of the law!”

Nevertheless, she exchanged greetings at a distance. Indeed, she kept
waving her hand and smiling, turning round and forgetting no one in her
desire to be seen by everybody. At the same time she continued
chatting.

“It’s her son Lucy’s got in tow! He’s charming in his uniform. That’s
why she’s looking so grand, of course! You know she’s afraid of him and
that she passes herself off as an actress. Poor young man, I pity him
all the same! He seems quite unsuspicious.”

“Bah,” muttered Philippe, laughing, “she’ll be able to find him an
heiress in the country when she likes.”

Nana was silent, for she had just noticed the Tricon amid the thick of
the carriages. Having arrived in a cab, whence she could not see
anything, the Tricon had quietly mounted the coach box. And there,
straightening up her tall figure, with her noble face enshrined in its
long curls, she dominated the crowd as though enthroned amid her
feminine subjects. All the latter smiled discreetly at her while she,
in her superiority, pretended not to know them. She wasn’t there for
business purposes: she was watching the races for the love of the
thing, as became a frantic gambler with a passion for horseflesh.

“Dear me, there’s that idiot La Faloise!” said Georges suddenly.

It was a surprise to them all. Nana did not recognize her La Faloise,
for since he had come into his inheritance he had grown extraordinarily
up to date. He wore a low collar and was clad in a cloth of delicate
hue which fitted close to his meager shoulders. His hair was in little
bandeaux, and he affected a weary kind of swagger, a soft tone of voice
and slang words and phrases which he did not take the trouble to
finish.

“But he’s quite the thing!” declared Nana in perfect enchantment.

Gaga and Clarisse had called La Faloise and were throwing themselves at
him in their efforts to regain his allegiance, but he left them
immediately, rolling off in a chaffing, disdainful manner. Nana dazzled
him. He rushed up to her and stood on the carriage step, and when she
twitted him about Gaga he murmured:

“Oh dear, no! We’ve seen the last of the old lot! Mustn’t play her off
on me any more. And then, you know, it’s you now, Juliet mine!”

He had put his hand to his heart. Nana laughed a good deal at this
exceedingly sudden out-of-door declaration. She continued:

“I say, that’s not what I’m after. You’re making me forget that I want
to lay wagers. Georges, you see that bookmaker down there, a great
red-faced man with curly hair? He’s got a dirty blackguard expression
which I like. You’re to go and choose—Oh, I say, what can one choose?”

“I’m not a patriotic soul—oh dear, no!” La Faloise blurted out. “I’m
all for the Englishman. It will be ripping if the Englishman gains! The
French may go to Jericho!”

Nana was scandalized. Presently the merits of the several horses began
to be discussed, and La Faloise, wishing to be thought very much in the
swim, spoke of them all as sorry jades. Frangipane, Baron Verdier’s
horse, was by The Truth out of Lenore. A big bay horse he was, who
would certainly have stood a chance if they hadn’t let him get
foundered during training. As to Valerio II from the Corbreuse stable,
he wasn’t ready yet; he’d had the colic in April. Oh yes, they were
keeping that dark, but he was sure of it, on his honor! In the end he
advised Nana to choose Hazard, the most defective of the lot, a horse
nobody would have anything to do with. Hazard, by jingo—such superb
lines and such an action! That horse was going to astonish the people.

“No,” said Nana, “I’m going to put ten louis on Lusignan and five on
Boum.”

La Faloise burst forth at once:

“But, my dear girl, Boum’s all rot! Don’t choose him! Gasc himself is
chucking up backing his own horse. And your Lusignan—never! Why, it’s
all humbug! By Lamb and Princess—just think! By Lamb and Princess—no,
by Jove! All too short in the legs!”

He was choking. Philippe pointed out that, notwithstanding this,
Lusignan had won the Prix des Cars and the Grande Poule des Produits.
But the other ran on again. What did that prove? Nothing at all. On the
contrary, one ought to distrust him. And besides, Gresham rode
Lusignan; well then, let them jolly well dry up! Gresham had bad luck;
he would never get to the post.

And from one end of the field to the other the discussion raging in
Nana’s landau seemed to spread and increase. Voices were raised in a
scream; the passion for gambling filled the air, set faces glowing and
arms waving excitedly, while the bookmakers, perched on their
conveyances, shouted odds and jotted down amounts right furiously. Yet
these were only the small fry of the betting world; the big bets were
made in the weighing enclosure. Here, then, raged the keen contest of
people with light purses who risked their five-franc pieces and
displayed infinite covetousness for the sake of a possible gain of a
few louis. In a word, the battle would be between Spirit and Lusignan.
Englishmen, plainly recognizable as such, were strolling about among
the various groups. They were quite at home; their faces were fiery
with excitement; they were afready triumphant. Bramah, a horse
belonging to Lord Reading, had gained the Grand Prix the previous year,
and this had been a defeat over which hearts were still bleeding. This
year it would be terrible if France were beaten anew. Accordingly all
the ladies were wild with national pride. The Vandeuvres stable became
the rampart of their honor, and Lusignan was pushed and defended and
applauded exceedingly. Gaga, Blanche, Caroline and the rest betted on
Lusignan. Lucy Stewart abstained from this on account of her son, but
it was bruited abroad that Rose Mignon had commissioned Labordette to
risk two hundred louis for her. The Tricon, as she sat alone next her
driver, waited till the last moment. Very cool, indeed, amid all these
disputes, very far above the ever-increasing uproar in which horses’
names kept recurring and lively Parisian phrases mingled with guttural
English exclamations, she sat listening and taking notes majestically.

“And Nana?” said Georges. “Does no one want her?”

Indeed, nobody was asking for the filly; she was not even being
mentioned. The outsider of the Vandeuvres’s stud was swamped by
Lusignan’s popularity. But La Faloise flung his arms up, crying:

“I’ve an inspiration. I’ll bet a louis on Nana.”

“Bravo! I bet a couple,” said Georges.

“And I three,” added Philippe.

And they mounted up and up, bidding against one another good-humoredly
and naming prices as though they had been haggling over Nana at an
auction. La Faloise said he would cover her with gold. Besides,
everybody was to be made to back her; they would go and pick up
backers. But as the three young men were darting off to propagandize,
Nana shouted after them:

“You know I don’t want to have anything to do with her; I don’t for the
world! Georges, ten louis on Lusignan and five on Valerio II.”

Meanwhile they had started fairly off, and she watched them gaily as
they slipped between wheels, ducked under horses’ heads and scoured the
whole field. The moment they recognized anyone in a carriage they
rushed up and urged Nana’s claims. And there were great bursts of
laughter among the crowd when sometimes they turned back, triumphantly
signaling amounts with their fingers, while the young woman stood and
waved her sunshade. Nevertheless, they made poor enough work of it.
Some men let themselves be persuaded; Steiner, for instance, ventured
three louis, for the sight of Nana stirred him. But the women refused
point-blank. “Thanks,” they said; “to lose for a certainty!” Besides,
they were in no hurry to work for the benefit of a dirty wench who was
overwhelming them all with her four white horses, her postilions and
her outrageous assumption of side. Gaga and Clarisse looked exceedingly
prim and asked La Faloise whether he was jolly well making fun of them.
When Georges boldly presented himself before the Mignons’ carriage Rose
turned her head away in the most marked manner and did not answer him.
One must be a pretty foul sort to let one’s name be given to a horse!
Mignon, on the contrary, followed the young man’s movements with a look
of amusement and declared that the women always brought luck.

“Well?” queried Nana when the young men returned after a prolonged
visit to the bookmakers.

“The odds are forty to one against you,” said La Faloise.

“What’s that? Forty to one!” she cried, astounded. “They were fifty to
one against me. What’s happened?”

Labordette had just then reappeared. The course was being cleared, and
the pealing of a bell announced the first race. Amid the expectant
murmur of the bystanders she questioned him about this sudden rise in
her value. But he replied evasively; doubtless a demand for her had
arisen. She had to content herself with this explanation. Moreover,
Labordette announced with a preoccupied expression that Vandeuvres was
coming if he could get away.

The race was ending unnoticed; people were all waiting for the Grand
Prix to be run—when a storm burst over the Hippodrome. For some minutes
past the sun had disappeared, and a wan twilight had darkened over the
multitude. Then the wind rose, and there ensued a sudden deluge. Huge
drops, perfect sheets of water, fell. There was a momentary confusion,
and people shouted and joked and swore, while those on foot scampered
madly off to find refuge under the canvas of the drinking booths. In
the carriages the women did their best to shelter themselves, grasping
their sunshades with both hands, while the bewildered footmen ran to
the hoods. But the shower was already nearly over, and the sun began
shining brilliantly through escaping clouds of fine rain. A blue cleft
opened in the stormy mass, which was blown off over the Bois, and the
skies seemed to smile again and to set the women laughing in a
reassured manner, while amid the snorting of horses and the disarray
and agitation of the drenched multitude that was shaking itself dry a
broad flush of golden light lit up the field, still dripping and
glittering with crystal drops.

“Oh, that poor, dear Louiset!” said Nana. “Are you very drenched, my
darling?”

The little thing silently allowed his hands to be wiped. The young
woman had taken out her handkerchief. Then she dabbed it over Bijou,
who was trembling more violently than ever. It would not matter in the
least; there were a few drops on the white satin of her dress, but she
didn’t care a pin for them. The bouquets, refreshed by the rain, glowed
like snow, and she smelled one ecstatically, drenching her lips in it
as though it were wet with dew.

Meanwhile the burst of rain had suddenly filled the stands. Nana looked
at them through her field glasses. At that distance you could only
distinguish a compact, confused mass of people, heaped up, as it were,
on the ascending ranges of steps, a dark background relieved by light
dots which were human faces. The sunlight filtered in through openings
near the roof at each end of the stand and detached and illumined
portions of the seated multitude, where the ladies’ dresses seemed to
lose their distinguishing colors. But Nana was especially amused by the
ladies whom the shower had driven from the rows of chairs ranged on the
sand at the base of the stands. As courtesans were absolutely forbidden
to enter the enclosure, she began making exceedingly bitter remarks
about all the fashionable women therein assembled. She thought them
fearfully dressed up, and such guys!

There was a rumor that the empress was entering the little central
stand, a pavilion built like a chalet, with a wide balcony furnished
with red armchairs.

“Why, there he is!” said Georges. “I didn’t think he was on duty this
week.”

The stiff and solemn form of the Count Muffat had appeared behind the
empress. Thereupon the young men jested and were sorry that Satin
wasn’t there to go and dig him in the ribs. But Nana’s field glass
focused the head of the Prince of Scots in the imperial stand.

“Gracious, it’s Charles!” she cried.

She thought him stouter than formerly. In eighteen months he had
broadened, and with that she entered into particulars. Oh yes, he was a
big, solidly built fellow!

All round her in the ladies’ carriages they were whispering that the
count had given her up. It was quite a long story. Since he had been
making himself noticeable, the Tuileries had grown scandalized at the
chamberlain’s conduct. Whereupon, in order to retain his position, he
had recently broken it off with Nana. La Faloise bluntly reported this
account of matters to the young woman and, addressing her as his
Juliet, again offered himself. But she laughed merrily and remarked:

“It’s idiotic! You won’t know him; I’ve only to say, ‘Come here,’ for
him to chuck up everything.”

For some seconds past she had been examining the Countess Sabine and
Estelle. Daguenet was still at their side. Fauchery had just arrived
and was disturbing the people round him in his desire to make his bow
to them. He, too, stayed smilingly beside them. After that Nana pointed
with disdainful action at the stands and continued:

“Then, you know, those people don’t fetch me any longer now! I know ’em
too well. You should see ’em behind scenes. No more honor! It’s all up
with honor! Filth belowstairs, filth abovestairs, filth everywhere.
That’s why I won’t be bothered about ’em!”

And with a comprehensive gesture she took in everybody, from the grooms
leading the horses on to the course to the sovereign lady busy chatting
with with Charles, a prince and a dirty fellow to boot.

“Bravo, Nana! Awfully smart, Nana!” cried La Faloise enthusiastically.

The tolling of a bell was lost in the wind; the races continued. The
Prix d’Ispahan had just been run for and Berlingot, a horse belonging
to the Mechain stable, had won. Nana recalled Labordette in order to
obtain news of the hundred louis, but he burst out laughing and refused
to let her know the horses he had chosen for her, so as not to disturb
the luck, as he phrased it. Her money was well placed; she would see
that all in good time. And when she confessed her bets to him and told
him how she had put ten louis on Lusignan and five on Valerio II, he
shrugged his shoulders, as who should say that women did stupid things
whatever happened. His action surprised her; she was quite at sea.

Just then the field grew more animated than before. Open-air lunches
were arranged in the interval before the Grand Prix. There was much
eating and more drinking in all directions, on the grass, on the high
seats of the four-in-hands and mail coaches, in the victorias, the
broughams, the landaus. There was a universal spread of cold viands and
a fine disorderly display of champagne baskets which footmen kept
handing down out of the coach boots. Corks came out with feeble pops,
which the wind drowned. There was an interchange of jests, and the
sound of breaking glasses imparted a note of discord to the high-strung
gaiety of the scene. Gaga and Clarisse, together with Blanche, were
making a serious repast, for they were eating sandwiches on the
carriage rug with which they had been covering their knees. Louise
Violaine had got down from her basket carriage and had joined Caroline
Hequet. On the turf at their feet some gentlemen had instituted a
drinking bar, whither Tatan, Maria, Simonne and the rest came to
refresh themselves, while high in air and close at hand bottles were
being emptied on Léa de Horn’s mail coach, and, with infinite bravado
and gesticulation, a whole band were making themselves tipsy in the
sunshine, above the heads of the crowd. Soon, however, there was an
especially large crowd by Nana’s landau. She had risen to her feet and
had set herself to pour out glasses of champagne for the men who came
to pay her their respects. Francois, one of the footmen, was passing up
the bottles while La Faloise, trying hard to imitate a coster’s
accents, kept pattering away:

“’Ere y’re, given away, given away! There’s some for everybody!”

“Do be still, dear boy,” Nana ended by saying. “We look like a set of
tumblers.”

She thought him very droll and was greatly entertained. At one moment
she conceived the idea of sending Georges with a glass of champagne to
Rose Mignon, who was affecting temperance. Henri and Charles were bored
to distraction; they would have been glad of some champagne, the poor
little fellows. But Georges drank the glassful, for he feared an
argument. Then Nana remembered Louiset, who was sitting forgotten
behind her. Maybe he was thirsty, and she forced him to take a drop or
two of wine, which made him cough dreadfully.

“’Ere y’are, ’ere y’are, gemmen!” La Faloise reiterated. “It don’t cost
two sous; it don’t cost one. We give it away.”

But Nana broke in with an exclamation:

“Gracious, there’s Bordenave down there! Call him. Oh, run, please,
please do!”

It was indeed Bordenave. 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 Gaîté, 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. Nana would fling everyone a
laughing smile or an amusing phrase. The groups of tipplers were
drawing near, and all the champagne scattered over the place was moving
in her direction. Soon there was only one noisy crowd, and that was
round her landau, where she queened it among outstretched glasses, her
yellow hair floating on the breeze and her snowy face bathed in the
sunshine. Then by way of a finishing touch and to make the other women,
who were mad at her triumph, simply perish of envy, she lifted a
brimming glass on high and assumed her old pose as Venus Victrix.

But somebody touched her shoulder, and she was surprised, on turning
round, to see Mignon on the seat. She vanished from view an instant and
sat herself down beside him, for he had come to communicate a matter of
importance. Mignon had everywhere declared that it was ridiculous of
his wife to bear Nana a grudge; he thought her attitude stupid and
useless.

“Look here, my dear,” he whispered. “Be careful: don’t madden Rose too
much. You understand, I think it best to warn you. Yes, she’s got a
weapon in store, and as she’s never forgiven you the Petite Duchesse
business—”

“A weapon,” said Nana; “what’s that blooming well got to do with me?”

“Just listen: it’s a letter she must have found in Fauchery’s pocket, a
letter written to that screw Fauchery by the Countess Muffat. And, by
Jove, it’s clear the whole story’s in it. Well then, Rose wants to send
the letter to the count so as to be revenged on him and on you.”

“What the deuce has that got to do with me?” Nana repeated. “It’s a
funny business. So the whole story about Fauchery’s in it! Very well,
so much the better; the woman has been exasperating me! We shall have a
good laugh!”

“No, I don’t wish it,” Mignon briskly rejoined. “There’ll be a pretty
scandal! Besides, we’ve got nothing to gain.”

He paused, fearing lest he should say too much, while she loudly
averred that she was most certainly not going to get a chaste woman
into trouble.

But when he still insisted on his refusal she looked steadily at him.
Doubtless he was afraid of seeing Fauchery again introduced into his
family in case he broke with the countess. While avenging her own
wrongs, Rose was anxious for that to happen, since she still felt a
kindness toward the journalist. And Nana waxed meditative and thought
of M. Venot’s call, and a plan began to take shape in her brain, while
Mignon was doing his best to talk her over.

“Let’s suppose that Rose sends the letter, eh? There’s food for
scandal: you’re mixed up in the business, and people say you’re the
cause of it all. Then to begin with, the count separates from his
wife.”

“Why should he?” she said. “On the contrary—”

She broke off, in her turn. There was no need for her to think aloud.
So in order to be rid of Mignon she looked as though she entered into
his view of the case, and when he advised her to give Rose some proof
of her submission—to pay her a short visit on the racecourse, for
instance, where everybody would see her—she replied that she would see
about it, that she would think the matter over.

A commotion caused her to stand up again. On the course the horses were
coming in amid a sudden blast of wind. The prize given by the city of
Paris had just been run for, and Cornemuse had gained it. Now the Grand
Prix was about to be run, and the fever of the crowd increased, and
they were tortured by anxiety and stamped and swayed as though they
wanted to make the minutes fly faster. At this ultimate moment the
betting world was surprised and startled by the continued shortening of
the odds against Nana, the outsider of the Vandeuvres stables.
Gentlemen kept returning every few moments with a new quotation: the
betting was thirty to one against Nana; it was twenty-five to one
against Nana, then twenty to one, then fifteen to one. No one could
understand it. A filly beaten on all the racecourses! A filly which
that same morning no single sportsman would take at fifty to one
against! What did this sudden madness betoken? Some laughed at it and
spoke of the pretty doing awaiting the duffers who were being taken in
by the joke. Others looked serious and uneasy and sniffed out something
ugly under it all. Perhaps there was a “deal” in the offing. Allusion
was made to well-known stories about the robberies which are winked at
on racecourses, but on this occasion the great name of Vandeuvres put a
stop to all such accusations, and the skeptics in the end prevailed
when they prophesied that Nana would come in last of all.

“Who’s riding Nana?” queried La Faloise.

Just then the real Nana reappeared, whereat the gentlemen lent his
question an indecent meaning and burst into an uproarious fit of
laughter. Nana bowed.

“Price is up,” she replied.

And with that the discussion began again. Price was an English
celebrity. Why had Vandeuvres got this jockey to come over, seeing that
Gresham ordinarily rode Nana? Besides, they were astonished to see him
confiding Lusignan to this man Gresham, who, according to La Faloise,
never got a place. But all these remarks were swallowed up in jokes,
contradictions and an extraordinarily noisy confusion of opinions. In
order to kill time the company once more set themselves to drain
bottles of champagne. Presently a whisper ran round, and the different
groups opened outward. It was Vandeuvres. Nana affected vexation.

“Dear me, you’re a nice fellow to come at this time of day! Why, I’m
burning to see the enclosure.”

“Well, come along then,” he said; “there’s still time. You’ll take a
stroll round with me. I just happen to have a permit for a lady about
me.”

And he led her off on his arm while she enjoyed the jealous glances
with which Lucy, Caroline and the others followed her. The young Hugons
and La Faloise remained in the landau behind her retreating figure and
continued to do the honors of her champagne. She shouted to them that
she would return immediately.

But Vandeuvres caught sight of Labordette and called him, and there was
an interchange of brief sentences.

“You’ve scraped everything up?”

“Yes.”

“To what amount?”

“Fifteen hundred louis—pretty well all over the place.”

As Nana was visibly listening, and that with much curiosity, they held
their tongues. Vandeuvres was very nervous, and he had those same clear
eyes, shot with little flames, which so frightened her the night he
spoke of burning himself and his horses together. As they crossed over
the course she spoke low and familiarly.

“I say, do explain this to me. Why are the odds on your filly
changing?”

He trembled, and this sentence escaped him:

“Ah, they’re talking, are they? What a set those betting men are! When
I’ve got the favorite they all throw themselves upon him, and there’s
no chance for me. After that, when an outsider’s asked for, they give
tongue and yell as though they were being skinned.”

“You ought to tell me what’s going to happen—I’ve made my bets,” she
rejoined. “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. Stories were told of wild whims and fancies, of gold scattered to
the four winds, of a visit to Baden-Baden, where she had not left him
enough to pay the hotel bill, of a handful of diamonds cast on the fire
during an evening of drunkenness in order to see whether they would
burn like coal. Little by little her great limbs and her coarse,
plebeian way of laughing had gained complete mastery over this elegant,
degenerate son of an ancient race. At that time he was risking his all,
for he had been so utterly overpowered by his taste for ordure and
stupidity as to have even lost the vigor of his skepticism. A week
before Nana had made him promise her a château on the Norman coast
between Havre and Trouville, and now he was staking the very
foundations of his honor on the fulfillment of his word. Only she was
getting on his nerves, and he could have beaten her, so stupid did he
feel her to be.

The man at the gate, not daring to stop the woman hanging on the
count’s arm, had allowed them to enter the enclosure. Nana, greatly
puffed up at the thought that at last she was setting foot on the
forbidden ground, put on her best behavior and walked slowly by the
ladies seated at the foot of the stands. On ten rows of chairs the
toilets were densely massed, and in the blithe open air their bright
colors mingled harmoniously. Chairs were scattered about, and as people
met one another friendly circles were formed, just as though the
company had been sitting under the trees in a public garden. Children
had been allowed to go free and were running from group to group, while
over head the stands rose tier above crowded tier and the light-colored
dresses therein faded into the delicate shadows of the timberwork. Nana
stared at all these ladies. She stared steadily and markedly at the
Countess Sabine. After which, as she was passing in front of the
imperial stand, the sight of Muffat, looming in all his official
stiffness by the side of the empress, made her very merry.

“Oh, how silly he looks!” she said at the top of her voice to
Vandeuvres. She was anxious to pay everything a visit. This small
parklike region, with its green lawns and groups of trees, rather
charmed her than otherwise. A vendor of ices had set up a large buffet
near the entrance gates, and beneath a rustic thatched roof a dense
throng of people were shouting and gesticulating. This was the ring.
Close by were some empty stalls, and Nana was disappointed at
discovering only a gendarme’s horse there. Then there was the paddock,
a small course some hundred meters in circumference, where a stable
help was walking about Valerio II in his horsecloths. And, oh, what a
lot of men on the graveled sidewalks, all of them with their tickets
forming an orange-colored patch in their bottonholes! And what a
continual parade of people in the open galleries of the grandstands!
The scene interested her for a moment or two, but truly, it was not
worth while getting the spleen because they didn’t admit you inside
here.

Daguenet and Fauchery passed by and bowed to her. She made them a sign,
and they had to come up. Thereupon she made hay of the weighing-in
enclosure. But she broke off abruptly:

“Dear me, there’s the Marquis de Chouard! How old he’s growing! That
old man’s killing himself! Is he still as mad about it as ever?”

Thereupon Daguenet described the old man’s last brilliant stroke. The
story dated from the day before yesterday, and no one knew it as yet.
After dangling about for months he had bought her daughter Amelie from
Gaga for thirty thousand francs, they said.

“Good gracious! That’s a nice business!” cried Nana in disgust. “Go in
for the regular thing, please! But now that I come to think of it, that
must be Lili down there on the grass with a lady in a brougham. I
recognized the face. The old boy will have brought her out.”

Vandeuvres was not listening; he was impatient and longed to get rid of
her. But Fauchery having remarked at parting that if she had not seen
the bookmakers she had seen nothing, the count was obliged to take her
to them in spite of his obvious repugnance. And she was perfectly happy
at once; that truly was a curious sight, she said!

Amid lawns bordered by young horse-chestnut trees there was a round
open enclosure, where, forming a vast circle under the shadow of the
tender green leaves, a dense line of bookmakers was waiting for betting
men, as though they had been hucksters at a fair. In order to overtop
and command the surrounding crowd they had taken up positions on wooden
benches, and they were advertising their prices on the trees beside
them. They had an ever-vigilant glance, and they booked wagers in
answer to a single sign, a mere wink, so rapidly that certain curious
onlookers watched them openmouthed, without being able to understand it
all. Confusion reigned; prices were shouted, and any unexpected change
in a quotation was received with something like tumult. Occasionally
scouts entered the place at a run and redoubled the uproar as they
stopped at the entrance to the rotunda and, at the tops of their
voices, announced departures and arrivals. In this place, where the
gambling fever was pulsing in the sunshine, such announcements were
sure to raise a prolonged muttering sound.

“They ARE funny!” murmured Nana, greatly entertained.

“Their features look as if they had been put on the wrong way. Just you
see that big fellow there; I shouldn’t care to meet him all alone in
the middle of a wood.”

But Vandeuvres pointed her out a bookmaker, once a shopman in a fancy
repository, who had made three million francs in two years. He was
slight of build, delicate and fair, and people all round him treated
him with great respect. They smiled when they addressed him, while
others took up positions close by in order to catch a glimpse of him.

They were at length leaving the ring when Vandeuvres nodded slightly to
another bookmaker, who thereupon ventured to call him. It was one of
his former coachmen, an enormous fellow with the shoulders of an ox and
a high color. Now that he was trying his fortunes at race meetings on
the strength of some mysteriously obtained capital, the count was doing
his utmost to push him, confiding to him his secret bets and treating
him on all occasions as a servant to whom one shows one’s true
character. Yet despite this protection, the man had in rapid succession
lost very heavy sums, and today he, too, was playing his last card.
There was blood in his eyes; he looked fit to drop with apoplexy.

“Well, Marechal,” queried the count in the lowest of voices, “to what
amount have you laid odds?”

“To five thousand louis, Monsieur le Comte,” replied the bookmaker,
likewise lowering his voice. “A pretty job, eh? I’ll confess to you
that I’ve increased the odds; I’ve made it three to one.”

Vandeuvres looked very much put out.

“No, no, I don’t want you to do that. Put it at two to one again
directly. I shan’t tell you any more, Marechal.”

“Oh, how can it hurt, Monsieur le Comte, at this time o’ day?” rejoined
the other with the humble smile befitting an accomplice. “I had to
attract the people so as to lay your two thousand louis.”

At this Vandeuvres silenced him. But as he was going off Marechal
remembered something and was sorry he had not questioned him about the
shortening of the odds on the filly. It would be a nice business for
him if the filly stood a chance, seeing that he had just laid fifty to
one about her in two hundreds.

Nana, though she did not understand a word of what the count was
whispering, dared not, however, ask for new explanations. He seemed
more nervous than before and abruptly handed her over to Labordette,
whom they came upon in front of the weighing-in room.

“You’ll take her back,” he said. “I’ve got something on hand. Au
revoir!”

And he entered the room, which was narrow and low-pitched and half
filled with a great pair of scales. It was like a waiting room in a
suburban station, and Nana was again hugely disillusioned, for she had
been picturing to herself something on a very vast scale, a monumental
machine, in fact, for weighing horses. Dear me, they only weighed the
jockeys! Then it wasn’t worth while making such a fuss with their
weighing! In the scale a jockey with an idiotic expression was waiting,
harness on knee, till a stout man in a frock coat should have done
verifying his weight. At the door a stable help was holding a horse,
Cosinus, round which a silent and deeply interested throng was
clustering.

The course was about to be cleared. Labordette hurried Nana but
retraced his steps in order to show her a little man talking with
Vandeuvres at some distance from the rest.

“Dear me, there’s Price!” he said.

“Ah yes, the man who’s mounting me,” she murmured laughingly.

And she declared him to be exquisitely ugly. All jockeys struck her as
looking idiotic, doubtless, she said, because they were prevented from
growing bigger. This particular jockey was a man of forty, and with his
long, thin, deeply furrowed, hard, dead countenance, he looked like an
old shriveled-up child. His body was knotty and so reduced in size that
his blue jacket with its white sleeves looked as if it had been thrown
over a lay figure.

“No,” she resumed as she walked away, “he would never make me very
happy, you know.”

A mob of people were still crowding the course, the turf of which had
been wet and trampled on till it had grown black. In front of the two
telegraphs, which hung very high up on their cast-iron pillars, the
crowd were jostling together with upturned faces, uproariously greeting
the numbers of the different horses as an electric wire in connection
with the weighing room made them appear. Gentlemen were pointing at
programs: Pichenette had been scratched by his owner, and this caused
some noise. However, Nana did not do more than cross over the course on
Labordette’s arm. The bell hanging on the flagstaff was ringing
persistently to warn people to leave the course.

“Ah, my little dears,” she said as she got up into her landau again,
“their enclosure’s all humbug!”

She was welcomed with acclamation; people around her clapped their
hands.

“Bravo, Nana! Nana’s ours again!”

What idiots they were, to be sure! Did they think she was the sort to
cut old friends? She had come back just at the auspicious moment. Now
then, ’tenshun! The race was beginning! And the champagne was
accordingly forgotten, and everyone left off drinking.

But Nana was astonished to find Gaga in her carriage, sitting with
Bijou and Louiset on her knees. Gaga had indeed decided on this course
of action in order to be near La Faloise, but she told Nana that she
had been anxious to kiss Baby. She adored children.

“By the by, what about Lili?” asked Nana. “That’s certainly she over
there in that old fellow’s brougham. They’ve just told me something
very nice!”

Gaga had adopted a lachrymose expression.

“My dear, it’s made me ill,” she said dolorously. “Yesterday I had to
keep my bed, I cried so, and today I didn’t think I should be able to
come. You know what my opinions were, don’t you? I didn’t desire that
kind of thing at all. I had her educated in a convent with a view to a
good marriage. And then to think of the strict advice she had and the
constant watching! Well, my dear, it was she who wished it. We had such
a scene—tears—disagreeable speeches! It even got to such a point that I
caught her a box on the ear. She was too much bored by existence, she
said; she wanted to get out of it. By and by, when she began to say,
‘’Tisn’t you, after all, who’ve got the right to prevent me,’ I said to
her: ‘you’re a miserable wretch; you’re bringing dishonor upon us.
Begone!’ And it was done. I consented to arrange about it. But my last
hope’s blooming well blasted, and, oh, I used to dream about such nice
things!”

The noise of a quarrel caused them to rise. It was Georges in the act
of defending Vandeuvres against certain vague rumors which were
circulating among the various groups.

“Why should you say that he’s laying off his own horse?” the young man
was exclaiming. “Yesterday in the Salon des Courses he took the odds on
Lusignan for a thousand louis.”

“Yes, I was there,” said Philippe in affirmation of this. “And he
didn’t put a single louis on Nana. If the betting’s ten to one against
Nana he’s got nothing to win there. It’s absurd to imagine people are
so calculating. Where would his interest come in?”

Labordette was listening with a quiet expression. Shrugging his
shoulders, he said:

“Oh, leave them alone; they must have their say. The count has again
laid at least as much as five hundred louis on Lusignan, and if he’s
wanted Nana to run to a hundred louis it’s because an owner ought
always to look as if he believes in his horses.”

“Oh, bosh! What the deuce does that matter to us?” shouted La Faloise
with a wave of his arms. “Spirit’s going to win! Down with
France—bravo, England!”

A long shiver ran through the crowd, while a fresh peal from the bell
announced the arrival of the horses upon the racecourse. At this Nana
got up and stood on one of the seats of her carriage so as to obtain a
better view, and in so doing she trampled the bouquets of roses and
myosotis underfoot. With a sweeping glance she took in the wide, vast
horizon. At this last feverish moment the course was empty and closed
by gray barriers, between the posts of which stood a line of policemen.
The strip of grass which lay muddy in front of her grew brighter as it
stretched away and turned into a tender green carpet in the distance.
In the middle landscape, as she lowered her eyes, she saw the field
swarming with vast numbers of people, some on tiptoe, others perched on
carriages, and all heaving and jostling in sudden passionate
excitement.

Horses were neighing; tent canvases flapped, while equestrians urged
their hacks forward amid a crowd of pedestrians rushing to get places
along the barriers. When Nana turned in the direction of the stands on
the other side the faces seemed diminished, and the dense masses of
heads were only a confused and motley array, filling gangways, steps
and terraces and looming in deep, dark, serried lines against the sky.
And beyond these again she over looked the plain surrounding the
course. Behind the ivy-clad mill to the right, meadows, dotted over
with great patches of umbrageous wood, stretched away into the
distance, while opposite to her, as far as the Seine flowing at the
foot of a hill, the avenues of the park intersected one another, filled
at that moment with long, motionless files of waiting carriages; and in
the direction of Boulogne, on the left, the landscape widened anew and
opened out toward the blue distances of Meudon through an avenue of
paulownias, whose rosy, leafless tops were one stain of brilliant lake
color. People were still arriving, and a long procession of human ants
kept coming along the narrow ribbon of road which crossed the distance,
while very far away, on the Paris side, the nonpaying public, herding
like sheep among the wood, loomed in a moving line of little dark spots
under the trees on the skirts of the Bois.

Suddenly a cheering influence warmed the hundred thousand souls who
covered this part of the plain like insects swarming madly under the
vast expanse of heaven. The sun, which had been hidden for about a
quarter of an hour, made his appearance again and shone out amid a
perfect sea of light. And everything flamed afresh: the women’s
sunshades turned into countless golden targets above the heads of the
crowd. The sun was applauded, saluted with bursts of laughter. And
people stretched their arms out as though to brush apart the clouds.

Meanwhile a solitary police officer advanced down the middle of the
deserted racecourse, while higher up, on the left, a man appeared with
a red flag in his hand.

“It’s the starter, the Baron de Mauriac,” said Labordette in reply to a
question from Nana. All round the young woman exclamations were
bursting from the men who were pressing to her very carriage step. They
kept up a disconnected conversation, jerking out phrases under the
immediate influence of passing impressions. Indeed, Philippe and
Georges, Bordenave and La Faloise, could not be quiet.

“Don’t shove! Let me see! Ah, the judge is getting into his box. D’you
say it’s Monsieur de Souvigny? You must have good eyesight—eh?—to be
able to tell what half a head is out of a fakement like that! Do hold
your tongue—the banner’s going up. Here they are—’tenshun! Cosinus is
the first!”

A red and yellow banner was flapping in mid-air at the top of a mast.
The horses came on the course one by one; they were led by stableboys,
and the jockeys were sitting idle-handed in the saddles, the sunlight
making them look like bright dabs of color. After Cosinus appeared
Hazard and Boum. Presently a murmur of approval greeted Spirit, a
magnificent big brown bay, the harsh citron color and black of whose
jockey were cheerlessly Britannic. Valerio II scored a success as he
came in; he was small and very lively, and his colors were soft green
bordered with pink. The two Vandeuvres horses were slow to make their
appearance, but at last, in Frangipane’s rear, the blue and white
showed themselves. But Lusignan, a very dark bay of irreproachable
shape, was almost forgotten amid the astonishment caused by Nana.
People had not seen her looking like this before, for now the sudden
sunlight was dyeing the chestnut filly the brilliant color of a girl’s
red-gold hair. She was shining in the light like a new gold coin; her
chest was deep; her head and neck tapered lightly from the delicate,
high-strung line of her long back.

“Gracious, she’s got my hair!” cried Nana in an ecstasy. “You bet you
know I’m proud of it!”

The men clambered up on the landau, and Bordenave narrowly escaped
putting his foot on Louiset, whom his mother had forgotten. He took him
up with an outburst of paternal grumbling and hoisted him on his
shoulder, muttering at the same time:

“The poor little brat, he must be in it too! Wait a bit, I’ll show you
Mamma. Eh? Look at Mummy out there.”

And as Bijou was scratching his legs, he took charge of him, too, while
Nana, rejoicing in the brute that bore her name, glanced round at the
other women to see how they took it. They were all raging madly. Just
then on the summit of her cab the Tricon, who had not moved till that
moment, began waving her hand and giving her bookmaker her orders above
the heads of the crowd. Her instinct had at last prompted her; she was
backing Nana.

La Faloise meanwhile was making an insufferable noise. He was getting
wild over Frangipane.

“I’ve an inspiration,” he kept shouting. “Just look at Frangipane. What
an action, eh? I back Frangipane at eight to one. Who’ll take me?”

“Do keep quiet now,” said Labordette at last. “You’ll be sorry for it
if you do.”

“Frangipane’s a screw,” Philippe declared. “He’s been utterly blown
upon already. You’ll see the canter.”

The horses had gone up to the right, and they now started for the
preliminary canter, passing in loose order before the stands. Thereupon
there was a passionate fresh burst of talk, and people all spoke at
once.

“Lusignan’s too long in the back, but he’s very fit. Not a cent, I tell
you, on Valerio II; he’s nervous—gallops with his head up—it’s a bad
sign. Jove! Burne’s riding Spirit. I tell you, he’s got no shoulders. A
well-made shoulder—that’s the whole secret. No, decidedly, Spirit’s too
quiet. Now listen, Nana, I saw her after the Grande Poule des Produits,
and she was dripping and draggled, and her sides were trembling like
one o’clock. I lay twenty louis she isn’t placed! Oh, shut up! He’s
boring us with his Frangipane. There’s no time to make a bet now;
there, they’re off!”

Almost in tears, La Faloise was struggling to find a bookmaker. He had
to be reasoned with. Everyone craned forward, but the first go-off was
bad, the starter, who looked in the distance like a slim dash of
blackness, not having lowered his flag. The horses came back to their
places after galloping a moment or two. There were two more false
starts. At length the starter got the horses together and sent them
away with such address as to elicit shouts of applause.

“Splendid! No, it was mere chance! Never mind—it’s done it!”

The outcries were smothered by the anxiety which tortured every breast.
The betting stopped now, and the game was being played on the vast
course itself. Silence reigned at the outset, as though everyone were
holding his breath. White faces and trembling forms were stretched
forward in all directions. At first Hazard and Cosinus made the running
at the head of the rest; Valerio II followed close by, and the field
came on in a confused mass behind. When they passed in front of the
stands, thundering over the ground in their course like a sudden
stormwind, the mass was already some fourteen lengths in extent.
Frangipane was last, and Nana was slightly behind Lusignan and Spirit.

“Egad!” muttered Labordette, “how the Englishman is pulling it off out
there!”

The whole carriageload again burst out with phrases and exclamations.
Everyone rose on tiptoe and followed the bright splashes of color which
were the jockeys as they rushed through the sunlight.

At the rise Valerio II took the lead, while Cosinus and Hazard lost
ground, and Lusignan and Spirit were running neck and neck with Nana
still behind them.

“By jingo, the Englishman’s gained! It’s palpable!” said Bordenave.
“Lusignan’s in difficulties, and Valerio II can’t stay.”

“Well, it will be a pretty biz if the Englishman wins!” cried Philippe
in an access of patriotic grief.

A feeling of anguish was beginning to choke all that crowded multitude.
Another defeat! And with that a strange ardent prayer, which was almost
religious, went up for Lusignan, while people heaped abuse on Spirit
and his dismal mute of a jockey. Among the crowd scattered over the
grass the wind of excitement put up whole groups of people and set
their boot soles flashing in air as they ran. Horsemen crossed the
green at a furious gallop. And Nana, who was slowly revolving on her
own axis, saw beneath her a surging waste of beasts and men, a sea of
heads swayed and stirred all round the course by the whirlwind of the
race, which clove the horizon with the bright lightning flash of the
jockeys. She had been following their movement from behind while the
cruppers sped away and the legs seemed to grow longer as they raced and
then diminished till they looked slender as strands of hair. Now the
horses were running at the end of the course, and she caught a side
view of them looking minute and delicate of outline against the green
distances of the Bois. Then suddenly they vanished behind a great clump
of trees growing in the middle of the Hippodrome.

“Don’t talk about it!” cried Georges, who was still full of hope. “It
isn’t over yet. The Englishman’s touched.”

But La Faloise was again seized with contempt for his country and grew
positively outrageous in his applause of Spirit. Bravo! That was right!
France needed it! Spirit first and Frangipane second—that would be a
nasty one for his native land! He exasperated Labordette, who
threatened seriously to throw him off the carriage.

“Let’s see how many minutes they’ll be about it,” said Bordenave
peaceably, for though holding up Louiset, he had taken out his watch.

One after the other the horses reappeared from behind the clump of
trees. There was stupefaction; a long murmur arose among the crowd.
Valerio II was still leading, but Spirit was gaining on him, and behind
him Lusignan had slackened while another horse was taking his place.
People could not make this out all at once; they were confused about
the colors. Then there was a burst of exclamations.

“But it’s Nana! Nana? Get along! I tell you Lusignan hasn’t budged.
Dear me, yes, it’s Nana. You can certainly recognize her by her golden
color. D’you see her now? She’s blazing away. Bravo, Nana! What a
ripper she is! Bah, it doesn’t matter a bit: she’s making the running
for Lusignan!”

For some seconds this was everybody’s opinion. But little by little the
filly kept gaining and gaining, spurting hard all the while. Thereupon
a vast wave of feeling passed over the crowd, and the tail of horses in
the rear ceased to interest. A supreme struggle was beginning between
Spirit, Nana, Lusignan and Valerio II. They were pointed out; people
estimated what ground they had gained or lost in disconnected, gasping
phrases. And Nana, who had mounted up on the coach box, as though some
power had lifted her thither, stood white and trembling and so deeply
moved as not to be able to speak. At her side Labordette smiled as of
old.

“The Englishman’s in trouble, eh?” said Philippe joyously. “He’s going
badly.”

“In any case, it’s all up with Lusignan,” shouted La Faloise. “Valerio
II is coming forward. Look, there they are all four together.”

The same phrase was in every mouth.

“What a rush, my dears! By God, what a rush!”

The squad of horses was now passing in front of them like a flash of
lightning. Their approach was perceptible—the breath of it was as a
distant muttering which increased at every second. The whole crowd had
thrown themselves impetuously against the barriers, and a deep clamor
issued from innumerable chests before the advance of the horses and
drew nearer and nearer like the sound of a foaming tide. It was the
last fierce outburst of colossal partisanship; a hundred thousand
spectators were possessed by a single passion, burning with the same
gambler’s lust, as they gazed after the beasts, whose galloping feet
were sweeping millions with them. The crowd pushed and crushed—fists
were clenched; people gaped, openmouthed; every man was fighting for
himself; every man with voice and gesture was madly speeding the horse
of his choice. And the cry of all this multitude, a wild beast’s cry
despite the garb of civilization, grew ever more distinct:

“Here they come! Here they come! Here they come!”

But Nana was still gaining ground, and now Valerio II was distanced,
and she was heading the race, with Spirit two or three necks behind.
The rolling thunder of voices had increased. They were coming in; a
storm of oaths greeted them from the landau.

“Gee up, Lusignan, you great coward! The Englishman’s stunning! Do it
again, old boy; do it again! Oh, that Valerio! It’s sickening! Oh, the
carcass! My ten louis damned well lost! Nana’s the only one! Bravo,
Nana! Bravo!”

And without being aware of it Nana, upon her seat, had begun jerking
her hips and waist as though she were racing herself. She kept striking
her side—she fancied it was a help to the filly. With each stroke she
sighed with fatigue and said in low, anguished tones:

“Go it, go it!”

Then a splendid sight was witnessed. Price, rising in his stirrups and
brandishing his whip, flogged Nana with an arm of iron. The old
shriveled-up child with his long, hard, dead face seemed to breath
flame. And in a fit of furious audacity and triumphant will he put his
heart into the filly, held her up, lifted her forward, drenched in
foam, with eyes of blood. The whole rush of horses passed with a roar
of thunder: it took away people’s breaths; it swept the air with it
while the judge sat frigidly waiting, his eye adjusted to its task.
Then there was an immense re-echoing burst of acclamation. With a
supreme effort Price had just flung Nana past the post, thus beating
Spirit by a head.

There was an uproar as of a rising tide. “Nana! Nana! Nana!” The cry
rolled up and swelled with the violence of a tempest, till little by
little it filled the distance, the depths of the Bois as far as Mont
Valerien, the meadows of Longchamps and the Plaine de Boulogne. In all
parts of the field the wildest enthusiasm declared itself. “Vive Nana!
Vive la France! Down with England!” The women waved their sunshades;
men leaped and spun round, vociferating as they did so, while others
with shouts of nervous laughter threw their hats in the air. And from
the other side of the course the enclosure made answer; the people on
the stands were stirred, though nothing was distinctly visible save a
tremulous motion of the air, as though an invisible flame were burning
in a brazier above the living mass of gesticulating arms and little
wildly moving faces, where the eyes and gaping mouths looked like black
dots. The noise did not cease but swelled up and recommenced in the
recesses of faraway avenues and among the people encamped under the
trees, till it spread on and on and attained its climax in the imperial
stand, where the empress herself had applauded. “Nana! Nana! Nana!” The
cry rose heavenward in the glorious sunlight, whose golden rain beat
fiercely on the dizzy heads of the multitude.

Then Nana, looming large on the seat of her landau, fancied that it was
she whom they were applauding. For a moment or two she had stood devoid
of motion, stupefied by her triumph, gazing at the course as it was
invaded by so dense a flood of people that the turf became invisible
beneath the sea of black hats. By and by, when this crowd had become
somewhat less disorderly and a lane had been formed as far as the exit
and Nana was again applauded as she went off with Price hanging
lifelessly and vacantly over her neck, she smacked her thigh
energetically, lost all self-possession, triumphed in crude phrases:

“Oh, by God, it’s me; it’s me. Oh, by God, what luck!”

And, scarce knowing how to give expression to her overwhelming joy, she
hugged and kissed Louiset, whom she now discovered high in the air on
Bordenave’s shoulder.

“Three minutes and fourteen seconds,” said the latter as he put his
watch back in his pocket.

Nana kept hearing her name; the whole plain was echoing it back to her.
Her people were applauding her while she towered above them in the
sunlight, in the splendor of her starry hair and white-and-sky-blue
dress. Labordette, as he made off, had just announced to her a gain of
two thousand louis, for he had put her fifty on Nana at forty to one.
But the money stirred her less than this unforeseen victory, the fame
of which made her queen of Paris. All the other ladies were losers.
With a raging movement Rose Mignon had snapped her sunshade, and
Caroline Hequet and Clarisse and Simonne—nay, Lucy Stewart herself,
despite the presence of her son—were swearing low in their exasperation
at that great wench’s luck, while the Tricon, who had made the sign of
the cross at both start and finish, straightened up her tall form above
them, went into an ecstasy over her intuition and damned Nana
admiringly as became an experienced matron.

Meanwhile round the landau the crush of men increased. The band of
Nana’s immediate followers had made a fierce uproar, and now Georges,
choking with emotion, continued shouting all by himself in breaking
tones. As the champagne had given out, Philippe, taking the footmen
with him, had run to the wine bars. Nana’s court was growing and
growing, and her present triumph caused many loiterers to join her.
Indeed, that movement which had made her carriage a center of
attraction to the whole field was now ending in an apotheosis, and
Queen Venus was enthroned amid suddenly maddened subjects. Bordenave,
behind her, was muttering oaths, for he yearned to her as a father.
Steiner himself had been reconquered—he had deserted Simonne and had
hoisted himself upon one of Nana’s carriage steps. When the champagne
had arrived, when she lifted her brimming glass, such applause burst
forth, and “Nana! Nana! Nana!” was so loudly repeated that the crowd
looked round in astonishment for the filly, nor could any tell whether
it was the horse or the woman that filled all hearts.

While this was going on Mignon came hastening up in defiance of Rose’s
terrible frown. That confounded girl simply maddened him, and he wanted
to kiss her. Then after imprinting a paternal salute on both her
cheeks:

“What bothers me,” he said, “is that now Rose is certainly going to
send the letter. She’s raging, too, fearfully.”

“So much the better! It’ll do my business for me!” Nana let slip.

But noting his utter astonishment, she hastily continued:

“No, no, what am I saying? Indeed, I don’t rightly know what I’m saying
now! I’m drunk.”

And drunk, indeed, drunk with joy, drunk with sunshine, she still
raised her glass on high and applauded herself.

“To Nana! To Nana!” she cried amid a redoubled uproar of laughter and
bravoes, which little by little overspread the whole Hippodrome.

The races were ending, and the Prix Vaublanc was run for. Carriages
began driving off one by one. Meanwhile, amid much disputing, the name
of Vandeuvres was again mentioned. It was quite evident now: for two
years past Vandeuvres had been preparing his final stroke and had
accordingly told Gresham to hold Nana in, while he had only brought
Lusignan forward in order to make play for the filly. The losers were
vexed; the winners shrugged their shoulders. After all, wasn’t the
thing permissible? An owner was free to run his stud in his own way.
Many others had done as he had! In fact, the majority thought
Vandeuvres had displayed great skill in raking in all he could get
about Nana through the agency of friends, a course of action which
explained the sudden shortening of the odds. People spoke of his having
laid two thousand louis on the horse, which, supposing the odds to be
thirty to one against, gave him twelve hundred thousand francs, an
amount so vast as to inspire respect and to excuse everything.

But other rumors of a very serious nature were being whispered about:
they issued in the first instance from the enclosure, and the men who
returned thence were full of exact particulars. Voices were raised; an
atrocious scandal began to be openly canvassed. That poor fellow
Vandeuvres was done for; he had spoiled his splendid hit with a piece
of flat stupidity, an idiotic robbery, for he had commissioned
Marechal, a shady bookmaker, to lay two thousand louis on his account
against Lusignan, in order thereby to get back his thousand and odd
openly wagered louis. It was a miserable business, and it proved to be
the last rift necessary to the utter breakup of his fortune. The
bookmaker being thus warned that the favorite would not win, had
realized some sixty thousand francs over the horse. Only Labordette,
for lack of exact and detailed instructions, had just then gone to him
to put two hundred louis on Nana, which the bookmaker, in his ignorance
of the stroke actually intended, was still quoting at fifty to one
against. 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. That Vandeuvres was a mere child! She
made a bored little gesture.

That evening at the Bal Mabille Nana obtained a colossal success. When
toward ten o’clock she made her appearance, the uproar was afready
formidable. That classic night of madness had brought together all that
was young and pleasure loving, and now this smart world was wallowing
in the coarseness and imbecility of the servants’ hall. There was a
fierce crush under the festoons of gas lamps, and men in evening coats
and women in outrageous low-necked old toilets, which they did not mind
soiling, were howling and surging to and fro under the maddening
influence of a vast drunken fit. At a distance of thirty paces the
brass instruments of the orchestra were inaudible. Nobody was dancing.
Stupid witticisms, repeated no one knew why, were going the round of
the various groups. People were straining after wit without succeeding
in being funny. Seven women, imprisoned in the cloakroom, were crying
to be set free. A shallot had been found, put up to auction and knocked
down at two louis. Just then Nana arrived, still wearing her
blue-and-white racecourse costume, and amid a thunder of applause the
shallot was presented to her. People caught hold of her in her own
despite, and three gentlemen bore her triumphantly into the garden,
across ruined grassplots and ravaged masses of greenery. As the
bandstand presented an obstacle to her advance, it was taken by storm,
and chairs and music stands were smashed. A paternal police organized
the disorder.

It was only on Tuesday that Nana recovered from the excitements of
victory. That morning she was chatting with Mme Lerat, the old lady
having come in to bring her news of Louiset, whom the open air had
upset. A long story, which was occupying the attention of all Paris,
interested her beyond measure. Vandeuvres, after being warned off all
racecourses and posted at the Cercle Imperial on the very evening after
the disaster, had set fire to his stable on the morrow and had burned
himself and his horses to death.

“He certainly told me he was going to,” the young woman kept saying.
“That man was a regular maniac! Oh, how they did frighten me when they
told me about it yesterday evening! You see, he might easily have
murdered me some fine night. And besides, oughtn’t he to have given me
a hint about his horse? I should at any rate have made my fortune! He
said to Labordette that if I knew about the matter I would immediately
inform my hairdresser and a whole lot of other men. How polite, eh? Oh
dear, no, I certainly can’t grieve much for him.”

After some reflection she had grown very angry. Just then Labordette
came in; he had seen about her bets and was now the bearer of some
forty thousand francs. This only added to her bad temper, for she ought
to have gained a million. Labordette, who during the whole of this
episode had been pretending entire innocence, abandoned Vandeuvres in
decisive terms. Those old families, he opined, were worn out and apt to
make a stupid ending.

“Oh dear no!” said Nana. “It isn’t stupid to burn oneself in one’s
stable as he did. For my part, I think he made a dashing finish; but,
oh, you know, I’m not defending that story about him and Marechal. It’s
too silly. Just to think that Blanche has had the cheek to want to lay
the blame of it on me! I said to her: ‘Did I tell him to steal?’ Don’t
you think one can ask a man for money without urging him to commit
crime? If he had said to me, ‘I’ve got nothing left,’ I should have
said to him, ‘All right, let’s part.’ And the matter wouldn’t have gone
further.”

“Just so,” said the aunt gravely “When men are obstinate about a thing,
so much the worse for them!”

“But as to the merry little finish up, oh, that was awfully smart!”
continued Nana. “It appears to have been terrible enough to give you
the shudders! He sent everybody away and boxed himself up in the place
with a lot of petroleum. And it blazed! You should have seen it! Just
think, a great big affair, almost all made of wood and stuffed with hay
and straw! The flames simply towered up, and the finest part of the
business was that the horses didn’t want to be roasted. They could be
heard plunging, throwing themselves against the doors, crying aloud
just like human beings. Yes, people haven’t got rid of the horror of it
yet.”

Labordette let a low, incredulous whistle escape him. For his part, he
did not believe in the death of Vandeuvres. Somebody had sworn he had
seen him escaping through a window. He had set fire to his stable in a
fit of aberration, but when it had begun to grow too warm it must have
sobered him. A man so besotted about the women and so utterly worn out
could not possibly die so pluckily.

Nana listened in her disillusionment and could only remark:

“Oh, the poor wretch, it was so beautiful!”




 CHAPTER XII


Toward one in the morning, in the great bed of the Venice point
draperies, Nana and the count lay still awake. He had returned to her
that evening after a three days sulking fit. The room, which was dimly
illumined by a lamp, seemed to slumber amid a warm, damp odor of love,
while the furniture, with its white lacquer and silver incrustations,
loomed vague and wan through the gloom. A curtain had been drawn to, so
that the bed lay flooded with shadow. A sigh became audible; then a
kiss broke the silence, and Nana, slipping off the coverlet, sat for a
moment or two, barelegged, on the edge of the bed. The count let his
head fall back on the pillow and remained in darkness.

“Dearest, you believe in the good God, don’t you?” she queried after
some moments’ reflection. Her face was serious; she had been overcome
by pious terrors on quitting her lover’s arms.

Since morning, indeed, she had been complaining of feeling
uncomfortable, and all her stupid notions, as she phrased it, notions
about death and hell, were secretly torturing her. From time to time
she had nights such as these, during which childish fears and atrocious
fancies would thrill her with waking nightmares. She continued:

“I say, d’you think I shall go to heaven?”

And with that she shivered, while the count, in his surprise at her
putting such singular questions at such a moment, felt his old
religious remorse returning upon him. Then with her chemise slipping
from her shoulders and her hair unpinned, she again threw herself upon
his breast, sobbing and clinging to him as she did so.

“I’m afraid of dying! I’m afraid of dying!” He had all the trouble in
the world to disengage himself. Indeed, he was himself afraid of giving
in to the sudden madness of this woman clinging to his body in her
dread of the Invisible. Such dread is contagious, and he reasoned with
her. Her conduct was perfect—she had only to conduct herself well in
order one day to merit pardon. But she shook her head. Doubtless she
was doing no one any harm; nay, she was even in the constant habit of
wearing a medal of the Virgin, which she showed to him as it hung by a
red thread between her breasts. Only it had been foreordained that all
unmarried women who held conversation with men would go to hell. Scraps
of her catechism recurred to her remembrance. Ah, if one only knew for
certain, but, alas, one was sure of nothing; nobody ever brought back
any information, and then, truly, it would be stupid to bother oneself
about things if the priests were talking foolishness all the time.
Nevertheless, she religiously kissed her medal, which was still warm
from contact with her skin, as though by way of charm against death,
the idea of which filled her with icy horror. Muffat was obliged to
accompany her into the dressing room, for she shook at the idea of
being alone there for one moment, even though she had left the door
open. When he had lain down again she still roamed about the room,
visiting its several corners and starting and shivering at the
slightest noise. A mirror stopped her, and as of old she lapsed into
obvious contemplation of her nakedness. But the sight of her breast,
her waist and her thighs only doubled her terror, and she ended by
feeling with both hands very slowly over the bones of her face.

“You’re ugly when you’re dead,” she said in deliberate tones.

And she pressed her cheeks, enlarging her eyes and pushing down her
jaw, in order to see how she would look. Thus disfigured, she turned
toward the count.

“Do look! My head’ll be quite small, it will!”

At this he grew vexed.

“You’re mad; come to bed!”

He fancied he saw her in a grave, emaciated by a century of sleep, and
he joined his hands and stammered a prayer. It was some time ago that
the religious sense had reconquered him, and now his daily access of
faith had again assumed the apoplectic intensity which was wont to
leave him well-nigh stunned. The joints of his fingers used to crack,
and he would repeat without cease these words only: “My God, my God, my
God!” It was the cry of his impotence, the cry of that sin against
which, though his damnation was certain, he felt powerless to strive.
When Nana returned she found him hidden beneath the bedclothes; he was
haggard; he had dug his nails into his bosom, and his eyes stared
upward as though in search of heaven. And with that she started to weep
again. Then they both embraced, and their teeth chattered they knew not
why, as the same imbecile obsession over-mastered them. They had
already passed a similar night, but on this occasion the thing was
utterly idiotic, as Nana declared when she ceased to be frightened. She
suspected something, and this caused her to question the count in a
prudent sort of way. It might be that Rose Mignon had sent the famous
letter! But that was not the case; it was sheer fright, nothing more,
for he was still ignorant whether he was a cuckold or no.

Two days later, after a fresh disappearance, Muffat presented himself
in the morning, a time of day at which he never came. He was livid; his
eyes were red and his whole man still shaken by a great internal
struggle. But Zoé, being scared herself, did not notice his troubled
state. She had run to meet him and now began crying:

“Oh, monsieur, do come in! Madame nearly died yesterday evening!”

And when he asked for particulars:

“Something it’s impossible to believe has happened—a miscarriage,
monsieur.”

Nana had been in the family way for the past three months. For long she
had simply thought herself out of sorts, and Dr Boutarel had himself
been in doubt. But when afterward he made her a decisive announcement,
she felt so bored thereby that she did all she possibly could to
disguise her condition. Her nervous terrors, her dark humors, sprang to
some extent from this unfortunate state of things, the secret of which
she kept very shamefacedly, as became a courtesan mother who is obliged
to conceal her plight. The thing struck her as a ridiculous accident,
which made her appear small in her own eyes and would, had it been
known, have led people to chaff her.

“A poor joke, eh?” she said. “Bad luck, too, certainly.”

She was necessarily very sharp set when she thought her last hour had
come. There was no end to her surprise, too; her sexual economy seemed
to her to have got out of order; it produced children then even when
one did not want them and when one employed it for quite other
purposes! Nature drove her to exasperation; this appearance of serious
motherhood in a career of pleasure, this gift of life amid all the
deaths she was spreading around, exasperated her. Why could one not
dispose of oneself as fancy dictated, without all this fuss? And whence
had this brat come? She could not even suggest a father. Ah, dear
heaven, the man who made him would have a splendid notion had he kept
him in his own hands, for nobody asked for him; he was in everybody’s
way, and he would certainly not have much happiness in life!

Meanwhile Zoé described the catastrophe.

“Madame was seized with colic toward four o’clock. When she didn’t come
back out of the dressing room I went in and found her lying stretched
on the floor in a faint. Yes, monsieur, on the floor in a pool of
blood, as though she had been murdered. Then I understood, you see. I
was furious; Madame might quite well have confided her trouble to me.
As it happened, Monsieur Georges was there, and he helped me to lift
her up, and directly a miscarriage was mentioned he felt ill in his
turn! Oh, it’s true I’ve had the hump since yesterday!”

In fact, the house seemed utterly upset. All the servants were
galloping upstairs, downstairs and through the rooms. Georges had
passed the night on an armchair in the drawing room. It was he who had
announced the news to Madame’s friends at that hour of the evening when
Madame was in the habit of receiving. He had still been very pale, and
he had told his story very feelingly, and as though stupefied. Steiner,
La Faloise, Philippe and others, besides, had presented themselves, and
at the end of the lad’s first phrase they burst into exclamations. The
thing was impossible! It must be a farce! After which they grew serious
and gazed with an embarrassed expression at her bedroom door. They
shook their heads; it was no laughing matter.

Till midnight a dozen gentlemen had stood talking in low voices in
front of the fireplace. All were friends; all were deeply exercised by
the same idea of paternity. They seemed to be mutually excusing
themselves, and they looked as confused as if they had done something
clumsy. Eventually, however, they put a bold face on the matter. It had
nothing to do with them: the fault was hers! What a stunner that Nana
was, eh? One would never have believed her capable of such a fake! And
with that they departed one by one, walking on tiptoe, as though in a
chamber of death where you cannot laugh.

“Come up all the same, monsieur,” said Zoé to Muffat. “Madame is much
better and will see you. We are expecting the doctor, who promised to
come back this morning.”

The lady’s maid had persuaded Georges to go back home to sleep, and
upstairs in the drawing room only Satin remained. She lay stretched on
a divan, smoking a cigarette and scanning the ceiling. Amid the
household scare which had followed the accident she had been white with
rage, had shrugged her shoulders violently and had made ferocious
remarks. Accordingly, when Zoé was passing in front of her and telling
Monsieur that poor, dear Madame had suffered a great deal:

“That’s right; it’ll teach him!” said Satin curtly.

They turned round in surprise, but she had not moved a muscle; her eyes
were still turned toward the ceiling, and her cigarette was still
wedged tightly between her lips.

“Dear me, you’re charming, you are!” said Zoé.

But Satin sat up, looked savagely at the count and once more hurled her
remark at him.

“That’s right; it’ll teach him!”

And she lay down again and blew forth a thin jet of smoke, as though
she had no interest in present events and were resolved not to meddle
in any of them. No, it was all too silly!

Zoé, however, introduced Muffat into the bedroom, where a scent of
ether lingered amid warm, heavy silence, scarce broken by the dull roll
of occasional carriages in the Avenue de Villiers. Nana, looking very
white on her pillow, was lying awake with wide-open, meditative eyes.
She smiled when she saw the count but did not move.

“Ah, dear pet!” she slowly murmured. “I really thought I should never
see you again.”

Then as he leaned forward to kiss her on the hair, she grew tender
toward him and spoke frankly about the child, as though he were its
father.

“I never dared tell you; I felt so happy about it! Oh, I used to dream
about it; I should have liked to be worthy of you! And now there’s
nothing left. Ah well, perhaps that’s best. I don’t want to bring a
stumbling block into your life.”

Astounded by this story of paternity, he began stammering vague
phrases. He had taken a chair and had sat down by the bed, leaning one
arm on the coverlet. Then the young woman noticed his wild expression,
the blood reddening his eyes, the fever that set his lips aquiver.

“What’s the matter then?” she asked. “You’re ill too.”

“No,” he answered with extreme difficulty.

She gazed at him with a profound expression. Then she signed to Zoé to
retire, for the latter was lingering round arranging the medicine
bottles. And when they were alone she drew him down to her and again
asked:

“What’s the matter with you, darling? The tears are ready to burst from
your eyes—I can see that quite well. Well now, speak out; you’ve come
to tell me something.”

“No, no, I swear I haven’t,” he blurted out. But he was choking with
suffering, and this sickroom, into which he had suddenly entered
unawares, so worked on his feelings that he burst out sobbing and
buried his face in the bedclothes to smother the violence of his grief.
Nana understood. Rose Mignon had most assuredly decided to send the
letter. She let him weep for some moments, and he was shaken by
convulsions so fierce that the bed trembled under her. At length in
accents of motherly compassion she queried:

“You’ve had bothers at your home?”

He nodded affirmatively. She paused anew, and then very low:

“Then you know all?”

He nodded assent. And a heavy silence fell over the chamber of
suffering. The night before, on his return from a party given by the
empress, he had received the letter Sabine had written her lover. After
an atrocious night passed in the meditation of vengeance he had gone
out in the morning in order to resist a longing which prompted him to
kill his wife. Outside, under a sudden, sweet influence of a fine June
morning, he had lost the thread of his thoughts and had come to Nana’s,
as he always came at terrible moments in his life. There only he gave
way to his misery, for he felt a cowardly joy at the thought that she
would console him.

“Now look here, be calm!” the young woman continued, becoming at the
same time extremely kind. “I’ve known it a long time, but it was
certainly not I that would have opened your eyes. You remember you had
your doubts last year, but then things arranged themselves, owing to my
prudence. In fact, you wanted proofs. The deuce, you’ve got one today,
and I know it’s hard lines. Nevertheless, you must look at the matter
quietly: you’re not dishonored because it’s happened.”

He had left off weeping. A sense of shame restrained him from saying
what he wanted to, although he had long ago slipped into the most
intimate confessions about his household. She had to encourage him.
Dear me, she was a woman; she could understand everything. When in a
dull voice he exclaimed:

“You’re ill. What’s the good of tiring you? It was stupid of me to have
come. I’m going—”

“No,” she answered briskly enough. “Stay! Perhaps I shall be able to
give you some good advice. Only don’t make me talk too much; the
medical man’s forbidden it.”

He had ended by rising, and he was now walking up and down the room.
Then she questioned him:

“Now what are you going to do?

“I’m going to box the man’s ears—by heavens, yes!”

She pursed up her lips disapprovingly.

“That’s not very wise. And about your wife?”

“I shall go to law; I’ve proofs.”

“Not at all wise, my dear boy. It’s stupid even. You know I shall never
let you do that!”

And in her feeble voice she showed him decisively how useless and
scandalous a duel and a trial would be. He would be a nine days’
newspaper sensation; his whole existence would be at stake, his peace
of mind, his high situation at court, the honor of his name, and all
for what? That he might have the laughers against him.

“What will it matter?” he cried. “I shall have had my revenge.”

“My pet,” she said, “in a business of that kind one never has one’s
revenge if one doesn’t take it directly.”

He paused and stammered. He was certainly no poltroon, but he felt that
she was right. An uneasy feeling was growing momentarily stronger
within him, a poor, shameful feeling which softened his anger now that
it was at its hottest. Moreover, in her frank desire to tell him
everything, she dealt him a fresh blow.

“And d’you want to know what’s annoying you, dearest? Why, that you are
deceiving your wife yourself. You don’t sleep away from home for
nothing, eh? Your wife must have her suspicions. Well then, how can you
blame her? She’ll tell you that you’ve set her the example, and that’ll
shut you up. There, now, that’s why you’re stamping about here instead
of being at home murdering both of ’em.”

Muffat had again sunk down on the chair; he was overwhelmed by these
home thrusts. She broke off and took breath, and then in a low voice:

“Oh, I’m a wreck! Do help me sit up a bit. I keep slipping down, and my
head’s too low.”

When he had helped her she sighed and felt more comfortable. And with
that she harked back to the subject. What a pretty sight a divorce suit
would be! Couldn’t he imagine the advocate of the countess amusing
Paris with his remarks about Nana? Everything would have come out—her
fiasco at the Variétés, her house, her manner of life. Oh dear, no! She
had no wish for all that amount of advertising. Some dirty women might,
perhaps, have driven him to it for the sake of getting a thundering big
advertisement, but she—she desired his happiness before all else. She
had drawn him down toward her and, after passing her arm around his
neck, was nursing his head close to hers on the edge of the pillow. And
with that she whispered softly:

“Listen, my pet, you shall make it up with your wife.”

But he rebelled at this. It could never be! His heart was nigh breaking
at the thought; it was too shameful. Nevertheless, she kept tenderly
insisting.

“You shall make it up with your wife. Come, come, you don’t want to
hear all the world saying that I’ve tempted you away from your home? I
should have too vile a reputation! What would people think of me? Only
swear that you’ll always love me, because the moment you go with
another woman—”

Tears choked her utterance, and he intervened with kisses and said:

“You’re beside yourself; it’s impossible!”

“Yes, yes,” she rejoined, “you must. But I’ll be reasonable. After all,
she’s your wife, and it isn’t as if you were to play me false with the
firstcomer.”

And she continued in this strain, giving him the most excellent advice.
She even spoke of God, and the count thought he was listening to M.
Venot, when that old gentleman endeavored to sermonize him out of the
grasp of sin. Nana, however, did not speak of breaking it off entirely:
she preached indulgent good nature and suggested that, as became a
dear, nice old fellow, he should divide his attentions between his wife
and his mistress, so that they would all enjoy a quiet life, devoid of
any kind of annoyance, something, in fact, in the nature of a happy
slumber amid the inevitable miseries of existence. Their life would be
nowise changed: he would still be the little man of her heart. Only he
would come to her a bit less often and would give the countess the
nights not passed with her. She had got to the end of her strength and
left off, speaking under her breath:

“After that I shall feel I’ve done a good action, and you’ll love me
all the more.”

Silence reigned. She had closed her eyes and lay wan upon her pillow.
The count was patiently listening to her, not wishing her to tire
herself. A whole minute went by before she reopened her eyes and
murmured:

“Besides, how about the money? Where would you get the money from if
you must grow angry and go to law? Labordette came for the bill
yesterday. As for me, I’m out of everything; I have nothing to put on
now.”

Then she shut her eyes again and looked like one dead. A shadow of deep
anguish had passed over Muffat’s brow. Under the present stroke he had
since yesterday forgotten the money troubles from which he knew not how
to escape. Despite formal promises to the contrary, the bill for a
hundred thousand francs had been put in circulation after being once
renewed, and Labordette, pretending to be very miserable about it,
threw all the blame on Francis, declaring that he would never again mix
himself up in such a matter with an uneducated man. It was necessary to
pay, for the count would never have allowed his signature to be
protested. Then in addition to Nana’s novel demands, his home expenses
were extraordinarily confused. On their return from Les Fondettes the
countess had suddenly manifested a taste for luxury, a longing for
worldly pleasures, which was devouring their fortune. Her ruinous
caprices began to be talked about. Their whole household management was
altered, and five hundred thousand francs were squandered in utterly
transforming the old house in the Rue Miromesnil. Then there were
extravagantly magnificent gowns and large sums disappeared, squandered
or perhaps given away, without her ever dreaming of accounting for
them. Twice Muffat ventured to mention this, for he was anxious to know
how the money went, but on these occasions she had smiled and gazed at
him with so singular an expression that he dared not interrogate her
further for fear of a too-unmistakable answer. If he were taking
Daguenet as son-in-law as a gift from Nana it was chiefly with the hope
of being able to reduce Estelle’s dower to two hundred thousand francs
and of then being free to make any arrangements he chose about the
remainder with a young man who was still rejoicing in this unexpected
match.

Nevertheless, for the last week, under the immediate necessity of
finding Labordette’s hundred thousand francs, Muffat had been able to
hit on but one expedient, from which he recoiled. This was that he
should sell the Bordes, a magnificent property valued at half a
million, which an uncle had recently left the countess. However, her
signature was necessary, and she herself, according to the terms of the
deed, could not alienate the property without the count’s
authorization. The day before he had indeed resolved to talk to his
wife about this signature. And now everything was ruined; at such a
moment he would never accept of such a compromise. This reflection
added bitterness to the frightful disgrace of the adultery. He fully
understood what Nana was asking for, since in that ever-growing
self-abandonment which prompted him to put her in possession of all his
secrets, he had complained to her of his position and had confided to
her the tiresome difficulty he was in with regard to the signature of
the countess.

Nana, however, did not seem to insist. She did not open her eyes again,
and, seeing her so pale, he grew frightened and made her inhale a
little ether. She gave a sigh and without mentioning Daguenet asked him
some questions.

“When is the marriage?”

“We sign the contract on Tuesday, in five days’ time,” he replied.

Then still keeping her eyelids closed, as though she were speaking from
the darkness and silence of her brain:

“Well then, pet, see to what you’ve got to do. As far as I’m concerned,
I want everybody to be happy and comfortable.”

He took her hand and soothed her. Yes, he would see about it; the
important thing now was for her to rest. And the revolt within him
ceased, for this warm and slumberous sickroom, with its all-pervading
scent of ether, had ended by lulling him into a mere longing for
happiness and peace. All his manhood, erewhile maddened by wrong, had
departed out of him in the neighborhood of that warm bed and that
suffering woman, whom he was nursing under the influence of her
feverish heat and of remembered delights. He leaned over her and
pressed her in a close embrace, while despite her unmoved features her
lips wore a delicate, victorious smile. But Dr Boutarel made his
appearance.

“Well, and how’s this dear child?” he said familiarly to Muffat, whom
he treated as her husband. “The deuce, but we’ve made her talk!”

The doctor was a good-looking man and still young. He had a superb
practice among the gay world, and being very merry by nature and ready
to laugh and joke in the friendliest way with the demimonde ladies with
whom, however, he never went farther, he charged very high fees and got
them paid with the greatest punctuality. Moreover, he would put himself
out to visit them on the most trivial occasions, and Nana, who was
always trembling at the fear of death, would send and fetch him two or
three times a week and would anxiously confide to him little infantile
ills which he would cure to an accompaniment of amusing gossip and
harebrained anecdotes. The ladies all adored him. But this time the
little ill was serious.

Muffat withdrew, deeply moved. Seeing his poor Nana so very weak, his
sole feeling was now one of tenderness. As he was leaving the room she
motioned him back and gave him her forehead to kiss. In a low voice and
with a playfully threatening look she said:

“You know what I’ve allowed you to do. Go back to your wife, or it’s
all over and I shall grow angry!”

The Countess Sabine had been anxious that her daughter’s wedding
contract should be signed on a Tuesday in order that the renovated
house, where the paint was still scarcely dry, might be reopened with a
grand entertainment. Five hundred invitations had been issued to people
in all kinds of sets. On the morning of the great day the upholsterers
were still nailing up hangings, and toward nine at night, just when the
lusters were going to be lit, the architect, accompanied by the eager
and interested countess, was given his final orders.

It was one of those spring festivities which have a delicate charm of
their own. Owing to the warmth of the June nights, it had become
possible to open the two doors of the great drawing room and to extend
the dancing floor to the sanded paths of the garden. When the first
guests arrived and were welcomed at the door by the count and the
countess they were positively dazzled. One had only to recall to mind
the drawing room of the past, through which flitted the icy, ghostly
presence of the Countess Muffat, that antique room full of an
atmosphere of religious austerity with its massive First Empire
mahogany furniture, its yellow velvet hangings, its moldy ceiling
through which the damp had soaked. Now from the very threshold of the
entrance hall mosaics set off with gold were glittering under the
lights of lofty candelabras, while the marble staircase unfurled, as it
were, a delicately chiseled balustrade. Then, too, the drawing room
looked splendid; it was hung with Genoa velvet, and a huge decorative
design by Boucher covered the ceiling, a design for which the architect
had paid a hundred thousand francs at the sale of the Château de
Dampierre. The lusters and the crystal ornaments lit up a luxurious
display of mirrors and precious furniture. It seemed as though Sabine’s
long chair, that solitary red silk chair, whose soft contours were so
marked in the old days, had grown and spread till it filled the whole
great house with voluptuous idleness and a sense of tense enjoyment not
less fierce and hot than a fire which has been long in burning up.

People were already dancing. The band, which had been located in the
garden, in front of one of the open windows, was playing a waltz, the
supple rhythm of which came softly into the house through the
intervening night air. And the garden seemed to spread away and away,
bathed in transparent shadow and lit by Venetian lamps, while in a
purple tent pitched on the edge of a lawn a table for refreshments had
been established. The waltz, which was none other than the quaint,
vulgar one in the Blonde Venus, with its laughing, blackguard lilt,
penetrated the old hotel with sonorous waves of sound and sent a
feverish thrill along its walls. It was as though some fleshly wind had
come up out of the common street and were sweeping the relics of a
vanished epoch out of the proud old dwelling, bearing away the Muffats’
past, the age of honor and religious faith which had long slumbered
beneath the lofty ceilings.

Meanwhile near the hearth, in their accustomed places, the old friends
of the count’s mother were taking refuge. They felt out of their
element—they were dazzled and they formed a little group amid the
slowly invading mob. Mme du Joncquoy, unable to recognize the various
rooms, had come in through the dining saloon. Mme Chantereau was gazing
with a stupefied expression at the garden, which struck her as immense.
Presently there was a sound of low voices, and the corner gave vent to
all sorts of bitter reflections.

“I declare,” murmured Mme Chantereau, “just fancy if the countess were
to return to life. Why, can you not imagine her coming in among all
these crowds of people! And then there’s all this gilding and this
uproar! It’s scandalous!”

“Sabine’s out of her senses,” replied Mme du Joncquoy. “Did you see her
at the door? Look, you can catch sight of her here; she’s wearing all
her diamonds.”

For a moment or two they stood up in order to take a distant view of
the count and countess. Sabine was in a white dress trimmed with
marvelous English point lace. She was triumphant in beauty; she looked
young and gay, and there was a touch of intoxication in her continual
smile. Beside her stood Muffat, looking aged and a little pale, but he,
too, was smiling in his calm and worthy fashion.

“And just to think that he was once master,” continued Mme Chantereau,
“and that not a single rout seat would have come in without his
permission! Ah well, she’s changed all that; it’s her house now. D’you
remember when she did not want to do her drawing room up again? She’s
done up the entire house.”

But the ladies grew silent, for Mme de Chezelles was entering the room,
followed by a band of young men. She was going into ecstasies and
marking her approval with a succession of little exclamations.

“Oh, it’s delicious, exquisite! What taste!” And she shouted back to
her followers:

“Didn’t I say so? There’s nothing equal to these old places when one
takes them in hand. They become dazzling! It’s quite in the grand
seventeenth-century style. Well, NOW she can receive.”

The two old ladies had again sat down and with lowered tones began
talking about the marriage, which was causing astonishment to a good
many people. Estelle had just passed by them. She was in a pink silk
gown and was as pale, flat, silent and virginal as ever. She had
accepted Daguenet very quietly and now evinced neither joy nor sadness,
for she was still as cold and white as on those winter evenings when
she used to put logs on the fire. This whole fête given in her honor,
these lights and flowers and tunes, left her quite unmoved.

“An adventurer,” Mme du Joncquoy was saying. “For my part, I’ve never
seen him.”

“Take care, here he is,” whispered Mme Chantereau.

Daguenet, who had caught sight of Mme Hugon and her sons, had eagerly
offered her his arm. He laughed and was effusively affectionate toward
her, as though she had had a hand in his sudden good fortune.

“Thank you,” she said, sitting down near the fireplace. “You see, it’s
my old corner.”

“You know him?” queried Mme du Joncquoy, when Daguenet had gone.
“Certainly I do—a charming young man. Georges is very fond of him. Oh,
they’re a most respected family.”

And the good lady defended him against the mute hostility which was
apparent to her. His father, held in high esteem by Louis Philippe, had
been a PREFET up to the time of his death. The son had been a little
dissipated, perhaps; they said he was ruined, but in any case, one of
his uncles, who was a great landowner, was bound to leave him his
fortune. The ladies, however, shook their heads, while Mme Hugon,
herself somewhat embarrassed, kept harking back to the extreme
respectability of his family. She was very much fatigued and complained
of her feet. For some months she had been occupying her house in the
Rue Richelieu, having, as she said, a whole lot of things on hand. A
look of sorrow overshadowed her smiling, motherly face.

“Never mind,” Mme Chantereau concluded. “Estelle could have aimed at
something much better.”

There was a flourish. A quadrille was about to begin, and the crowd
flowed back to the sides of the drawing room in order to leave the
floor clear. Bright dresses flitted by and mingled together amid the
dark evening coats, while the intense light set jewels flashing and
white plumes quivering and lilacs and roses gleaming and flowering amid
the sea of many heads. It was already very warm, and a penetrating
perfume was exhaled from light tulles and crumpled silks and satins,
from which bare shoulders glimmered white, while the orchestra played
its lively airs. Through open doors ranges of seated ladies were
visible in the background of adjoining rooms; they flashed a discreet
smile; their eyes glowed, and they made pretty mouths as the breath of
their fans caressed their faces. And guests still kept arriving, and a
footman announced their names while gentlemen advanced slowly amid the
surrounding groups, striving to find places for ladies, who hung with
difficulty on their arms, and stretching forward in quest of some
far-off vacant armchair. The house kept filling, and crinolined skirts
got jammed together with a little rustling sound. There were corners
where an amalgam of laces, bunches and puffs would completely bar the
way, while all the other ladies stood waiting, politely resigned and
imperturbably graceful, as became people who were made to take part in
these dazzling crushes. Meanwhile across the garden couples, who had
been glad to escape from the close air of the great drawing room, were
wandering away under the roseate gleam of the Venetian lamps, and
shadowy dresses kept flitting along the edge of the lawn, as though in
rhythmic time to the music of the quadrille, which sounded sweet and
distant behind the trees.

Steiner had just met with Foucarmont and La Faloise, who were drinking
a glass of champagne in front of the buffet.

“It’s beastly smart,” said La Faloise as he took a survey of the purple
tent, which was supported by gilded lances. “You might fancy yourself
at the Gingerbread Fair. That’s it—the Gingerbread Fair!”

In these days he continually affected a bantering tone, posing as the
young man who has abused every mortal thing and now finds nothing worth
taking seriously.

“How surprised poor Vandeuvres would be if he were to come back,”
murmured Foucarmont. “You remember how he simply nearly died of boredom
in front of the fire in there. Egad, it was no laughing matter.”

“Vandeuvres—oh, let him be. He’s a gone coon!” La Faloise disdainfully
rejoined. “He jolly well choused himself, he did, if he thought he
could make us sit up with his roast-meat story! Not a soul mentions it
now. Blotted out, done for, buried—that’s what’s the matter with
Vandeuvres! Here’s to the next man!”

Then as Steiner shook hands with him:

“You know Nana’s just arrived. Oh, my boys, it was a state entry. It
was too brilliant for anything! First of all she kissed the countess.
Then when the children came up she gave them her blessing and said to
Daguenet, ‘Listen, Paul, if you go running after the girls you’ll have
to answer for it to me.’ What, d’you mean to say you didn’t see that?
Oh, it WAS smart. A success, if you like!”

The other two listened to him, openmouthed, and at last burst out
laughing. He was enchanted and thought himself in his best vein.

“You thought it had really happened, eh? Confound it, since Nana’s made
the match! Anyway, she’s one of the family.”

The young Hugons were passing, and Philippe silenced him. And with that
they chatted about the marriage from the male point of view. Georges
was vexed with La Faloise for telling an anecdote. Certainly Nana had
fubbed off on Muffat one of her old flames as son-in-law; only it was
not true that she had been to bed with Daguenet as lately as yesterday.
Foucarmont made bold to shrug his shoulders. Could anyone ever tell
when Nana was in bed with anyone? But Georges grew excited and answered
with an “I can tell, sir!” which set them all laughing. In a word, as
Steiner put it, it was all a very funny kettle of fish!

The buffet was gradually invaded by the crowd, and, still keeping
together, they vacated their positions there. La Faloise stared
brazenly at the women as though he believed himself to be Mabille. At
the end of a garden walk the little band was surprised to find M. Venot
busily conferring with Daguenet, and with that they indulged in some
facile pleasantries which made them very merry. He was confessing him,
giving him advice about the bridal night! Presently they returned in
front of one of the drawing-room doors, within which a polka was
sending the couples whirling to and fro till they seemed to leave a
wake behind them among the crowd of men who remained standing about. In
the slight puffs of air which came from outside the tapers flared up
brilliantly, and when a dress floated by in time to the rat-tat of the
measure, a little gust of wind cooled the sparkling heat which streamed
down from the lusters.

“Egad, they’re not cold in there!” muttered La Faloise.

They blinked after emerging from the mysterious shadows of the garden.
Then they pointed out to one another the Marquis de Chouard where he
stood apart, his tall figure towering over the bare shoulders which
surrounded him. His face was pale and very stern, and beneath its crown
of scant white hair it wore an expression of lofty dignity. Scandalized
by Count Muffat’s conduct, he had publicly broken off all intercourse
with him and was by way of never again setting foot in the house. If he
had consented to put in an appearance that evening it was because his
granddaughter had begged him to. But he disapproved of her marriage and
had inveighed indignantly against the way in which the government
classes were being disorganized by the shameful compromises engendered
by modern debauchery.

“Ah, it’s the end of all things,” Mme du Joncquoy whispered in Mme
Chantereau’s ear as she sat near the fireplace. “That bad woman has
bewitched the unfortunate man. And to think we once knew him such a
true believer, such a noblehearted gentleman!”

“It appears he is ruining himself,” continued Mme Chantereau. “My
husband has had a bill of his in his hands. At present he’s living in
that house in the Avenue de Villiers; all Paris is talking about it.
Good heavens! I don’t make excuses for Sabine, but you must admit that
he gives her infinite cause of complaint, and, dear me, if she throws
money out of the window, too—”

“She does not only throw money,” interrupted the other. “In fact,
between them, there’s no knowing where they’ll stop; they’ll end in the
mire, my dear.”

But just then a soft voice interrupted them. It was M. Venot, and he
had come and seated himself behind them, as though anxious to disappear
from view. Bending forward, he murmured:

“Why despair? God manifests Himself when all seems lost.”

He was assisting peacefully at the downfall of the house which he
erewhile governed. Since his stay at Les Fondettes he had been allowing
the madness to increase, for he was very clearly aware of his own
powerlessness. He had, indeed, accepted the whole position—the count’s
wild passion for Nana, Fauchery’s presence, even Estelle’s marriage
with Daguenet. What did these things matter? He even became more supple
and mysterious, for he nursed a hope of being able to gain the same
mastery over the young as over the disunited couple, and he knew that
great disorders lead to great conversions. Providence would have its
opportunity.

“Our friend,” he continued in a low voice, “is always animated by the
best religious sentiments. He has given me the sweetest proofs of
this.”

“Well,” said Mme du Joncquoy, “he ought first to have made it up with
his wife.”

“Doubtless. At this moment I have hopes that the reconciliation will be
shortly effected.”

Whereupon the two old ladies questioned him.

But he grew very humble again. “Heaven,” he said, “must be left to
act.” His whole desire in bringing the count and the countess together
again was to avoid a public scandal, for religion tolerated many faults
when the proprieties were respected.

“In fact,” resumed Mme du Joncquoy, “you ought to have prevented this
union with an adventurer.”

The little old gentleman assumed an expression of profound
astonishment. “You deceive yourself. Monsieur Daguenet is a young man
of the greatest merit. I am acquainted with his thoughts; he is anxious
to live down the errors of his youth. Estelle will bring him back to
the path of virtue, be sure of that.”

“Oh, Estelle!” Mme Chantereau murmured disdainfully. “I believe the
dear young thing to be incapable of willing anything; she is so
insignificant!”

This opinion caused M. Venot to smile. However, he went into no
explanations about the young bride and, shutting his eyes, as though to
avoid seeming to take any further interest in the matter, he once more
lost himself in his corner behind the petticoats. Mme Hugon, though
weary and absent-minded, had caught some phrases of the conversation,
and she now intervened and summed up in her tolerant way by remarking
to the Marquis de Chouard, who just then bowed to her:

“These ladies are too severe. Existence is so bitter for every one of
us! Ought we not to forgive others much, my friend, if we wish to merit
forgiveness ourselves?”

For some seconds the marquis appeared embarrassed, for he was afraid of
allusions. But the good lady wore so sad a smile that he recovered
almost at once and remarked:

“No, there is no forgiveness for certain faults. It is by reason of
this kind of accommodating spirit that a society sinks into the abyss
of ruin.”

The ball had grown still more animated. A fresh quadrille was imparting
a slight swaying motion to the drawing-room floor, as though the old
dwelling had been shaken by the impulse of the dance. Now and again
amid the wan confusion of heads a woman’s face with shining eyes and
parted lips stood sharply out as it was whirled away by the dance, the
light of the lusters gleaming on the white skin. Mme du Joncquoy
declared that the present proceedings were senseless. It was madness to
crowd five hundred people into a room which would scarcely contain two
hundred. In fact, why not sign the wedding contract on the Place du
Carrousel? This was the outcome of the new code of manners, said Mme
Chantereau. In old times these solemnities took place in the bosom of
the family, but today one must have a mob of people; the whole street
must be allowed to enter quite freely, and there must be a great crush,
or else the evening seems a chilly affair. People now advertised their
luxury and introduced the mere foam on the wave of Parisian society
into their houses, and accordingly it was only too natural if illicit
proceedings such as they had been discussing afterward polluted the
hearth. The ladies complained that they could not recognize more than
fifty people. Where did all this crowd spring from? Young girls with
low necks were making a great display of their shoulders. A woman had a
golden dagger stuck in her chignon, while a bodice thickly embroidered
with jet beads clothed her in what looked like a coat of mail. People’s
eyes kept following another lady smilingly, so singularly marked were
her clinging skirts. All the luxuriant splendor of the departing winter
was there—the overtolerant world of pleasure, the scratch gathering a
hostess can get together after a first introduction, the sort of
society, in fact, in which great names and great shames jostle together
in the same fierce quest of enjoyment. The heat was increasing, and
amid the overcrowded rooms the quadrille unrolled the cadenced symmetry
of its figures.

“Very smart—the countess!” La Faloise continued at the garden door.
“She’s ten years younger than her daughter. By the by, Foucarmont, you
must decide on a point. Vandeuvres once bet that she had no thighs.”

This affectation of cynicism bored the other gentlemen, and Foucarmont
contented himself by saying:

“Ask your cousin, dear boy. Here he is.”

“Jove, it’s a happy thought!” cried La Faloise. “I bet ten louis she
has thighs.”

Fauchery did indeed come up. As became a constant inmate of the house,
he had gone round by the dining room in order to avoid the crowded
doors. Rose had taken him up again at the beginning of the winter, and
he was now dividing himself between the singer and the countess, but he
was extremely fatigued and did not know how to get rid of one of them.
Sabine flattered his vanity, but Rose amused him more than she.
Besides, the passion Rose felt was a real one: her tenderness for him
was marked by a conjugal fidelity which drove Mignon to despair.

“Listen, we want some information,” said La Faloise as he squeezed his
cousin’s arm. “You see that lady in white silk?”

Ever since his inheritance had given him a kind of insolent dash of
manner he had affected to chaff Fauchery, for he had an old grudge to
satisfy and wanted to be revenged for much bygone raillery, dating from
the days when he was just fresh from his native province.

“Yes, that lady with the lace.”

The journalist stood on tiptoe, for as yet he did not understand.

“The countess?” he said at last.

“Exactly, my good friend. I’ve bet ten louis—now, has she thighs?”

And he fell a-laughing, for he was delighted to have succeeded in
snubbing a fellow who had once come heavily down on him for asking
whether the countess slept with anyone. But Fauchery, without showing
the very slightest astonishment, looked fixedly at him.

“Get along, you idiot!” he said finally as he shrugged his shoulders.

Then he shook hands with the other gentlemen, while La Faloise, in his
discomfiture, felt rather uncertain whether he had said something
funny. The men chatted. Since the races the banker and Foucarmont had
formed part of the set in the Avenue de Villiers. Nana was going on
much better, and every evening the count came and asked how she did.
Meanwhile Fauchery, though he listened, seemed preoccupied, for during
a quarrel that morning Rose had roundly confessed to the sending of the
letter. Oh yes, he might present himself at his great lady’s house; he
would be well received! After long hesitation he had come despite
everything—out of sheer courage. But La Faloise’s imbecile pleasantry
had upset him in spite of his apparent tranquillity.

“What’s the matter?” asked Philippe. “You seem in trouble.”

“I do? Not at all. I’ve been working: that’s why I came so late.”

Then coldly, in one of those heroic moods which, although unnoticed,
are wont to solve the vulgar tragedies of existence:

“All the same, I haven’t made my bow to our hosts. One must be civil.”

He even ventured on a joke, for he turned to La Faloise and said:

“Eh, you idiot?”

And with that he pushed his way through the crowd. The valet’s full
voice was no longer shouting out names, but close to the door the count
and countess were still talking, for they were detained by ladies
coming in. At length he joined them, while the gentlemen who were still
on the garden steps stood on tiptoe so as to watch the scene. Nana,
they thought, must have been chattering.

“The count hasn’t noticed him,” muttered Georges. “Look out! He’s
turning round; there, it’s done!”

The band had again taken up the waltz in the Blonde Venus. Fauchery had
begun by bowing to the countess, who was still smiling in ecstatic
serenity. After which he had stood motionless a moment, waiting very
calmly behind the count’s back. That evening the count’s deportment was
one of lofty gravity: he held his head high, as became the official and
the great dignitary. And when at last he lowered his gaze in the
direction of the journalist he seemed still further to emphasize the
majesty of his attitude. For some seconds the two men looked at one
another. It was Fauchery who first stretched out his hand. Muffat gave
him his. Their hands remained clasped, and the Countess Sabine with
downcast eyes stood smiling before them, while the waltz continually
beat out its mocking, vagabond rhythm.

“But the thing’s going on wheels!” said Steiner.

“Are their hands glued together?” asked Foucarmont, surprised at this
prolonged clasp. A memory he could not forget brought a faint glow to
Fanchery’s pale cheeks, and in his mind’s eye he saw the property room
bathed in greenish twilight and filled with dusty bric-a-brac. And
Muffat was there, eggcup in hand, making a clever use of his
suspicions. At this moment Muffat was no longer suspicious, and the
last vestige of his dignity was crumbling in ruin. Fauchery’s fears
were assuaged, and when he saw the frank gaiety of the countess he was
seized with a desire to laugh. The thing struck him as comic.

“Aha, here she is at last!” cried La Faloise, who did not abandon a
jest when he thought it a good one. “D’you see Nana coming in over
there?”

“Hold your tongue, do, you idiot!” muttered Philippe.

“But I tell you, it is Nana! They’re playing her waltz for her, by
Jove! She’s making her entry. And she takes part in the reconciliation,
the devil she does! What? You don’t see her? She’s squeezing all three
of ’em to her heart—my cousin Fauchery, my lady cousin and her husband,
and she’s calling ’em her dear kitties. Oh, those family scenes give me
a turn!”

Estelle had come up, and Fauchery complimented her while she stood
stiffly up in her rose-colored dress, gazing at him with the astonished
look of a silent child and constantly glancing aside at her father and
mother. Daguenet, too, exchanged a hearty shake of the hand with the
journalist. Together they made up a smiling group, while M. Venot came
gliding in behind them. He gloated over them with a beatified
expression and seemed to envelop them in his pious sweetness, for he
rejoiced in these last instances of self-abandonment which were
preparing the means of grace.

But the waltz still beat out its swinging, laughing, voluptuous
measure; it was like a shrill continuation of the life of pleasure
which was beating against the old house like a rising tide. The band
blew louder trills from their little flutes; their violins sent forth
more swooning notes. Beneath the Genoa velvet hangings, the gilding and
the paintings, the lusters exhaled a living heat and a great glow of
sunlight, while the crowd of guests, multiplied in the surrounding
mirrors, seemed to grow and increase as the murmur of many voices rose
ever louder. The couples who whirled round the drawing room, arm about
waist, amid the smiles of the seated ladies, still further accentuated
the quaking of the floors. In the garden a dull, fiery glow fell from
the Venetian lanterns and threw a distant reflection of flame over the
dark shadows moving in search of a breath of air about the walks at its
farther end. And this trembling of walls and this red glow of light
seemed to betoken a great ultimate conflagration in which the fabric of
an ancient honor was cracking and burning on every side. The shy early
beginnings of gaiety, of which Fauchery one April evening had heard the
vocal expression in the sound of breaking glass, had little by little
grown bolder, wilder, till they had burst forth in this festival. Now
the rift was growing; it was crannying the house and announcing
approaching downfall. Among drunkards in the slums it is black misery,
an empty cupboard, which put an end to ruined families; it is the
madness of drink which empties the wretched beds. Here the waltz tune
was sounding the knell of an old race amid the suddenly ignited ruins
of accumulated wealth, while Nana, although unseen, stretched her lithe
limbs above the dancers’ heads and sent corruption through their caste,
drenching the hot air with the ferment of her exhalations and the
vagabond lilt of the music.

On the evening after the celebration of the church marriage Count
Muffat made his appearance in his wife’s bedroom, where he had not
entered for the last two years. At first, in her great surprise, the
countess drew back from him. But she was still smiling the intoxicated
smile which she now always wore. He began stammering in extreme
embarrassment; whereupon she gave him a short moral lecture. However,
neither of them risked a decisive explanation. It was religion, they
pretended, which required this process of mutual forgiveness, and they
agreed by a tacit understanding to retain their freedom. Before going
to bed, seeing that the countess still appeared to hesitate, they had a
business conversation, and the count was the first to speak of selling
the Bordes. She consented at once. They both stood in great want of
money, and they would share and share alike. This completed the
reconciliation, and Muffat, remorseful though he was, felt veritably
relieved.

That very day, as Nana was dozing toward two in the afternoon, Zoé made
so bold as to knock at her bedroom door. The curtains were drawn to,
and a hot breath of wind kept blowing through a window into the fresh
twilight stillness within. During these last days the young woman had
been getting up and about again, but she was still somewhat weak. She
opened her eyes and asked:

“Who is it?”

Zoé was about to reply, but Daguenet pushed by her and announced
himself in person. Nana forthwith propped herself up on her pillow and,
dismissing the lady’s maid:

“What! Is that you?” she cried. “On the day of your marriage? What can
be the matter?”

Taken aback by the darkness, he stood still in the middle of the room.
However, he grew used to it and came forward at last. He was in evening
dress and wore a white cravat and gloves.

“Yes, to be sure, it’s me!” he said. “You don’t remember?”

No, she remembered nothing, and in his chaffing way he had to offer
himself frankly to her.

“Come now, here’s your commission. I’ve brought you the handsel of my
innocence!”

And with that, as he was now by the bedside, she caught him in her bare
arms and shook with merry laughter and almost cried, she thought it so
pretty of him.

“Oh, that Mimi, how funny he is! He’s thought of it after all! And to
think I didn’t remember it any longer! So you’ve slipped off; you’re
just out of church. Yes, certainly, you’ve got a scent of incense about
you. But kiss me, kiss me! Oh, harder than that, Mimi dear! Bah!
Perhaps it’s for the last time.”

In the dim room, where a vague odor of ether still lingered, their
tender laughter died away suddenly. The heavy, warm breeze swelled the
window curtains, and children’s voices were audible in the avenue
without. Then the lateness of the hour tore them asunder and set them
joking again. Daguenet took his departure with his wife directly after
the breakfast.




 CHAPTER XIII


Toward the end of September Count Muffat, who was to dine at Nana’s
that evening, came at nightfall to inform her of a summons to the
Tuileries. The lamps in the house had not been lit yet, and the
servants were laughing uproariously in the kitchen regions as he softly
mounted the stairs, where the tall windows gleamed in warm shadow. The
door of the drawing room up-stairs opened noiselessly. A faint pink
glow was dying out on the ceiling of the room, and the red hangings,
the deep divans, the lacquered furniture, with their medley of
embroidered fabrics and bronzes and china, were already sleeping under
a slowly creeping flood of shadows, which drowned nooks and corners and
blotted out the gleam of ivory and the glint of gold. And there in the
darkness, on the white surface of a wide, outspread petticoat, which
alone remained clearly visible, he saw Nana lying stretched in the arms
of Georges. Denial in any shape or form was impossible. He gave a
choking cry and stood gaping at them.

Nana had bounded up, and now she pushed him into the bedroom in order
to give the lad time to escape.

“Come in,” she murmured with reeling senses, “I’ll explain.”

She was exasperated at being thus surprised. Never before had she given
way like this in her own house, in her own drawing room, when the doors
were open. It was a long story: Georges and she had had a disagreement;
he had been mad with jealousy of Philippe, and he had sobbed so
bitterly on her bosom that she had yielded to him, not knowing how else
to calm him and really very full of pity for him at heart. And on this
solitary occasion, when she had been stupid enough to forget herself
thus with a little rascal who could not even now bring her bouquets of
violets, so short did his mother keep him—on this solitary occasion the
count turned up and came straight down on them. ’Gad, she had very bad
luck! That was what one got if one was a good-natured wench!

Meanwhile in the bedroom, into which she had pushed Muffat, the
darkness was complete. Whereupon after some groping she rang furiously
and asked for a lamp. It was Julien’s fault too! If there had been a
lamp in the drawing room the whole affair would not have happened. It
was the stupid nightfall which had got the better of her heart.

“I beseech you to be reasonable, my pet,” she said when Zoé had brought
in the lights.

The count, with his hands on his knees, was sitting gazing at the
floor. He was stupefied by what he had just seen. He did not cry out in
anger. He only trembled, as though overtaken by some horror which was
freezing him. This dumb misery touched the young woman, and she tried
to comfort him.

“Well, yes, I’ve done wrong. It’s very bad what I did. You see I’m
sorry for my fault. It makes me grieve very much because it annoys you.
Come now, be nice, too, and forgive me.”

She had crouched down at his feet and was striving to catch his eye
with a look of tender submission. She was fain to know whether he was
very vexed with her. Presently, as he gave a long sigh and seemed to
recover himself, she grew more coaxing and with grave kindness of
manner added a final reason:

“You see, dearie, you must try and understand how it is: I can’t refuse
it to my poor friends.”

The count consented to give way and only insisted that Georges should
be dismissed once for all. But all his illusions had vanished, and he
no longer believed in her sworn fidelity. Next day Nana would deceive
him anew, and he only remained her miserable possessor in obedience to
a cowardly necessity and to terror at the thought of living without
her.

This was the epoch in her existence when Nana flared upon Paris with
redoubled splendor. She loomed larger than heretofore on the horizon of
vice and swayed the town with her impudently flaunted splendor and that
contempt of money which made her openly squander fortunes. Her house
had become a sort of glowing smithy, where her continual desires were
the flames and the slightest breath from her lips changed gold into
fine ashes, which the wind hourly swept away. Never had eye beheld such
a rage of expenditure. The great house seemed to have been built over a
gulf in which men—their worldly possessions, their fortunes, their very
names—were swallowed up without leaving even a handful of dust behind
them. This courtesan, who had the tastes of a parrot and gobbled up
radishes and burnt almonds and pecked at the meat upon her plate, had
monthly table bills amounting to five thousand francs. The wildest
waste went on in the kitchen: the place, metaphorically speaking was
one great river which stove in cask upon cask of wine and swept great
bills with it, swollen by three or four successive manipulators.
Victorine and Francois reigned supreme in the kitchen, whither they
invited friends. In addition to these there was quite a little tribe of
cousins, who were cockered up in their homes with cold meats and strong
soup. Julien made the trades-people give him commissions, and the
glaziers never put up a pane of glass at a cost of a franc and a half
but he had a franc put down to himself. Charles devoured the horses’
oats and doubled the amount of their provender, reselling at the back
door what came in at the carriage gate, while amid the general pillage,
the sack of the town after the storm, Zoé, by dint of cleverness,
succeeded in saving appearances and covering the thefts of all in order
the better to slur over and make good her own. But the household waste
was worse than the household dishonesty. Yesterday’s food was thrown
into the gutter, and the collection of provisions in the house was such
that the servants grew disgusted with it. The glass was all sticky with
sugar, and the gas burners flared and flared till the rooms seemed
ready to explode. Then, too, there were instances of negligence and
mischief and sheer accident—of everything, in fact, which can hasten
the ruin of a house devoured by so many mouths. Upstairs in Madame’s
quarters destruction raged more fiercely still. Dresses, which cost ten
thousand francs and had been twice worn, were sold by Zoé; jewels
vanished as though they had crumbled deep down in their drawers; stupid
purchases were made; every novelty of the day was brought and left to
lie forgotten in some corner the morning after or swept up by
ragpickers in the street. She could not see any very expensive object
without wanting to possess it, and so she constantly surrounded herself
with the wrecks of bouquets and costly knickknacks and was the happier
the more her passing fancy cost. Nothing remained intact in her hands;
she broke everything, and this object withered, and that grew dirty in
the clasp of her lithe white fingers. A perfect heap of nameless
débris, of twisted shreds and muddy rags, followed her and marked her
passage. Then amid this utter squandering of pocket money cropped up a
question about the big bills and their settlement. Twenty thousand
francs were due to the modiste, thirty thousand to the linen draper,
twelve thousand to the bootmaker. Her stable devoured fifty thousand
for her, and in six months she ran up a bill of a hundred and twenty
thousand francs at her ladies’ tailor. Though she had not enlarged her
scheme of expenditure, which Labordette reckoned at four hundred
thousand francs on an average, she ran up that same year to a million.
She was herself stupefied by the amount and was unable to tell whither
such a sum could have gone. Heaps upon heaps of men, barrowfuls of
gold, failed to stop up the hole, which, amid this ruinous luxury,
continually gaped under the floor of her house.

Meanwhile Nana had cherished her latest caprice. Once more exercised by
the notion that her room needed redoing, she fancied she had hit on
something at last. The room should be done in velvet of the color of
tea roses, with silver buttons and golden cords, tassels and fringes,
and the hangings should be caught up to the ceiling after the manner of
a tent. This arrangement ought to be both rich and tender, she thought,
and would form a splendid background to her blonde vermeil-tinted skin.
However, the bedroom was only designed to serve as a setting to the
bed, which was to be a dazzling affair, a prodigy. Nana meditated a bed
such as had never before existed; it was to be a throne, an altar,
whither Paris was to come in order to adore her sovereign nudity. It
was to be all in gold and silver beaten work—it should suggest a great
piece of jewelry with its golden roses climbing on a trelliswork of
silver. On the headboard a band of Loves should peep forth laughing
from amid the flowers, as though they were watching the voluptuous
dalliance within the shadow of the bed curtains. Nana had applied to
Labordette who had brought two goldsmiths to see her. They were already
busy with the designs. The bed would cost fifty thousand francs, and
Muffat was to give it her as a New Year’s present.

What most astonished the young woman was that she was endlessly short
of money amid a river of gold, the tide of which almost enveloped her.
On certain days she was at her wit’s end for want of ridiculously small
sums—sums of only a few louis. She was driven to borrow from Zoé, or
she scraped up cash as well as she could on her own account. But before
resignedly adopting extreme measures she tried her friends and in a
joking sort of way got the men to give her all they had about them,
even down to their coppers. For the last three months she had been
emptying Philippe’s pockets especially, and now on days of passionate
enjoyment he never came away but he left his purse behind him. Soon she
grew bolder and asked him for loans of two hundred francs, three
hundred francs—never more than that—wherewith to pay the interest of
bills or to stave off outrageous debts. And Philippe, who in July had
been appointed paymaster to his regiment, would bring the money the day
after, apologizing at the same time for not being rich, seeing that
good Mamma Hugon now treated her sons with singular financial severity.
At the close of three months these little oft-renewed loans mounted up
to a sum of ten thousand francs. The captain still laughed his
hearty-sounding laugh, but he was growing visibly thinner, and
sometimes he seemed absent-minded, and a shade of suffering would pass
over his face. But one look from Nana’s eyes would transfigure him in a
sort of sensual ecstasy. She had a very coaxing way with him and would
intoxicate him with furtive kisses and yield herself to him in sudden
fits of self-abandonment, which tied him to her apron strings the
moment he was able to escape from his military duties.

One evening, Nana having announced that her name, too, was Thérèse and
that her fête day was the fifteenth of October, the gentlemen all sent
her presents. Captain Philippe brought his himself; it was an old
comfit dish in Dresden china, and it had a gold mount. He found her
alone in her dressing room. She had just emerged from the bath, had
nothing on save a great red-and-white flannel bathing wrap and was very
busy examining her presents, which were ranged on a table. She had
already broken a rock-crystal flask in her attempts to unstopper it.

“Oh, you’re too nice!” she said. “What is it? Let’s have a peep! What a
baby you are to spend your pennies in little fakements like that!”

She scolded him, seeing that he was not rich, but at heart she was
delighted to see him spending his whole substance for her. Indeed, this
was the only proof of love which had power to touch her. Meanwhile she
was fiddling away at the comfit dish, opening it and shutting it in her
desire to see how it was made.

“Take care,” he murmured, “it’s brittle.”

But she shrugged her shoulders. Did he think her as clumsy as a street
porter? And all of a sudden the hinge came off between her fingers and
the lid fell and was broken. She was stupefied and remained gazing at
the fragments as she cried:

“Oh, it’s smashed!”

Then she burst out laughing. The fragments lying on the floor tickled
her fancy. Her merriment was of the nervous kind, the stupid, spiteful
laughter of a child who delights in destruction. Philippe had a little
fit of disgust, for the wretched girl did not know what anguish this
curio had cost him. Seeing him thoroughly upset, she tried to contain
herself.

“Gracious me, it isn’t my fault! It was cracked; those old things
barely hold together. Besides, it was the cover! Didn’t you see the
bound it gave?”

And she once more burst into uproarious mirth.

But though he made an effort to the contrary, tears appeared in the
young man’s eyes, and with that she flung her arms tenderly round his
neck.

“How silly you are! You know I love you all the same. If one never
broke anything the tradesmen would never sell anything. All that sort
of thing’s made to be broken. Now look at this fan; it’s only held
together with glue!”

She had snatched up a fan and was dragging at the blades so that the
silk was torn in two. This seemed to excite her, and in order to show
that she scorned the other presents, the moment she had ruined his she
treated herself to a general massacre, rapping each successive object
and proving clearly that not one was solid in that she had broken them
all. There was a lurid glow in her vacant eyes, and her lips, slightly
drawn back, displayed her white teeth. Soon, when everything was in
fragments, she laughed cheerily again and with flushed cheeks beat on
the table with the flat of her hands, lisping like a naughty little
girl:

“All over! Got no more! Got no more!”

Then Philippe was overcome by the same mad excitement, and, pushing her
down, he merrily kissed her bosom. She abandoned herself to him and
clung to his shoulders with such gleeful energy that she could not
remember having enjoyed herself so much for an age past. Without
letting go of him she said caressingly:

“I say, dearie, you ought certainly to bring me ten louis tomorrow.
It’s a bore, but there’s the baker’s bill worrying me awfully.”

He had grown pale. Then imprinting a final kiss on her forehead, he
said simply:

“I’ll try.”

Silence reigned. She was dressing, and he stood pressing his forehead
against the windowpanes. A minute passed, and he returned to her and
deliberately continued:

“Nana, you ought to marry me.”

This notion straightway so tickled the young woman that she was unable
to finish tying on her petticoats.

“My poor pet, you’re ill! D’you offer me your hand because I ask you
for ten louis? No, never! I’m too fond of you. Good gracious, what a
silly question!”

And as Zoé entered in order to put her boots on, they ceased talking of
the matter. The lady’s maid at once espied the presents lying broken in
pieces on the table. She asked if she should put these things away,
and, Madame having bidden her get rid of them, she carried the whole
collection off in the folds of her dress. In the kitchen a sorting-out
process began, and Madame’s débris were shared among the servants.

That day Georges had slipped into the house despite Nana’s orders to
the contrary. Francois had certainly seen him pass, but the servants
had now got to laugh among themselves at their good lady’s embarrassing
situations. He had just slipped as far as the little drawing room when
his brother’s voice stopped him, and, as one powerless to tear himself
from the door, he overheard everything that went on within, the kisses,
the offer of marriage. A feeling of horror froze him, and he went away
in a state bordering on imbecility, feeling as though there were a
great void in his brain. It was only in his own room above his mother’s
flat in the Rue Richelieu that his heart broke in a storm of furious
sobs. This time there could be no doubt about the state of things; a
horrible picture of Nana in Philippe’s arms kept rising before his
mind’s eye. It struck him in the light of an incest. When he fancied
himself calm again the remembrance of it all would return, and in fresh
access of raging jealousy he would throw himself on the bed, biting the
coverlet, shouting infamous accusations which maddened him the more.
Thus the day passed. In order to stay shut up in his room he spoke of
having a sick headache. But the night proved more terrible still; a
murder fever shook him amid continual nightmares. Had his brother lived
in the house, he would have gone and killed him with the stab of a
knife. When day returned he tried to reason things out. It was he who
ought to die, and he determined to throw himself out of the window when
an omnibus was passing. Nevertheless, he went out toward ten o’clock
and traversed Paris, wandered up and down on the bridges and at the
last moment felt an unconquerable desire to see Nana once more. With
one word, perhaps, she would save him. And three o’clock was striking
when he entered the house in the Avenue de Villiers.

Toward noon a frightful piece of news had simply crushed Mme Hugon.
Philippe had been in prison since the evening of the previous day,
accused of having stolen twelve thousand francs from the chest of his
regiment. For the last three months he had been withdrawing small sums
therefrom in the hope of being able to repay them, while he had covered
the deficit with false money. Thanks to the negligence of the
administrative committee, this fraud had been constantly successful.
The old lady, humbled utterly by her child’s crime, had at once cried
out in anger against Nana. She knew Philippe’s connection with her, and
her melancholy had been the result of this miserable state of things
which kept her in Paris in constant dread of some final catastrophe.
But she had never looked forward to such shame as this, and now she
blamed herself for refusing him money, as though such refusal had made
her accessory to his act. She sank down on an armchair; her legs were
seized with paralysis, and she felt herself to be useless, incapable of
action and destined to stay where she was till she died. But the sudden
thought of Georges comforted her. Georges was still left her; he would
be able to act, perhaps to save them. Thereupon, without seeking aid of
anyone else—for she wished to keep these matters shrouded in the bosom
of her family—she dragged herself up to the next story, her mind
possessed by the idea that she still had someone to love about her. But
upstairs she found an empty room. The porter told her that M. Georges
had gone out at an early hour. The room was haunted by the ghost of yet
another calamity; the bed with its gnawed bedclothes bore witness to
someone’s anguish, and a chair which lay amid a heap of clothes on the
ground looked like something dead. Georges must be at that woman’s
house, and so with dry eyes and feet that had regained their strength
Mme Hugon went downstairs. She wanted her sons; she was starting to
reclaim them.

Since morning Nana had been much worried. First of all it was the
baker, who at nine o’clock had turned up, bill in hand. It was a
wretched story. He had supplied her with bread to the amount of a
hundred and thirty-three francs, and despite her royal housekeeping she
could not pay it. In his irritation at being put off he had presented
himself a score of times since the day he had refused further credit,
and the servants were now espousing his cause. Francois kept saying
that Madame would never pay him unless he made a fine scene; Charles
talked of going upstairs, too, in order to get an old unpaid straw bill
settled, while Victorine advised them to wait till some gentleman was
with her, when they would get the money out of her by suddenly asking
for it in the middle of conversation. The kitchen was in a savage mood:
the tradesmen were all kept posted in the course events were taking,
and there were gossiping consultations, lasting three or four hours on
a stretch, during which Madame was stripped, plucked and talked over
with the wrathful eagerness peculiar to an idle, overprosperous
servants’ hall. Julien, the house steward, alone pretended to defend
his mistress. She was quite the thing, whatever they might say! And
when the others accused him of sleeping with her he laughed fatuously,
thereby driving the cook to distraction, for she would have liked to be
a man in order to “spit on such women’s backsides,” so utterly would
they have disgusted her. Francois, without informing Madame of it, had
wickedly posted the baker in the hall, and when she came downstairs at
lunch time she found herself face to face with him. Taking the bill,
she told him to return toward three o’clock, whereupon, with many foul
expressions, he departed, vowing that he would have things properly
settled and get his money by hook or by crook.

Nana made a very bad lunch, for the scene had annoyed her. Next time
the man would have to be definitely got rid of. A dozen times she had
put his money aside for him, but it had as constantly melted away,
sometimes in the purchase of flowers, at others in the shape of a
subscription got up for the benefit of an old gendarme. Besides, she
was counting on Philippe and was astonished not to see him make his
appearance with his two hundred francs. It was regular bad luck, seeing
that the day before yesterday she had again given Satin an outfit, a
perfect trousseau this time, some twelve hundred francs’ worth of
dresses and linen, and now she had not a louis remaining.

Toward two o’clock, when Nana was beginning to be anxious, Labordette
presented himself. He brought with him the designs for the bed, and
this caused a diversion, a joyful interlude which made the young woman
forget all her troubles. She clapped her hands and danced about. After
which, her heart bursting wish curiosity, she leaned over a table in
the drawing room and examined the designs, which Labordette proceeded
to explain to her.

“You see,” he said, “this is the body of the bed. In the middle here
there’s a bunch of roses in full bloom, and then comes a garland of
buds and flowers. The leaves are to be in yellow and the roses in
red-gold. And here’s the grand design for the bed’s head; Cupids
dancing in a ring on a silver trelliswork.”

But Nana interrupted him, for she was beside herself with ecstasy.

“Oh, how funny that little one is, that one in the corner, with his
behind in the air! Isn’t he now? And what a sly laugh! They’ve all got
such dirty, wicked eyes! You know, dear boy, I shall never dare play
any silly tricks before THEM!”

Her pride was flattered beyond measure. The goldsmiths had declared
that no queen anywhere slept in such a bed. However, a difficulty
presented itself. Labordette showed her two designs for the footboard,
one of which reproduced the pattern on the sides, while the other, a
subject by itself, represented Night wrapped in her veil and discovered
by a faun in all her splendid nudity. He added that if she chose this
last subject the goldsmiths intended making Night in her own likeness.
This idea, the taste of which was rather risky, made her grow white
with pleasure, and she pictured herself as a silver statuette, symbolic
of the warm, voluptuous delights of darkness.

“Of course you will only sit for the head and shoulders,” said
Labordette.

She looked quietly at him.

“Why? The moment a work of art’s in question I don’t mind the sculptor
that takes my likeness a blooming bit!”

Of course it must be understood that she was choosing the subject. But
at this he interposed.

“Wait a moment; it’s six thousand francs extra.”

“It’s all the same to me, by Jove!” she cried, bursting into a laugh.
“Hasn’t my little rough got the rhino?”

Nowadays among her intimates she always spoke thus of Count Muffat, and
the gentlemen had ceased to inquire after him otherwise.

“Did you see your little rough last night?” they used to say.

“Dear me, I expected to find the little rough here!”

It was a simple familiarity enough, which, nevertheless, she did not as
yet venture on in his presence.

Labordette began rolling up the designs as he gave the final
explanations. The goldsmiths, he said, were undertaking to deliver the
bed in two months’ time, toward the twenty-fifth of December, and next
week a sculptor would come to make a model for the Night. As she
accompanied him to the door Nana remembered the baker and briskly
inquired:

“By the by, you wouldn’t be having ten louis about you?”

Labordette made it a solemn rule, which stood him in good stead, never
to lend women money. He used always to make the same reply.

“No, my girl, I’m short. But would you like me to go to your little
rough?”

She refused; it was useless. Two days before she had succeeded in
getting five thousand francs out of the count. However, she soon
regretted her discreet conduct, for the moment Labordette had gone the
baker reappeared, though it was barely half-past two, and with many
loud oaths roughly settled himself on a bench in the hall. The young
woman listened to him from the first floor. She was pale, and it caused
her especial pain to hear the servants’ secret rejoicings swelling up
louder and louder till they even reached her ears. Down in the kitchen
they were dying of laughter. The coachman was staring across from the
other side of the court; Francois was crossing the hall without any
apparent reason. Then he hurried off to report progress, after sneering
knowingly at the baker. They didn’t care a damn for Madame; the walls
were echoing to their laughter, and she felt that she was deserted on
all hands and despised by the servants’ hall, the inmates of which were
watching her every movement and liberally bespattering her with the
filthiest of chaff. Thereupon she abandoned the intention of borrowing
the hundred and thirty-three francs from Zoé; she already owed the maid
money, and she was too proud to risk a refusal now. Such a burst of
feeling stirred her that she went back into her room, loudly remarking:

“Come, come, my girl, don’t count on anyone but yourself. Your body’s
your own property, and it’s better to make use of it than to let
yourself be insulted.”

And without even summoning Zoé she dressed herself with feverish haste
in order to run round to the Tricon’s. In hours of great embarrassment
this was her last resource. Much sought after and constantly solicited
by the old lady, she would refuse or resign herself according to her
needs, and on these increasingly frequent occasions when both ends
would not meet in her royally conducted establishment, she was sure to
find twenty-five louis awaiting her at the other’s house. She used to
betake herself to the Tricon’s with the ease born of use, just as the
poor go to the pawnshop.

But as she left her own chamber Nana came suddenly upon Georges
standing in the middle of the drawing room. Not noticing his waxen
pallor and the somber fire in his wide eyes, she gave a sigh of relief.

“Ah, you’ve come from your brother.”

“No,” said the lad, growing yet paler.

At this she gave a despairing shrug. What did he want? Why was he
barring her way? She was in a hurry—yes, she was. Then returning to
where he stood:

“You’ve no money, have you?”

“No.”

“That’s true. How silly of me! Never a stiver; not even their omnibus
fares Mamma doesn’t wish it! Oh, what a set of men!”

And she escaped. But he held her back; he wanted to speak to her. She
was fairly under way and again declared she had no time, but he stopped
her with a word.

“Listen, I know you’re going to marry my brother.”

Gracious! The thing was too funny! And she let herself down into a
chair in order to laugh at her ease.

“Yes,” continued the lad, “and I don’t wish it. It’s I you’re going to
marry. That’s why I’ve come.”

“Eh, what? You too?” she cried. “Why, it’s a family disease, is it? No,
never! What a fancy, to be sure! Have I ever asked you to do anything
so nasty? Neither one nor t’other of you! No, never!”

The lad’s face brightened. Perhaps he had been deceiving himself! He
continued:

“Then swear to me that you don’t go to bed with my brother.”

“Oh, you’re beginning to bore me now!” said Nana, who had risen with
renewed impatience. “It’s amusing for a little while, but when I tell
you I’m in a hurry—I go to bed with your brother if it pleases me. Are
you keeping me—are you paymaster here that you insist on my making a
report? Yes, I go to bed with your brother.”

He had caught hold of her arm and squeezed it hard enough to break it
as he stuttered:

“Don’t say that! Don’t say that!”

With a slight blow she disengaged herself from his grasp.

“He’s maltreating me now! Here’s a young ruffian for you! My chicken,
you’ll leave this jolly sharp. I used to keep you about out of
niceness. Yes, I did! You may stare! Did you think I was going to be
your mamma till I died? I’ve got better things to do than to bring up
brats.”

He listened to her stark with anguish, yet in utter submission. Her
every word cut him to the heart so sharply that he felt he should die.
She did not so much as notice his suffering and continued delightedly
to revenge herself on him for the annoyance of the morning.

“It’s like your brother; he’s another pretty Johnny, he is! He promised
me two hundred francs. Oh, dear me; yes, I can wait for ’em. It isn’t
his money I care for! I’ve not got enough to pay for hair oil. Yes,
he’s leaving me in a jolly fix! Look here, d’you want to know how
matters stand? Here goes then: it’s all owing to your brother that I’m
going out to earn twenty-five louis with another man.”

At these words his head spun, and he barred her egress. He cried; he
besought her not to go, clasping his hands together and blurting out:

“Oh no! Oh no!”

“I want to, I do,” she said. “Have you the money?”

No, he had not got the money. He would have given his life to have the
money! Never before had he felt so miserable, so useless, so very
childish. All his wretched being was shaken with weeping and gave proof
of such heavy suffering that at last she noticed it and grew kind. She
pushed him away softly.

“Come, my pet, let me pass; I must. Be reasonable. You’re a baby boy,
and it was very nice for a week, but nowadays I must look after my own
affairs. Just think it over a bit. Now your brother’s a man; what I’m
saying doesn’t apply to him. Oh, please do me a favor; it’s no good
telling him all this. He needn’t know where I’m going. I always let out
too much when I’m in a rage.”

She began laughing. Then taking him in her arms and kissing him on the
forehead:

“Good-by, baby,” she said; “it’s over, quite over between us; d’you
understand? And now I’m off!”

And she left him, and he stood in the middle of the drawing room. Her
last words rang like the knell of a tocsin in his ears: “It’s over,
quite over!” And he thought the ground was opening beneath his feet.
There was a void in his brain from which the man awaiting Nana had
disappeared. Philippe alone remained there in the young woman’s bare
embrace forever and ever. She did not deny it: she loved him, since she
wanted to spare him the pain of her infidelity. It was over, quite
over. He breathed heavily and gazed round the room, suffocating beneath
a crushing weight. Memories kept recurring to him one after the
other—memories of merry nights at La Mignotte, of amorous hours during
which he had fancied himself her child, of pleasures stolen in this
very room. And now these things would never, never recur! He was too
small; he had not grown up quickly enough; Philippe was supplanting him
because he was a bearded man. So then this was the end; he could not go
on living. His vicious passion had become transformed into an infinite
tenderness, a sensual adoration, in which his whole being was merged.
Then, too, how was he to forget it all if his brother remained—his
brother, blood of his blood, a second self, whose enjoyment drove him
mad with jealousy? It was the end of all things; he wanted to die.

All the doors remained open, as the servants noisily scattered over the
house after seeing Madame make her exit on foot. Downstairs on the
bench in the hall the baker was laughing with Charles and Francois. Zoé
came running across the drawing room and seemed surprised at sight of
Georges. She asked him if he were waiting for Madame. Yes, he was
waiting for her; he had for-gotten to give her an answer to a question.
And when he was alone he set to work and searched. Finding nothing else
to suit his purpose, he took up in the dressing room a pair of very
sharply pointed scissors with which Nana had a mania for ceaselessly
trimming herself, either by polishing her skin or cutting off little
hairs. Then for a whole hour he waited patiently, his hand in his
pocket and his fingers tightly clasped round the scissors.

“Here’s Madame,” said Zoé, returning. She must have espied her through
the bedroom window.

There was a sound of people racing through the house, and laughter died
away and doors were shut. Georges heard Nana paying the baker and
speaking in the curtest way. Then she came upstairs.

“What, you’re here still!” she said as she noticed him. “Aha! We’re
going to grow angry, my good man!”

He followed her as she walked toward her bedroom.

“Nana, will you marry me?”

She shrugged her shoulders. It was too stupid; she refused to answer
any more and conceived the idea of slamming the door in his face.

“Nana, will you marry me?”

She slammed the door. He opened it with one hand while he brought the
other and the scissors out of his pocket. And with one great stab he
simply buried them in his breast.

Nana, meanwhile, had felt conscious that something dreadful would
happen, and she had turned round. When she saw him stab himself she was
seized with indignation.

“Oh, what a fool he is! What a fool! And with my scissors! Will you
leave off, you naughty little rogue? Oh, my God! Oh, my God!”

She was scared. Sinking on his knees, the boy had just given himself a
second stab, which sent him down at full length on the carpet. He
blocked the threshold of the bedroom. With that Nana lost her head
utterly and screamed with all her might, for she dared not step over
his body, which shut her in and prevented her from running to seek
assistance.

“Zoé! Zoé! Come at once. Make him leave off. It’s getting stupid—a
child like that! He’s killing himself now! And in my place too! Did you
ever see the like of it?”

He was frightening her. He was all white, and his eyes were shut. There
was scarcely any bleeding—only a little blood, a tiny stain which was
oozing down into his waistcoat. She was making up her mind to step over
the body when an apparition sent her starting back. An old lady was
advancing through the drawing-room door, which remained wide open
opposite. And in her terror she recognized Mme Hugon but could not
explain her presence. Still wearing her gloves and hat, Nana kept
edging backward, and her terror grew so great that she sought to defend
herself, and in a shaky voice:

“Madame,” she cried, “it isn’t I; I swear to you it isn’t. He wanted to
marry me, and I said no, and he’s killed himself!”

Slowly Mme Hugon drew near—she was in black, and her face showed pale
under her white hair. In the carriage, as she drove thither, the
thought of Georges had vanished and that of Philippe’s misdoing had
again taken complete possession of her. It might be that this woman
could afford explanations to the judges which would touch them, and so
she conceived the project of begging her to bear witness in her son’s
favor. Downstairs the doors of the house stood open, but as she mounted
to the first floor her sick feet failed her, and she was hesitating as
to which way to go when suddenly horror-stricken cries directed her.
Then upstairs she found a man lying on the floor with bloodstained
shirt. It was Georges—it was her other child.

Nana, in idiotic tones, kept saying:

“He wanted to marry me, and I said no, and he’s killed himself.”

Uttering no cry, Mme Hugon stooped down. Yes, it was the other one; it
was Georges. The one was brought to dishonor, the other murdered! It
caused her no surprise, for her whole life was ruined. Kneeling on the
carpet, utterly forgetting where she was, noticing no one else, she
gazed fixedly at her boy’s face and listened with her hand on his
heart. Then she gave a feeble sigh—she had felt the heart beating. And
with that she lifted her head and scrutinized the room and the woman
and seemed to remember. A fire glowed forth in her vacant eyes, and she
looked so great and terrible in her silence that Nana trembled as she
continued to defend herself above the body that divided them.

“I swear it, madame! If his brother were here he could explain it to
you.”

“His brother has robbed—he is in prison,” said the mother in a hard
voice.

Nana felt a choking sensation. Why, what was the reason of it all? The
other had turned thief now! They were mad in that family! She ceased
struggling in self-defense; she seemed no longer mistress in her own
house and allowed Mme Hugon to give what orders she liked. The servants
had at last hurried up, and the old lady insisted on their carrying the
fainting Georges down to her carriage. She preferred killing him rather
than letting him remain in that house. With an air of stupefaction Nana
watched the retreating servants as they supported poor, dear Zizi by
his legs and shoulders. The mother walked behind them in a state of
collapse; she supported herself against the furniture; she felt as if
all she held dear had vanished in the void. On the landing a sob
escaped her; she turned and twice ejaculated:

“Oh, but you’ve done us infinite harm! You’ve done us infinite harm!”

That was all. In her stupefaction Nana had sat down; she still wore her
gloves and her hat. The house once more lapsed into heavy silence; the
carriage had driven away, and she sat motionless, not knowing what to
do next, her head swimming after all she had gone through. A quarter of
an hour later Count Muffat found her thus, but at sight of him she
relieved her feelings in an overflowing current of talk. She told him
all about the sad incident, repeated the same details twenty times
over, picked up the bloodstained scissors in order to imitate Zizi’s
gesture when he stabbed himself. And above all she nursed the idea of
proving her own innocence.

“Look you here, dearie, is it my fault? If you were the judge would you
condemn me? I certainly didn’t tell Philippe to meddle with the till
any more than I urged that wretched boy to kill himself. I’ve been most
unfortunate throughout it all. They come and do stupid things in my
place; they make me miserable; they treat me like a hussy.”

And she burst into tears. A fit of nervous expansiveness rendered her
soft and doleful, and her immense distress melted her utterly.

“And you, too, look as if you weren’t satisfied. Now do just ask Zoé if
I’m at all mixed up in it. Zoé, do speak: explain to Monsieur—”

The lady’s maid, having brought a towel and a basin of water out of the
dressing room, had for some moments past been rubbing the carpet in
order to remove the bloodstains before they dried.

“Oh, monsieur,” she declared, “Madame is utterly miserable!”

Muffat was still stupefied; the tragedy had frozen him, and his
imagination was full of the mother weeping for her sons. He knew her
greatness of heart and pictured her in her widow’s weeds, withering
solitarily away at Les Fondettes. But Nana grew ever more despondent,
for now the memory of Zizi lying stretched on the floor, with a red
hole in his shirt, almost drove her senseless.

“He used to be such a darling, so sweet and caressing. Oh, you know, my
pet—I’m sorry if it vexes you—I loved that baby! I can’t help saying
so; the words must out. Besides, now it ought not to hurt you at all.
He’s gone. You’ve got what you wanted; you’re quite certain never to
surprise us again.”

And this last reflection tortured her with such regret that he ended by
turning comforter. Well, well, he said, she ought to be brave; she was
quite right; it wasn’t her fault! But she checked her lamentations of
her own accord in order to say:

“Listen, you must run round and bring me news of him. At once! I wish
it!”

He took his hat and went to get news of Georges. When he returned after
some three quarters of an hour he saw Nana leaning anxiously out of a
window, and he shouted up to her from the pavement that the lad was not
dead and that they even hoped to bring him through. At this she
immediately exchanged grief for excess of joy and began to sing and
dance and vote existence delightful. Zoé, meanwhile, was still
dissatisfied with her washing. She kept looking at the stain, and every
time she passed it she repeated:

“You know it’s not gone yet, madame.”

As a matter of fact, the pale red stain kept reappearing on one of the
white roses in the carpet pattern. It was as though, on the very
threshold of the room, a splash of blood were barring the doorway.

“Bah!” said the joyous Nana. “That’ll be rubbed out under people’s
feet.”

After the following day Count Muffat had likewise forgotten the
incident. For a moment or two, when in the cab which drove him to the
Rue Richelieu, he had busily sworn never to return to that woman’s
house. Heaven was warning him; the misfortunes of Philippe and Georges
were, he opined, prophetic of his proper ruin. But neither the sight of
Mme Hugon in tears nor that of the boy burning with fever had been
strong enough to make him keep his vow, and the short-lived horror of
the situation had only left behind it a sense of secret delight at the
thought that he was now well quit of a rival, the charm of whose youth
had always exasperated him. His passion had by this time grown
exclusive; it was, indeed, the passion of a man who has had no youth.
He loved Nana as one who yearned to be her sole possessor, to listen to
her, to touch her, to be breathed on by her. His was now a supersensual
tenderness, verging on pure sentiment; it was an anxious affection and
as such was jealous of the past and apt at times to dream of a day of
redemption and pardon received, when both should kneel before God the
Father. Every day religion kept regaining its influence over him. He
again became a practicing Christian; he confessed himself and
communicated, while a ceaseless struggle raged within him, and remorse
redoubled the joys of sin and of repentance. Afterward, when his
director gave him leave to spend his passion, he had made a habit of
this daily perdition and would redeem the same by ecstasies of faith,
which were full of pious humility. Very naively he offered heaven, by
way of expiatory anguish, the abominable torment from which he was
suffering. This torment grew and increased, and he would climb his
Calvary with the deep and solemn feelings of a believer, though steeped
in a harlot’s fierce sensuality. That which made his agony most
poignant was this woman’s continued faithlessness. He could not share
her with others, nor did he understand her imbecile caprices. Undying,
unchanging love was what he wished for. However, she had sworn, and he
paid her as having done so. But he felt that she was untruthful,
incapable of common fidelity, apt to yield to friends, to stray
passers-by, like a good-natured animal, born to live minus a shift.

One morning when he saw Foucarmont emerging from her bedroom at an
unusual hour, he made a scene about it. But in her weariness of his
jealousy she grew angry directly. On several occasions ere that she had
behaved rather prettily. Thus the evening when he surprised her with
Georges she was the first to regain her temper and to confess herself
in the wrong. She had loaded him with caresses and dosed him with soft
speeches in order to make him swallow the business. But he had ended by
boring her to death with his obstinate refusals to understand the
feminine nature, and now she was brutal.

“Very well, yes! I’ve slept with Foucarmont. What then? That’s
flattened you out a bit, my little rough, hasn’t it?”

It was the first time she had thrown “my little rough” in his teeth.
The frank directness of her avowal took his breath away, and when he
began clenching his fists she marched up to him and looked him full in
the face.

“We’ve had enough of this, eh? If it doesn’t suit you you’ll do me the
pleasure of leaving the house. I don’t want you to go yelling in my
place. Just you get it into your noodle that I mean to be quite free.
When a man pleases me I go to bed with him. Yes, I do—that’s my way!
And you must make up your mind directly. Yes or no! If it’s no, out you
may walk!”

She had gone and opened the door, but he did not leave. That was her
way now of binding him more closely to her. For no reason whatever, at
the slightest approach to a quarrel she would tell him he might stop or
go as he liked, and she would accompany her permission with a flood of
odious reflections. She said she could always find better than he; she
had only too many from whom to choose; men in any quantity could be
picked up in the street, and men a good deal smarter, too, whose blood
boiled in their veins. At this he would hang his head and wait for
those gentler moods when she wanted money. She would then become
affectionate, and he would forget it all, one night of tender dalliance
making up for the tortures of a whole week. His reconciliation with his
wife had rendered his home unbearable. Fauchery, having again fallen
under Rose’s dominion, the countess was running madly after other
loves. She was entering on the forties, that restless, feverish time in
the life of women, and ever hysterically nervous, she now filled her
mansion with the maddening whirl of her fashionable life. Estelle,
since her marriage, had seen nothing of her father; the undeveloped,
insignificant girl had suddenly become a woman of iron will, so
imperious withal that Daguenet trembled in her presence. In these days
he accompanied her to mass: he was converted, and he raged against his
father-in-law for ruining them with a courtesan. M. Venot alone still
remained kindly inclined toward the count, for he was biding his time.
He had even succeeded in getting into Nana’s immediate circle. In fact,
he frequented both houses, where you encountered his continual smile
behind doors. So Muffat, wretched at home, driven out by ennui and
shame, still preferred to live in the Avenue de Villiers, even though
he was abused there.

Soon there was but one question between Nana and the count, and that
was “money.” One day after having formally promised her ten thousand
francs he had dared keep his appointment empty handed. For two days
past she had been surfeiting him with love, and such a breach of faith,
such a waste of caresses, made her ragingly abusive. She was white with
fury.

“So you’ve not got the money, eh? Then go back where you came from, my
little rough, and look sharp about it! There’s a bloody fool for you!
He wanted to kiss me again! Mark my words—no money, no nothing!”

He explained matters; he would be sure to have the money the day after
tomorrow. But she interrupted him violently:

“And my bills! They’ll sell me up while Monsieur’s playing the fool.
Now then, look at yourself. D’ye think I love you for your figure? A
man with a mug like yours has to pay the women who are kind enough to
put up with him. By God, if you don’t bring me that ten thousand francs
tonight you shan’t even have the tip of my little finger to suck. I
mean it! I shall send you back to your wife!”

At night he brought the ten thousand francs. Nana put up her lips, and
he took a long kiss which consoled him for the whole day of anguish.
What annoyed the young woman was to have him continually tied to her
apron strings. She complained to M. Venot, begging him to take her
little rough off to the countess. Was their reconciliation good for
nothing then? She was sorry she had mixed herself up in it, since
despite everything he was always at her heels. On the days when, out of
anger, she forgot her own interest, she swore to play him such a dirty
trick that he would never again be able to set foot in her place. But
when she slapped her leg and yelled at him she might quite as well have
spat in his face too: he would still have stayed and even thanked her.
Then the rows about money matters kept continually recurring. She
demanded money savagely; she rowed him over wretched little amounts;
she was odiously stingy with every minute of her time; she kept
fiercely informing him that she slept with him for his money, not for
any other reasons, and that she did not enjoy it a bit, that, in fact,
she loved another and was awfully unfortunate in needing an idiot of
his sort! They did not even want him at court now, and there was some
talk of requiring him to send in his resignation. The empress had said,
“He is too disgusting.” It was true enough. So Nana repeated the phrase
by way of closure to all their quarrels.

“Look here! You disgust me!”

Nowadays she no longer minded her p’s and q’s; she had regained the
most perfect freedom.

Every day she did her round of the lake, beginning acquaintanceships
which ended elsewhere. Here was the happy hunting ground par
excellence, where courtesans of the first water spread their nets in
open daylight and flaunted themselves amid the tolerating smiles and
brilliant luxury of Paris. Duchesses pointed her out to one another
with a passing look—rich shopkeepers’ wives copied the fashion of her
hats. Sometimes her landau, in its haste to get by, stopped a file of
puissant turnouts, wherein sat plutocrats able to buy up all Europe or
Cabinet ministers with plump fingers tight-pressed to the throat of
France. She belonged to this Bois society, occupied a prominent place
in it, was known in every capital and asked about by every foreigner.
The splendors of this crowd were enhanced by the madness of her
profligacy as though it were the very crown, the darling passion, of
the nation. Then there were unions of a night, continual passages of
desire, which she lost count of the morning after, and these sent her
touring through the grand restaurants and on fine days, as often as
not, to “Madrid.” The staffs of all the embassies visited her, and she,
Lucy Stewart, Caroline Hequet and Maria Blond would dine in the society
of gentlemen who murdered the French language and paid to be amused,
engaging them by the evening with orders to be funny and yet proving so
blase and so worn out that they never even touched them. This the
ladies called “going on a spree,” and they would return home happy at
having been despised and would finish the night in the arms of the
lovers of their choice.

When she did not actually throw the men at his head Count Muffat
pretended not to know about all this. However, he suffered not a little
from the lesser indignities of their daily life. The mansion in the
Avenue de Villiers was becoming a hell, a house full of mad people, in
which every hour of the day wild disorders led to hateful
complications. Nana even fought with her servants. One moment she would
be very nice with Charles, the coachman. When she stopped at a
restaurant she would send him out beer by the waiter and would talk
with him from the inside of her carriage when he slanged the cabbies at
a block in the traffic, for then he struck her as funny and cheered her
up. Then the next moment she called him a fool for no earthly reason.
She was always squabbling over the straw, the bran or the oats; in
spite of her love for animals she thought her horses ate too much.
Accordingly one day when she was settling up she accused the man of
robbing her. At this Charles got in a rage and called her a whore right
out; his horses, he said, were distinctly better than she was, for they
did not sleep with everybody. She answered him in the same strain, and
the count had to separate them and give the coachman the sack. This was
the beginning of a rebellion among the servants. When her diamonds had
been stolen Victorine and Francois left. Julien himself disappeared,
and the tale ran that the master had given him a big bribe and had
begged him to go, because he slept with the mistress. Every week there
were new faces in the servants’ hall. Never was there such a mess; the
house was like a passage down which the scum of the registry offices
galloped, destroying everything in their path. Zoé alone kept her
place; she always looked clean, and her only anxiety was how to
organize this riot until she had got enough together to set up on her
own account in fulfillment of a plan she had been hatching for some
time past.

These, again, were only the anxieties he could own to. The count put up
with the stupidity of Mme Maloir, playing bezique with her in spite of
her musty smell. He put up with Mme Lerat and her encumbrances, with
Louiset and the mournful complaints peculiar to a child who is being
eaten up with the rottenness inherited from some unknown father. But he
spent hours worse than these. One evening he had heard Nana angrily
telling her maid that a man pretending to be rich had just swindled
her—a handsome man calling himself an American and owning gold mines in
his own country, a beast who had gone off while she was asleep without
giving her a copper and had even taken a packet of cigarette papers
with him. The count had turned very pale and had gone downstairs again
on tiptoe so as not to hear more. But later he had to hear all. Nana,
having been smitten with a baritone in a music hall and having been
thrown over by him, wanted to commit suicide during a fit of
sentimental melancholia. She swallowed a glass of water in which she
had soaked a box of matches. This made her terribly sick but did not
kill her. The count had to nurse her and to listen to the whole story
of her passion, her tearful protests and her oaths never to take to any
man again. In her contempt for those swine, as she called them, she
could not, however, keep her heart free, for she always had some
sweetheart round her, and her exhausted body inclined to
incomprehensible fancies and perverse tastes. As Zoé designedly relaxed
her efforts the service of the house had got to such a pitch that
Muffat did not dare to push open a door, to pull a curtain or to
unclose a cupboard. The bells did not ring; men lounged about
everywhere and at every moment knocked up against one another. He had
now to cough before entering a room, having almost caught the girl
hanging round Francis’ neck one evening that he had just gone out of
the dressing room for two minutes to tell the coachman to put the
horses to, while her hairdresser was finishing her hair. She gave
herself up suddenly behind his back; she took her pleasure in every
corner, quickly, with the first man she met. Whether she was in her
chemise or in full dress did not matter. She would come back to the
count red all over, happy at having cheated him. As for him, he was
plagued to death; it was an abominable infliction!

In his jealous anguish the unhappy man was comparatively at peace when
he left Nana and Satin alone together. He would have willingly urged
her on to this vice, to keep the men off her. But all was spoiled in
this direction too. Nana deceived Satin as she deceived the count,
going mad over some monstrous fancy or other and picking up girls at
the street corners. Coming back in her carriage, she would suddenly be
taken with a little slut that she saw on the pavement; her senses would
be captivated, her imagination excited. She would take the little slut
in with her, pay her and send her away again. Then, disguised as a man,
she would go to infamous houses and look on at scenes of debauch to
while away hours of boredom. And Satin, angry at being thrown over
every moment, would turn the house topsy-turvy with the most awful
scenes. She had at last acquired a complete ascendancy over Nana, who
now respected her. Muffat even thought of an alliance between them.
When he dared not say anything he let Satin loose. Twice she had
compelled her darling to take up with him again, while he showed
himself obliging and effaced himself in her favor at the least sign.
But this good understanding lasted no time, for Satin, too, was a
little cracked. On certain days she would very nearly go mad and would
smash everything, wearing herself out in tempest of love and anger, but
pretty all the time. Zoé must have excited her, for the maid took her
into corners as if she wanted to tell her about her great design of
which she as yet spoke to no one.

At times, however, Count Muffat was still singularly revolted. He who
had tolerated Satin for months, who had at last shut his eyes to the
unknown herd of men that scampered so quickly through Nana’s bedroom,
became terribly enraged at being deceived by one of his own set or even
by an acquaintance. When she confessed her relations with Foucarmont he
suffered so acutely, he thought the treachery of the young man so base,
that he wished to insult him and fight a duel. As he did not know where
to find seconds for such an affair, he went to Labordette. The latter,
astonished, could not help laughing.

“A duel about Nana? But, my dear sir, all Paris would be laughing at
you. Men do not fight for Nana; it would be ridiculous.”

The count grew very pale and made a violent gesture.

“Then I shall slap his face in the open street.”

For an hour Labordette had to argue with him. A blow would make the
affair odious; that evening everyone would know the real reason of the
meeting; it would be in all the papers. And Labordette always finished
with the same expression:

“It is impossible; it would be ridiculous.”

Each time Muffat heard these words they seemed sharp and keen as a
stab. He could not even fight for the woman he loved; people would have
burst out laughing. Never before had he felt more bitterly the misery
of his love, the contrast between his heavy heart and the absurdity of
this life of pleasure in which it was now lost. This was his last
rebellion; he allowed Labordette to convince him, and he was present
afterward at the procession of his friends, who lived there as if at
home.

Nana in a few months finished them up greedily, one after the other.
The growing needs entailed by her luxurious way of life only added fuel
to her desires, and she finished a man up at one mouthful. First she
had Foucarmont, who did not last a fortnight. He was thinking of
leaving the navy, having saved about thirty thousand francs in his ten
years of service, which he wished to invest in the United States. His
instincts, which were prudential, even miserly, were conquered; he gave
her everything, even his signature to notes of hand, which pledged his
future. When Nana had done with him he was penniless. But then she
proved very kind; she advised him to return to his ship. What was the
good of getting angry? Since he had no money their relations were no
longer possible. He ought to understand that and to be reasonable. A
ruined man fell from her hands like a ripe fruit, to rot on the ground
by himself.

Then Nana took up with Steiner without disgust but without love. She
called him a dirty Jew; she seemed to be paying back an old grudge, of
which she had no distinct recollection. He was fat; he was stupid, and
she got him down and took two bites at a time in order the quicker to
do for this Prussian. As for him, he had thrown Simonne over. His
Bosphorous scheme was getting shaky, and Nana hastened the downfall by
wild expenses. For a month he struggled on, doing miracles of finance.
He filled Europe with posters, advertisements and prospectuses of a
colossal scheme and obtained money from the most distant climes. All
these savings, the pounds of speculators and the pence of the poor,
were swallowed up in the Avenue de Villiers. Again he was partner in an
ironworks in Alsace, where in a small provincial town workmen,
blackened with coal dust and soaked with sweat, day and night strained
their sinews and heard their bones crack to satisfy Nana’s pleasures.
Like a huge fire she devoured all the fruits of stock-exchange
swindling and the profits of labor. This time she did for Steiner; she
brought him to the ground, sucked him dry to the core, left him so
cleaned out that he was unable to invent a new roguery. When his bank
failed he stammered and trembled at the idea of prosecution. His
bankruptcy had just been published, and the simple mention of money
flurried him and threw him into a childish embarrassment. And this was
he who had played with millions. One evening at Nana’s he began to cry
and asked her for a loan of a hundred francs wherewith to pay his
maidservant. And Nana, much affected and amused at the end of this
terrible old man who had squeezed Paris for twenty years, brought it to
him and said:

“I say, I’m giving it you because it seems so funny! But listen to me,
my boy, you are too old for me to keep. You must find something else to
do.”

Then Nana started on La Faloise at once. He had for some time been
longing for the honor of being ruined by her in order to put the
finishing stroke on his smartness. He needed a woman to launch him
properly; it was the one thing still lacking. In two months all Paris
would be talking of him, and he would see his name in the papers. Six
weeks were enough. His inheritance was in landed estate, houses,
fields, woods and farms. He had to sell all, one after the other, as
quickly as he could. At every mouthful Nana swallowed an acre. The
foliage trembling in the sunshine, the wide fields of ripe grain, the
vineyards so golden in September, the tall grass in which the cows
stood knee-deep, all passed through her hands as if engulfed by an
abyss. Even fishing rights, a stone quarry and three mills disappeared.
Nana passed over them like an invading army or one of those swarms of
locusts whose flight scours a whole province. The ground was burned up
where her little foot had rested. Farm by farm, field by field, she ate
up the man’s patrimony very prettily and quite inattentively, just as
she would have eaten a box of sweet-meats flung into her lap between
mealtimes. There was no harm in it all; they were only sweets! But at
last one evening there only remained a single little wood. She
swallowed it up disdainfully, as it was hardly worth the trouble
opening one’s mouth for. La Faloise laughed idiotically and sucked the
top of his stick. His debts were crushing him; he was not worth a
hundred francs a year, and he saw that he would be compelled to go back
into the country and live with his maniacal uncle. But that did not
matter; he had achieved smartness; the Figaro had printed his name
twice. And with his meager neck sticking up between the turndown points
of his collar and his figure squeezed into all too short a coat, he
would swagger about, uttering his parrotlike exclamations and affecting
a solemn listlessness suggestive of an emotionless marionette. He so
annoyed Nana that she ended by beating him.

Meanwhile Fauchery had returned, his cousin having brought him. Poor
Fauchery had now set up housekeeping. After having thrown over the
countess he had fallen into Rose’s hands, and she treated him as a
lawful wife would have done. Mignon was simply Madame’s major-domo.
Installed as master of the house, the journalist lied to Rose and took
all sorts of precautions when he deceived her. He was as scrupulous as
a good husband, for he really wanted to settle down at last. Nana’s
triumph consisted in possessing and in ruining a newspaper that he had
started with a friend’s capital. She did not proclaim her triumph; on
the contrary, she delighted in treating him as a man who had to be
circumspect, and when she spoke of Rose it was as “poor Rose.” The
newspaper kept her in flowers for two months. She took all the
provincial subscriptions; in fact, she took everything, from the column
of news and gossip down to the dramatic notes. Then the editorial staff
having been turned topsy-turvy and the management completely
disorganized, she satisfied a fanciful caprice and had a winter garden
constructed in a corner of her house: that carried off all the type.
But then it was no joke after all! When in his delight at the whole
business Mignon came to see if he could not saddle Fauchery on her
altogether, she asked him if he took her for a fool. A penniless fellow
living by his articles and his plays—not if she knew it! That sort of
foolishness might be all very well for a clever woman like her poor,
dear Rose! She grew distrustful: she feared some treachery on Mignon’s
part, for he was quite capable of preaching to his wife, and so she
gave Fauchery his CONGÉ as he now only paid her in fame.

But she always recollected him kindly. They had both enjoyed themselves
so much at the expense of that fool of à La Faloise! They would never
have thought of seeing each other again if the delight of fooling such
a perfect idiot had not egged them on! It seemed an awfully good joke
to kiss each other under his very nose. They cut a regular dash with
his coin; they would send him off full speed to the other end of Paris
in order to be alone and then when he came back, they would crack jokes
and make allusions he could not understand. One day, urged by the
journalist, she bet that she would smack his face, and that she did the
very same evening and went on to harder blows, for she thought it a
good joke and was glad of the opportunity of showing how cowardly men
were. She called him her “slapjack” and would tell him to come and have
his smack! The smacks made her hands red, for as yet she was not up to
the trick. La Faloise laughed in his idiotic, languid way, though his
eyes were full of tears. He was delighted at such familiarity; he
thought it simply stunning.

One night when he had received sundry cuffs and was greatly excited:

“Now, d’you know,” he said, “you ought to marry me. We should be as
jolly as grigs together, eh?”

This was no empty suggestion. Seized with a desire to astonish Paris,
he had been slyly projecting this marriage. “Nana’s husband! Wouldn’t
that sound smart, eh?” Rather a stunning apotheosis that! But Nana gave
him a fine snubbing.

“Me marry you! Lovely! If such an idea had been tormenting me I should
have found a husband a long time ago! And he’d have been a man worth
twenty of you, my pippin! I’ve had a heap of proposals. Why, look here,
just reckon ’em up with me: Philippe, Georges, Foucarmont, Steiner—that
makes four, without counting the others you don’t know. It’s a chorus
they all sing. I can’t be nice, but they forthwith begin yelling, ‘Will
you marry me? Will you marry me?’”

She lashed herself up and then burst out in fine indignation:

“Oh dear, no! I don’t want to! D’you think I’m built that way? Just
look at me a bit! Why, I shouldn’t be Nana any longer if I fastened a
man on behind! And, besides, it’s too foul!”

And she spat and hiccuped with disgust, as though she had seen all the
dirt in the world spread out beneath her.

One evening La Faloise vanished, and a week later it became known that
he was in the country with an uncle whose mania was botany. He was
pasting his specimens for him and stood a chance of marrying a very
plain, pious cousin. Nana shed no tears for him. She simply said to the
count:

“Eh, little rough, another rival less! You’re chortling today. But he
was becoming serious! He wanted to marry me.”

He waxed pale, and she flung her arms round his neck and hung there,
laughing, while she emphasized every little cruel speech with a caress.

“You can’t marry Nana! Isn’t that what’s fetching you, eh? When they’re
all bothering me with their marriages you’re raging in your corner. It
isn’t possible; you must wait till your wife kicks the bucket. Oh, if
she were only to do that, how you’d come rushing round! How you’d fling
yourself on the ground and make your offer with all the grand
accompaniments—sighs and tears and vows! Wouldn’t it be nice, darling,
eh?”

Her voice had become soft, and she was chaffing him in a ferociously
wheedling manner. He was deeply moved and began blushing as he paid her
back her kisses. Then she cried:

“By God, to think I should have guessed! He’s thought about it; he’s
waiting for his wife to go off the hooks! Well, well, that’s the
finishing touch! Why, he’s even a bigger rascal than the others!”

Muffat had resigned himself to “the others.” Nowadays he was trusting
to the last relics of his personal dignity in order to remain
“Monsieur” among the servants and intimates of the house, the man, in
fact, who because he gave most was the official lover. And his passion
grew fiercer. He kept his position because he paid for it, buying even
smiles at a high price. He was even robbed and he never got his money’s
worth, but a disease seemed to be gnawing his vitals from which he
could not prevent himself suffering. Whenever he entered Nana’s bedroom
he was simply content to open the windows for a second or two in order
to get rid of the odors the others left behind them, the essential
smells of fair-haired men and dark, the smoke of cigars, of which the
pungency choked him. This bedroom was becoming a veritable
thoroughfare, so continually were boots wiped on its threshold. Yet
never a man among them was stopped by the bloodstain barring the door.
Zoé was still preoccupied by this stain; it was a simple mania with
her, for she was a clean girl, and it horrified her to see it always
there. Despite everything her eyes would wander in its direction, and
she now never entered Madame’s room without remarking:

“It’s strange that don’t go. All the same, plenty of folk come in this
way.”

Nana kept receiving the best news from Georges, who was by that time
already convalescent in his mother’s keeping at Les Fondettes, and she
used always to make the same reply.

“Oh, hang it, time’s all that’s wanted. It’s apt to grow paler as feet
cross it.”

As a matter of fact, each of the gentlemen, whether Foucarmont,
Steiner, La Faloise or Fauchery, had borne away some of it on their
bootsoles. And Muffat, whom the bloodstain preoccupied as much as it
did Zoé, kept studying it in his own despite, as though in its gradual
rosy disappearance he would read the number of men that passed. He
secretly dreaded it and always stepped over it out of a vivid fear of
crushing some live thing, some naked limb lying on the floor.

But in the bedroom within he would grow dizzy and intoxicated and would
forget everything—the mob of men which constantly crossed it, the sign
of mourning which barred its door. Outside, in the open air of the
street, he would weep occasionally out of sheer shame and disgust and
would vow never to enter the room again. And the moment the portière
had closed behind him he was under the old influence once more and felt
his whole being melting in the damp warm air of the place, felt his
flesh penetrated by a perfume, felt himself overborne by a voluptuous
yearning for self-annihilation. Pious and habituated to ecstatic
experiences in sumptuous chapels, he there re-encountered precisely the
same mystical sensations as when he knelt under some painted window and
gave way to the intoxication of organ music and incense. Woman swayed
him as jealously and despotically as the God of wrath, terrifying him,
granting him moments of delight, which were like spasms in their
keenness, in return for hours filled with frightful, tormenting visions
of hell and eternal tortures. In Nana’s presence, as in church, the
same stammering accents were his, the same prayers and the same fits of
despair—nay, the same paroxysms of humility peculiar to an accursed
creature who is crushed down in the mire from whence he has sprung. His
fleshly desires, his spiritual needs, were confounded together and
seemed to spring from the obscure depths of his being and to bear but
one blossom on the tree of his existence. He abandoned himself to the
power of love and of faith, those twin levers which move the world. And
despite all the struggles of his reason this bedroom of Nana’s always
filled him with madness, and he would sink shuddering under the
almighty dominion of sex, just as he would swoon before the vast
unknown of heaven.

Then when she felt how humble he was Nana grew tyrannously triumphant.
The rage for debasing things was inborn in her. It did not suffice her
to destroy them; she must soil them too. Her delicate hands left
abominable traces and themselves decomposed whatever they had broken.
And he in his imbecile condition lent himself to this sort of sport,
for he was possessed by vaguely remembered stories of saints who were
devoured by vermin and in turn devoured their own excrements. When once
she had him fast in her room and the doors were shut, she treated
herself to a man’s infamy. At first they joked together, and she would
deal him light blows and impose quaint tasks on him, making him lisp
like a child and repeat tags of sentences.

“Say as I do: ’tonfound it! Ickle man damn vell don’t tare about it!”

He would prove so docile as to reproduce her very accent.

“’Tonfound it! Ickle man damn vell don’t tare about it!”

Or again she would play bear, walking on all fours on her rugs when she
had only her chemise on and turning round with a growl as though she
wanted to eat him. She would even nibble his calves for the fun of the
thing. Then, getting up again:

“It’s your turn now; try it a bit. I bet you don’t play bear like me.”

It was still charming enough. As bear she amused him with her white
skin and her fell of ruddy hair. He used to laugh and go down on all
fours, too, and growl and bite her calves, while she ran from him with
an affectation of terror.

“Are we beasts, eh?” she would end by saying. “You’ve no notion how
ugly you are, my pet! Just think if they were to see you like that at
the Tuileries!”

But ere long these little games were spoiled. It was not cruelty in her
case, for she was still a good-natured girl; it was as though a passing
wind of madness were blowing ever more strongly in the shut-up bedroom.
A storm of lust disordered their brains, plunged them into the
delirious imaginations of the flesh. The old pious terrors of their
sleepless nights were now transforming themselves into a thirst for
bestiality, a furious longing to walk on all fours, to growl and to
bite. One day when he was playing bear she pushed him so roughly that
he fell against a piece of furniture, and when she saw the lump on his
forehead she burst into involuntary laughter. After that her
experiments on La Faloise having whetted her appetite, she treated him
like an animal, threshing him and chasing him to an accompaniment of
kicks.

“Gee up! Gee up! You’re a horse. Hoi! Gee up! Won’t you hurry up, you
dirty screw?”

At other times he was a dog. She would throw her scented handkerchief
to the far end of the room, and he had to run and pick it up with his
teeth, dragging himself along on hands and knees.

“Fetch it, Caesar! Look here, I’ll give you what for if you don’t look
sharp! Well done, Caesar! Good dog! Nice old fellow! Now behave
pretty!”

And he loved his abasement and delighted in being a brute beast. He
longed to sink still further and would cry:

“Hit harder. On, on! I’m wild! Hit away!”

She was seized with a whim and insisted on his coming to her one night
clad in his magnificent chamberlain’s costume. Then how she did laugh
and make fun of him when she had him there in all his glory, with the
sword and the cocked hat and the white breeches and the full-bottomed
coat of red cloth laced with gold and the symbolic key hanging on its
left-hand skirt. This key made her especially merry and urged her to a
wildly fanciful and extremely filthy discussion of it. Laughing without
cease and carried away by her irreverence for pomp and by the joy of
debasing him in the official dignity of his costume, she shook him,
pinched him, shouted, “Oh, get along with ye, Chamberlain!” and ended
by an accompaniment of swinging kicks behind. Oh, those kicks! How
heartily she rained them on the Tuileries and the majesty of the
imperial court, throning on high above an abject and trembling people.
That’s what she thought of society! That was her revenge! It was an
affair of unconscious hereditary spite; it had come to her in her
blood. Then when once the chamberlain was undressed and his coat lay
spread on the ground she shrieked, “Jump!” And he jumped. She shrieked,
“Spit!” And he spat. With a shriek she bade him walk on the gold, on
the eagles, on the decorations, and he walked on them. Hi tiddly hi ti!
Nothing was left; everything was going to pieces. She smashed a
chamberlain just as she smashed a flask or a comfit box, and she made
filth of him, reduced him to a heap of mud at a street corner.

Meanwhile the goldsmiths had failed to keep their promise, and the bed
was not delivered till one day about the middle of January. Muffat was
just then in Normandy, whither he had gone to sell a last stray shred
of property, but Nana demanded four thousand francs forthwith. He was
not due in Paris till the day after tomorrow, but when his business was
once finished he hastened his return and without even paying a flying
visit in the Rue Miromesnil came direct to the Avenue de Villiers. Ten
o’clock was striking. As he had a key of a little door opening on the
Rue Cardinet, he went up unhindered. In the drawing room upstairs Zoé,
who was polishing the bronzes, stood dumfounded at sight of him, and
not knowing how to stop him, she began with much circumlocution,
informing him that M. Venot, looking utterly beside himself, had been
searching for him since yesterday and that he had already come twice to
beg her to send Monsieur to his house if Monsieur arrived at Madame’s
before going home. Muffat listened to her without in the least
understanding the meaning of her recital; then he noticed her agitation
and was seized by a sudden fit of jealousy of which he no longer
believed himself capable. He threw himself against the bedroom door,
for he heard the sound of laughter within. The door gave; its two flaps
flew asunder, while Zoé withdrew, shrugging her shoulders. So much the
worse for Madame! As Madame was bidding good-by to her wits, she might
arrange matters for herself.

And on the threshold Muffat uttered a cry at the sight that was
presented to his view.

“My God! My God!”

The renovated bedroom was resplendent in all its royal luxury. Silver
buttons gleamed like bright stars on the tea-rose velvet of the
hangings. These last were of that pink flesh tint which the skies
assume on fine evenings, when Venus lights her fires on the horizon
against the clear background of fading daylight. The golden cords and
tassels hanging in corners and the gold lace-work surrounding the
panels were like little flames of ruddy strands of loosened hair, and
they half covered the wide nakedness of the room while they emphasized
its pale, voluptuous tone. Then over against him there was the gold and
silver bed, which shone in all the fresh splendor of its chiseled
workmanship, a throne this of sufficient extent for Nana to display the
outstretched glory of her naked limbs, an altar of Byzantine
sumptuousness, worthy of the almighty puissance of Nana’s sex, which at
this very hour lay nudely displayed there in the religious immodesty
befitting an idol of all men’s worship. And close by, beneath the snowy
reflections of her bosom and amid the triumph of the goddess, lay
wallowing a shameful, decrepit thing, a comic and lamentable ruin, the
Marquis de Chouard in his nightshirt.

The count had clasped his hands together and, shaken by a paroxysmal
shuddering, he kept crying:

“My God! My God!”

It was for the Marquis de Chouard, then, that the golden roses
flourished on the side panels, those bunches of golden roses blooming
among the golden leaves; it was for him that the Cupids leaned forth
with amorous, roguish laughter from their tumbling ring on the silver
trelliswork. And it was for him that the faun at his feet discovered
the nymph sleeping, tired with dalliance, the figure of Night copied
down to the exaggerated thighs—which caused her to be recognizable of
all—from Nana’s renowned nudity. Cast there like the rag of something
human which has been spoiled and dissolved by sixty years of
debauchery, he suggested the charnelhouse amid the glory of the woman’s
dazzling contours. Seeing the door open, he had risen up, smitten with
sudden terror as became an infirm old man. This last night of passion
had rendered him imbecile; he was entering on his second childhood;
and, his speech failing him, he remained in an attitude of flight,
half-paralyzed, stammering, shivering, his nightshirt half up his
skeleton shape, and one leg outside the clothes, a livid leg, covered
with gray hair. Despite her vexation Nana could not keep from laughing.

“Do lie down! Stuff yourself into the bed,” she said, pulling him back
and burying him under the coverlet, as though he were some filthy thing
she could not show anyone.

Then she sprang up to shut the door again. She was decidedly never
lucky with her little rough. He was always coming when least wanted.
And why had he gone to fetch money in Normandy? The old man had brought
her the four thousand francs, and she had let him have his will of her.
She pushed back the two flaps of the door and shouted:

“So much the worse for you! It’s your fault. Is that the way to come
into a room? I’ve had enough of this sort of thing. Ta ta!”

Muffat remained standing before the closed door, thunderstruck by what
he had just seen. His shuddering fit increased. It mounted from his
feet to his heart and brain. Then like a tree shaken by a mighty wind,
he swayed to and fro and dropped on his knees, all his muscles giving
way under him. And with hands despairingly outstretched he stammered:

“This is more than I can bear, my God! More than I can bear!”

He had accepted every situation but he could do so no longer. He had
come to the end of his strength and was plunged in the dark void where
man and his reason are together overthrown. In an extravagant access of
faith he raised his hands ever higher and higher, searching for heaven,
calling on God.

“Oh no, I do not desire it! Oh, come to me, my God! Succor me; nay, let
me die sooner! Oh no, not that man, my God! It is over; take me, carry
me away, that I may not see, that I may not feel any longer! Oh, I
belong to you, my God! Our Father which art in heaven—”

And burning with faith, he continued his supplication, and an ardent
prayer escaped from his lips. But someone touched him on the shoulder.
He lifted his eyes; it was M. Venot. He was surprised to find him
praying before that closed door. Then as though God Himself had
responded to his appeal, the count flung his arms round the little old
gentleman’s neck. At last he could weep, and he burst out sobbing and
repeated:

“My brother, my brother.”

All his suffering humanity found comfort in that cry. He drenched M.
Venot’s face with tears; he kissed him, uttering fragmentary
ejaculations.

“Oh, my brother, how I am suffering! You only are left me, my brother.
Take me away forever—oh, for mercy’s sake, take me away!”

Then M. Venot pressed him to his bosom and called him “brother” also.
But he had a fresh blow in store for him. Since yesterday he had been
searching for him in order to inform him that the Countess Sabine, in a
supreme fit of moral aberration, had but now taken flight with the
manager of one of the departments in a large, fancy emporium. It was a
fearful scandal, and all Paris was already talking about it. Seeing him
under the influence of such religious exaltation, Venot felt the
opportunity to be favorable and at once told him of the meanly tragic
shipwreck of his house. The count was not touched thereby. His wife had
gone? That meant nothing to him; they would see what would happen later
on. And again he was seized with anguish, and gazing with a look of
terror at the door, the walls, the ceiling, he continued pouring forth
his single supplication:

“Take me away! I cannot bear it any longer! Take me away!”

M. Venot took him away as though he had been a child. From that day
forth Muffat belonged to him entirely; he again became strictly
attentive to the duties of religion; his life was utterly blasted. He
had resigned his position as chamberlain out of respect for the
outraged modesty of the Tuileries, and soon Estelle, his daughter,
brought an action against him for the recovery of a sum of sixty
thousand francs, a legacy left her by an aunt to which she ought to
have succeeded at the time of her marriage. Ruined and living narrowly
on the remains of his great fortune, he let himself be gradually
devoured by the countess, who ate up the husks Nana had rejected.
Sabine was indeed ruined by the example of promiscuity set her by her
husband’s intercourse with the wanton. She was prone to every excess
and proved the ultimate ruin and destruction of his very hearth. After
sundry adventures she had returned home, and he had taken her back in a
spirit of Christian resignation and forgiveness. She haunted him as his
living disgrace, but he grew more and more indifferent and at last
ceased suffering from these distresses. Heaven took him out of his
wife’s hands in order to restore him to the arms of God, and so the
voluptuous pleasures he had enjoyed with Nana were prolonged in
religious ecstasies, accompanied by the old stammering utterances, the
old prayers and despairs, the old fits of humility which befit an
accursed creature who is crushed beneath the mire whence he sprang. In
the recesses of churches, his knees chilled by the pavement, he would
once more experience the delights of the past, and his muscles would
twitch, and his brain would whirl deliciously, and the satisfaction of
the obscure necessities of his existence would be the same as of old.

On the evening of the final rupture Mignon presented himself at the
house in the Avenue de Villiers. He was growing accustomed to Fauchery
and was beginning at last to find the presence of his wife’s husband
infinitely advantageous to him. He would leave all the little household
cares to the journalist and would trust him in the active
superintendence of all their affairs. Nay, he devoted the money gained
by his dramatic successes to the daily expenditure of the family, and
as, on his part, Fauchery behaved sensibly, avoiding ridiculous
jealousy and proving not less pliant than Mignon himself whenever Rose
found her opportunity, the mutual understanding between the two men
constantly improved. In fact, they were happy in a partnership which
was so fertile in all kinds of amenities, and they settled down side by
side and adopted a family arrangement which no longer proved a
stumbling block. The whole thing was conducted according to rule; it
suited admirably, and each man vied with the other in his efforts for
the common happiness. That very evening Mignon had come by Fauchery’s
advice to see if he could not steal Nana’s lady’s maid from her, the
journalist having formed a high opinion of the woman’s extraordinary
intelligence. Rose was in despair; for a month past she had been
falling into the hands of inexperienced girls who were causing her
continual embarrassment. When Zoé received him at the door he forthwith
pushed her into the dining room. But at his opening sentence she
smiled. The thing was impossible, she said, for she was leaving Madame
and establishing herself on her own account. And she added with an
expression of discreet vanity that she was daily receiving offers, that
the ladies were fighting for her and that Mme Blanche would give a pile
of gold to have her back.

Zoé was taking the Tricon’s establishment. It was an old project and
had been long brooded over. It was her ambition to make her fortune
thereby, and she was investing all her savings in it. She was full of
great ideas and meditated increasing the business and hiring a house
and combining all the delights within its walls. It was with this in
view that she had tried to entice Satin, a little pig at that moment
dying in hospital, so terribly had she done for herself.

Mignon still insisted with his offer and spoke of the risks run in the
commercial life, but Zoé, without entering into explanations about the
exact nature of her establishment, smiled a pinched smile, as though
she had just put a sweetmeat in her mouth, and was content to remark:

“Oh, luxuries always pay. You see, I’ve been with others quite long
enough, and now I want others to be with me.”

And a fierce look set her lip curling. At last she would be “Madame,”
and for the sake of earning a few louis all those women whose slops she
had emptied during the last fifteen years would prostrate themselves
before her.

Mignon wished to be announced, and Zoé left him for a moment after
remarking that Madame had passed a miserable day. He had only been at
the house once before, and he did not know it at all. The dining room
with its Gobelin tapestry, its sideboard and its plate filled him with
astonishment. He opened the doors familiarly and visited the drawing
room and the winter garden, returning thence into the hall. This
overwhelming luxury, this gilded furniture, these silks and velvets,
gradually filled him with such a feeling of admiration that it set his
heart beating. When Zoé came down to fetch him she offered to show him
the other rooms, the dressing room, that is to say, and the bedroom. In
the latter Mignon’s feelings overcame him; he was carried away by them;
they filled him with tender enthusiasm.

That damned Nana was simply stupefying him, and yet he thought he knew
a thing or two. Amid the downfall of the house and the servants’ wild,
wasteful race to destruction, massed-up riches still filled every
gaping hole and overtopped every ruined wall. And Mignon, as he viewed
this lordly monument of wealth, began recalling to mind the various
great works he had seen. Near Marseilles they had shown him an
aqueduct, the stone arches of which bestrode an abyss, a Cyclopean work
which cost millions of money and ten years of intense labor. At
Cherbourg he had seen the new harbor with its enormous works, where
hundreds of men sweated in the sun while cranes filled the sea with
huge squares of rock and built up a wall where a workman now and again
remained crushed into bloody pulp. But all that now struck him as
insignificant. Nana excited him far more. Viewing the fruit of her
labors, he once more experienced the feelings of respect that had
overcome him one festal evening in a sugar refiner’s château. This
château had been erected for the refiner, and its palatial proportions
and royal splendor had been paid for by a single material—sugar. It was
with something quite different, with a little laughable folly, a little
delicate nudity—it was with this shameful trifle, which is so powerful
as to move the universe, that she alone, without workmen, without the
inventions of engineers, had shaken Paris to its foundations and had
built up a fortune on the bodies of dead men.

“Oh, by God, what an implement!”

Mignon let the words escape him in his ecstasy, for he felt a return of
personal gratitude.

Nana had gradually lapsed into a most mournful condition. To begin
with, the meeting of the marquis and the count had given her a severe
fit of feverish nervousness, which verged at times on laughter. Then
the thought of this old man going away half dead in a cab and of her
poor rough, whom she would never set eyes on again now that she had
driven him so wild, brought on what looked like the beginnings of
melancholia. After that she grew vexed to hear about Satin’s illness.
The girl had disappeared about a fortnight ago and was now ready to die
at Lariboisière, to such a damnable state had Mme Robert reduced her.
When she ordered the horses to be put to in order that she might have a
last sight of this vile little wretch Zoé had just quietly given her a
week’s notice. The announcement drove her to desperation at once! It
seemed to her she was losing a member of her own family. Great heavens!
What was to become of her when left alone? And she besought Zoé to
stay, and the latter, much flattered by Madame’s despair, ended by
kissing her to show that she was not going away in anger. No, she had
positively to go: the heart could have no voice in matters of business.

But that day was one of annoyances. Nana was thoroughly disgusted and
gave up the idea of going out. She was dragging herself wearily about
the little drawing room when Labordette came up to tell her of a
splendid chance of buying magnificent lace and in the course of his
remarks casually let slip the information that Georges was dead. The
announcement froze her.

“Zizi dead!” she cried.

And involuntarily her eyes sought the pink stain on the carpet, but it
had vanished at last; passing footsteps had worn it away. Meanwhile
Labordette entered into particulars. It was not exactly known how he
died. Some spoke of a wound reopening, others of suicide. The lad had
plunged, they said, into a tank at Les Fondettes. Nana kept repeating:

“Dead! Dead!”

She had been choking with grief since morning, and now she burst out
sobbing and thus sought relief. Hers was an infinite sorrow: it
overwhelmed her with its depth and immensity. Labordette wanted to
comfort her as touching Georges, but she silenced him with a gesture
and blurted out:

“It isn’t only he; it’s everything, everything. I’m very wretched. Oh
yes, I know! They’ll again be saying I’m a hussy. To think of the
mother mourning down there and of the poor man who was groaning in
front of my door this morning and of all the other people that are now
ruined after running through all they had with me! That’s it; punish
Nana; punish the beastly thing! Oh, I’ve got a broad back! I can hear
them as if I were actually there! ‘That dirty wench who lies with
everybody and cleans out some and drives others to death and causes a
whole heap of people pain!’”

She was obliged to pause, for tears choked her utterance, and in her
anguish she flung herself athwart a divan and buried her face in a
cushion. The miseries she felt to be around her, miseries of which she
was the cause, overwhelmed her with a warm, continuous stream of
self-pitying tears, and her voice failed as she uttered a little girl’s
broken plaint:

“Oh, I’m wretched! Oh, I’m wretched! I can’t go on like this: it’s
choking me. It’s too hard to be misunderstood and to see them all
siding against you because they’re stronger. However, when you’ve got
nothing to reproach yourself with and your conscious is clear, why,
then I say, ‘I won’t have it! I won’t have it!’”

In her anger she began rebeling against circumstances, and getting up,
she dried her eyes, and walked about in much agitation.

“I won’t have it! They can say what they like, but it’s not my fault!
Am I a bad lot, eh? I give away all I’ve got; I wouldn’t crush a fly!
It’s they who are bad! Yes, it’s they! I never wanted to be horrid to
them. And they came dangling after me, and today they’re kicking the
bucket and begging and going to ruin on purpose.”

Then she paused in front of Labordette and tapped his shoulders.

“Look here,” she said, “you were there all along; now speak the truth:
did I urge them on? Weren’t there always a dozen of ’em squabbling who
could invent the dirtiest trick? They used to disgust me, they did! I
did all I knew not to copy them: I was afraid to. Look here, I’ll give
you a single instance: they all wanted to marry me! A pretty notion,
eh? Yes, dear boy, I could have been countess or baroness a dozen times
over and more, if I’d consented. Well now, I refused because I was
reasonable. Oh yes, I saved ’em some crimes and other foul acts! They’d
have stolen, murdered, killed father and mother. I had only to say one
word, and I didn’t say it. You see what I’ve got for it today. There’s
Daguenet, for instance; I married that chap off! I made a position for
the beggarly fellow after keeping him gratis for weeks! And I met him
yesterday, and he looks the other way! Oh, get along, you swine! I’m
less dirty than you!”

She had begun pacing about again, and now she brought her fist
violently down on a round table.

“By God it isn’t fair! Society’s all wrong. They come down on the women
when it’s the men who want you to do things. Yes, I can tell you this
now: when I used to go with them—see? I didn’t enjoy it; no, I didn’t
enjoy it one bit. It bored me, on my honor. Well then, I ask you
whether I’ve got anything to do with it! Yes, they bored me to death!
If it hadn’t been for them and what they made of me, dear boy, I should
be in a convent saying my prayers to the good God, for I’ve always had
my share of religion. Dash it, after all, if they have dropped their
money and their lives over it, what do I care? It’s their fault. I’ve
had nothing to do with it!”

“Certainly not,” said Labordette with conviction.

Zoé ushered in Mignon, and Nana received him smilingly. She had cried a
good deal, but it was all over now. Still glowing with enthusiasm, he
complimented her on her installation, but she let him see that she had
had enough of her mansion and that now she had other projects and would
sell everything up one of these days. Then as he excused himself for
calling on the ground that he had come about a benefit performance in
aid of old Bose, who was tied to his armchair by paralysis, she
expressed extreme pity and took two boxes. Meanwhile Zoé announced that
the carriage was waiting for Madame, and she asked for her hat and as
she tied the strings told them about poor, dear Satin’s mishap, adding:

“I’m going to the hospital. Nobody ever loved me as she did. Oh,
they’re quite right when they accuse the men of heartlessness! Who
knows? Perhaps I shan’t see her alive. Never mind, I shall ask to see
her: I want to give her a kiss.”

Labordette and Mignon smiled, and as Nana was no longer melancholy she
smiled too. Those two fellows didn’t count; they could enter into her
feelings. And they both stood and admired her in silent abstraction
while she finished buttoning her gloves. She alone kept her feet amid
the heaped-up riches of her mansion, while a whole generation of men
lay stricken down before her. Like those antique monsters whose
redoubtable domains were covered with skeletons, she rested her feet on
human skulls. She was ringed round with catastrophes. There was the
furious immolation of Vandeuvres; the melancholy state of Foucarmont,
who was lost in the China seas; the smashup of Steiner, who now had to
live like an honest man; the satisfied idiocy of La Faloise, and the
tragic shipwreck of the Muffats. Finally there was the white corpse of
Georges, over which Philippe was now watching, for he had come out of
prison but yesterday. She had finished her labor of ruin and death. The
fly that had flown up from the ordure of the slums, bringing with it
the leaven of social rottenness, had poisoned all these men by merely
alighting on them. It was well done—it was just. She had avenged the
beggars and the wastrels from whose caste she issued. And while,
metaphorically speaking, her sex rose in a halo of glory and beamed
over prostrate victims like a mounting sun shining brightly over a
field of carnage, the actual woman remained as unconscious as a
splendid animal, and in her ignorance of her mission was the
good-natured courtesan to the last. She was still big; she was still
plump; her health was excellent, her spirits capital. But this went for
nothing now, for her house struck her as ridiculous. It was too small;
it was full of furniture which got in her way. It was a wretched
business, and the long and the short of the matter was she would have
to make a fresh start. In fact, she was meditating something much
better, and so she went off to kiss Satin for the last time. She was in
all her finery and looked clean and solid and as brand new as if she
had never seen service before.




 CHAPTER XIV


Nana suddenly disappeared. It was a fresh plunge, an escapade, a flight
into barbarous regions. Before her departure she had treated herself to
a new sensation: she had held a sale and had made a clean sweep of
everything—house, furniture, jewelry, nay, even dresses and linen.
Prices were cited—the five days’ sale produced more than six hundred
thousand francs. For the last time Paris had seen her in a fairy piece.
It was called Melusine, and it played at the Theatre de la Gaîté, which
the penniless Bordenave had taken out of sheer audacity. Here she again
found herself in company with Prullière and Fontan. Her part was simply
spectacular, but it was the great attraction of the piece, consisting,
as it did, of three POSES PLASTIQUES, each of which represented the
same dumb and puissant fairy. Then one fine morning amid his grand
success, when Bordenave, who was mad after advertisement, kept firing
the Parisian imagination with colossal posters, it became known that
she must have started for Cairo the previous day. She had simply had a
few words with her manager. Something had been said which did not
please her; the whole thing was the caprice of a woman who is too rich
to let herself be annoyed. Besides, she had indulged an old
infatuation, for she had long meditated visiting the Turks.

Months passed—she began to be forgotten. When her name was mentioned
among the ladies and gentlemen, the strangest stories were told, and
everybody gave the most contradictory and at the same time prodigious
information. She had made a conquest of the viceroy; she was reigning,
in the recesses of a palace, over two hundred slaves whose heads she
now and then cut off for the sake of a little amusement. No, not at
all! She had ruined herself with a great big nigger! A filthy passion
this, which had left her wallowing without a chemise to her back in the
crapulous debauchery of Cairo. A fortnight later much astonishment was
produced when someone swore to having met her in Russia. A legend began
to be formed: she was the mistress of a prince, and her diamonds were
mentioned. All the women were soon acquainted with them from the
current descriptions, but nobody could cite the precise source of all
this information. There were finger rings, earrings, bracelets, a
REVIERE of phenomenal width, a queenly diadem surmounted by a central
brilliant the size of one’s thumb. In the retirement of those faraway
countries she began to gleam forth as mysteriously as a gem-laden idol.
People now mentioned her without laughing, for they were full of
meditative respect for this fortune acquired among the barbarians.

One evening in July toward eight o’clock, Lucy, while getting out of
her carriage in the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honore, noticed Caroline
Hequet, who had come out on foot to order something at a neighboring
tradesman’s. Lucy called her and at once burst out with:

“Have you dined? Are you disengaged? Oh, then come with me, my dear.
Nana’s back.”

The other got in at once, and Lucy continued:

“And you know, my dear, she may be dead while we’re gossiping.”

“Dead! What an idea!” cried Caroline in stupefaction. “And where is
she? And what’s it of?”

“At the Grand Hotel, of smallpox. Oh, it’s a long story!”

Lucy had bidden her coachman drive fast, and while the horses trotted
rapidly along the Rue Royale and the boulevards, she told what had
happened to Nana in jerky, breathless sentences.

“You can’t imagine it. Nana plumps down out of Russia. I don’t know
why—some dispute with her prince. She leaves her traps at the station;
she lands at her aunt’s—you remember the old thing. Well, and then she
finds her baby dying of smallpox. The baby dies next day, and she has a
row with the aunt about some money she ought to have sent, of which the
other one has never seen a sou. Seems the child died of that: in fact,
it was neglected and badly cared for. Very well; Nana slopes, goes to a
hotel, then meets Mignon just as she was thinking of her traps. She has
all sorts of queer feelings, shivers, wants to be sick, and Mignon
takes her back to her place and promises to look after her affairs.
Isn’t it odd, eh? Doesn’t it all happen pat? But this is the best part
of the story: Rose finds out about Nana’s illness and gets indignant at
the idea of her being alone in furnished apartments. So she rushes off,
crying, to look after her. You remember how they used to detest one
another—like regular furies! Well then, my dear, Rose has had Nana
transported to the Grand Hotel, so that she should, at any rate, die in
a smart place, and now she’s already passed three nights there and is
free to die of it after. It’s Labordette who told me all about it.
Accordingly I wanted to see for myself—”

“Yes, yes,” interrupted Caroline in great excitement “We’ll go up to
her.”

They had arrived at their destination. On the boulevard the coachman
had had to rein in his horses amid a block of carriages and people on
foot. During the day the Corps Legislatif had voted for war, and now a
crowd was streaming down all the streets, flowing along all the
pavements, invading the middle of the roadway. Beyond the Madeleine the
sun had set behind a blood-red cloud, which cast a reflection as of a
great fire and set the lofty windows flaming. Twilight was falling, and
the hour was oppressively melancholy, for now the avenues were
darkening away into the distance but were not as yet dotted over by the
bright sparks of the gas lamps. And among the marching crowds distant
voices swelled and grew ever louder, and eyes gleamed from pale faces,
while a great spreading wind of anguish and stupor set every head
whirling.

“Here’s Mignon,” said Lucy. “He’ll give us news.”

Mignon was standing under the vast porch of the Grand Hotel. He looked
nervous and was gazing at the crowd. After Lucy’s first few questions
he grew impatient and cried out:

“How should I know? These last two days I haven’t been able to tear
Rose away from up there. It’s getting stupid, when all’s said, for her
to be risking her life like that! She’ll be charming if she gets over
it, with holes in her face! It’ll suit us to a tee!”

The idea that Rose might lose her beauty was exasperating him. He was
giving up Nana in the most downright fashion, and he could not in the
least understand these stupid feminine devotions. But Fauchery was
crossing the boulevard, and he, too, came up anxiously and asked for
news. The two men egged each other on. They addressed one another
familiarly in these days.

“Always the same business, my sonny,” declared Mignon. “You ought to go
upstairs; you would force her to follow you.”

“Come now, you’re kind, you are!” said the journalist. “Why don’t you
go upstairs yourself?”

Then as Lucy began asking for Nana’s number, they besought her to make
Rose come down; otherwise they would end by getting angry.

Nevertheless, Lucy and Caroline did not go up at once. They had caught
sight of Fontan strolling about with his hands in his pockets and
greatly amused by the quaint expressions of the mob. When he became
aware that Nana was lying ill upstairs he affected sentiment and
remarked:

“The poor girl! I’ll go and shake her by the hand. What’s the matter
with her, eh?”

“Smallpox,” replied Mignon.

The actor had already taken a step or two in the direction of the
court, but he came back and simply murmured with a shiver:

“Oh, damn it!”

The smallpox was no joke. Fontan had been near having it when he was
five years old, while Mignon gave them an account of one of his nieces
who had died of it. As to Fauchery, he could speak of it from personal
experience, for he still bore marks of it in the shape of three little
lumps at the base of his nose, which he showed them. And when Mignon
again egged him on to the ascent, on the pretext that you never had it
twice, he violently combated this theory and with infinite abuse of the
doctors instanced various cases. But Lucy and Caroline interrupted
them, for the growing multitude filled them with astonishment.

“Just look! Just look what a lot of people!” The night was deepening,
and in the distance the gas lamps were being lit one by one. Meanwhile
interested spectators became visible at windows, while under the trees
the human flood grew every minute more dense, till it ran in one
enormous stream from the Madeleine to the Bastille. Carriages rolled
slowly along. A roaring sound went up from this compact and as yet
inarticulate mass. Each member of it had come out, impelled by the
desire to form a crowd, and was now trampling along, steeping himself
in the pervading fever. But a great movement caused the mob to flow
asunder. Among the jostling, scattering groups a band of men in
workmen’s caps and white blouses had come in sight, uttering a
rhythmical cry which suggested the beat of hammers upon an anvil.

“To Ber-lin! To Ber-lin! To Ber-lin!” And the crowd stared in gloomy
distrust yet felt themselves already possessed and inspired by heroic
imaginings, as though a military band were passing.

“Oh yes, go and get your throats cut!” muttered Mignon, overcome by an
access of philosophy.

But Fontan thought it very fine, indeed, and spoke of enlisting. When
the enemy was on the frontier all citizens ought to rise up in defense
of the fatherland! And with that he assumed an attitude suggestive of
Bonaparte at Austerlitz.

“Look here, are you coming up with us?” Lucy asked him.

“Oh dear, no! To catch something horrid?” he said.

On a bench in front of the Grand Hotel a man sat hiding his face in a
handkerchief. On arriving Fauchery had indicated him to Mignon with a
wink of the eye. Well, he was still there; yes, he was always there.
And the journalist detained the two women also in order to point him
out to them. When the man lifted his head they recognized him; an
exclamation escaped them. It was the Count Muffat, and he was giving an
upward glance at one of the windows.

“You know, he’s been waiting there since this morning,” Mignon informed
them. “I saw him at six o’clock, and he hasn’t moved since. Directly
Labordette spoke about it he came there with his handkerchief up to his
face. Every half-hour he comes dragging himself to where we’re standing
to ask if the person upstairs is doing better, and then he goes back
and sits down. Hang it, that room isn’t healthy! It’s all very well
being fond of people, but one doesn’t want to kick the bucket.”

The count sat with uplifted eyes and did not seem conscious of what was
going on around him. Doubtless he was ignorant of the declaration of
war, and he neither felt nor saw the crowd.

“Look, here he comes!” said Fauchery. “Now you’ll see.”

The count had, in fact, quitted his bench and was entering the lofty
porch. But the porter, who was getting to know his face at last, did
not give him time to put his question. He said sharply:

“She’s dead, monsieur, this very minute.”

Nana dead! It was a blow to them all. Without a word Muffat had gone
back to the bench, his face still buried in his handkerchief. The
others burst into exclamations, but they were cut short, for a fresh
band passed by, howling, “À BERLIN! À BERLIN! À BERLIN!” Nana dead!
Hang it, and such a fine girl too! Mignon sighed and looked relieved,
for at last Rose would come down. A chill fell on the company. Fontan,
meditating a tragic role, had assumed a look of woe and was drawing
down the corners of his mouth and rolling his eyes askance, while
Fauchery chewed his cigar nervously, for despite his cheap journalistic
chaff he was really touched. Nevertheless, the two women continued to
give vent to their feelings of surprise. The last time Lucy had seen
her was at the Gaîté; Blanche, too, had seen her in Melusine. Oh, how
stunning it was, my dear, when she appeared in the depths of the
crystal grot! The gentlemen remembered the occasion perfectly. Fontan
had played the Prince Cocorico. And their memories once stirred up,
they launched into interminable particulars. How ripping she looked
with that rich coloring of hers in the crystal grot! Didn’t she, now?
She didn’t say a word: the authors had even deprived her of a line or
two, because it was superfluous. No, never a word! It was grander that
way, and she drove her public wild by simply showing herself. You
wouldn’t find another body like hers! Such shoulders as she had, and
such legs and such a figure! Strange that she should be dead! You know,
above her tights she had nothing on but a golden girdle which hardly
concealed her behind and in front. All round her the grotto, which was
entirely of glass, shone like day. Cascades of diamonds were flowing
down; strings of brilliant pearls glistened among the stalactites in
the vault overhead, and amid the transparent atmosphere and flowing
fountain water, which was crossed by a wide ray of electric light, she
gleamed like the sun with that flamelike skin and hair of hers. Paris
would always picture her thus—would see her shining high up among
crystal glass like the good God Himself. No, it was too stupid to let
herself die under such conditions! She must be looking pretty by this
time in that room up there!

“And what a lot of pleasures bloody well wasted!” said Mignon in
melancholy tones, as became a man who did not like to see good and
useful things lost.

He sounded Lucy and Caroline in order to find out if they were going up
after all. Of course they were going up; their curiosity had increased.
Just then Blanche arrived, out of breath and much exasperated at the
way the crowds were blocking the pavement, and when she heard the news
there was a fresh outburst of exclamations, and with a great rustling
of skirts the ladies moved toward the staircase. Mignon followed them,
crying out:

“Tell Rose that I’m waiting for her. She’ll come at once, eh?”

“They do not exactly know whether the contagion is to be feared at the
beginning or near the end,” Fontan was explaining to Fauchery. “A
medical I know was assuring me that the hours immediately following
death are particularly dangerous. There are miasmatic exhalations then.
Ah, but I do regret this sudden ending; I should have been so glad to
shake hands with her for the last time.

“What good would it do you now?” said the journalist.

“Yes, what good?” the two others repeated.

The crowd was still on the increase. In the bright light thrown from
shop-windows and beneath the wavering glare of the gas two living
streams were distinguishable as they flowed along the pavement,
innumerable hats apparently drifting on their surface. At that hour the
popular fever was gaining ground rapidly, and people were flinging
themselves in the wake of the bands of men in blouses. A constant
forward movement seemed to sweep the roadway, and the cry kept
recurring; obstinately, abruptly, there rang from thousands of throats:

“À BERLIN! À BERLIN! À BERLIN!”

The room on the fourth floor upstairs cost twelve francs a day, since
Rose had wanted something decent and yet not luxurious, for
sumptuousness is not necessary when one is suffering. Hung with Louis
XIII cretonne, which was adorned with a pattern of large flowers, the
room was furnished with the mahogany commonly found in hotels. On the
floor there was a red carpet variegated with black foliage. Heavy
silence reigned save for an occasional whispering sound caused by
voices in the corridor.

“I assure you we’re lost. The waiter told us to turn to the right. What
a barrack of a house!”

“Wait a bit; we must have a look. Room number 401; room number 401!”

“Oh, it’s this way: 405, 403. We ought to be there. Ah, at last, 401!
This way! Hush now, hush!”

The voices were silent. Then there was a slight coughing and a moment
or so of mental preparation. Then the door opened slowly, and Lucy
entered, followed by Caroline and Blanche. But they stopped directly;
there were already five women in the room; Gaga was lying back in the
solitary armchair, which was a red velvet Voltaire. In front of the
fireplace Simonne and Clarisse were now standing talking to Léa de
Horn, who was seated, while by the bed, to the left of the door, Rose
Mignon, perched on the edge of a chest, sat gazing fixedly at the body
where it lay hidden in the shadow of the curtains. All the others had
their hats and gloves on and looked as if they were paying a call: she
alone sat there with bare hands and untidy hair and cheeks rendered
pale by three nights of watching. She felt stupid in the face of this
sudden death, and her eyes were swollen with weeping. A shaded lamp
standing on the corner of the chest of drawers threw a bright flood of
light over Gaga.

“What a sad misfortune, is it not?” whispered Lucy as she shook hands
with Rose. “We wanted to bid her good-by.”

And she turned round and tried to catch sight of her, but the lamp was
too far off, and she did not dare bring it nearer. On the bed lay
stretched a gray mass, but only the ruddy chignon was distinguishable
and a pale blotch which might be the face. Lucy added:

“I never saw her since that time at the Gaîté, when she was at the end
of the grotto.”

At this Rose awoke from her stupor and smiled as she said:

“Ah, she’s changed; she’s changed.”

Then she once more lapsed into contemplation and neither moved nor
spoke. Perhaps they would be able to look at her presently! And with
that the three women joined the others in front of the fireplace.
Simonne and Clarisse were discussing the dead woman’s diamonds in low
tones. Well, did they really exist—those diamonds? Nobody had seen
them; it must be a bit of humbug. But Léa de Horn knew someone who knew
all about them. Oh, they were monster stones! Besides, they weren’t
all; she had brought back lots of other precious property from
Russia—embroidered stuffs, for instance, valuable knickknacks, a gold
dinner service, nay, even furniture. “Yes, my dear, fifty-two boxes,
enormous cases some of them, three truckloads of them!” They were all
lying at the station. “Wasn’t it hard lines, eh?—to die without even
having time to unpack one’s traps?” Then she had a lot of tin,
besides—something like a million! Lucy asked who was going to inherit
it all. Oh, distant relations—the aunt, without doubt! It would be a
pretty surprise for that old body. She knew nothing about it yet, for
the sick woman had obstinately refused to let them warn her, for she
still owed her a grudge over her little boy’s death. Thereupon they
were all moved to pity about the little boy, and they remembered seeing
him at the races. Oh, it was a wretchedly sickly baby; it looked so old
and so sad. In fact, it was one of those poor brats who never asked to
be born!

“He’s happier under the ground,” said Blanche.

“Bah, and so’s she!” added Caroline. “Life isn’t so funny!”

In that gloomy room melancholy ideas began to take possession of their
imaginations. They felt frightened. It was silly to stand talking so
long, but a longing to see her kept them rooted to the spot. It was
very hot—the lamp glass threw a round, moonlike patch of light upon the
ceiling, but the rest of the room was drowned in steamy darkness. Under
the bed a deep plate full of phenol exhaled an insipid smell. And every
few moments tiny gusts of wind swelled the window curtains. The window
opened on the boulevard, whence rose a dull roaring sound.

“Did she suffer much?” asked Lucy, who was absorbed in contemplation of
the clock, the design of which represented the three Graces as nude
young women, smiling like opera dancers.

Gaga seemed to wake up.

“My word, yes! I was present when she died. I promise you it was not at
all pleasant to see. Why, she was taken with a shuddering fit—”

But she was unable to proceed with her explanation, for a cry arose
outside:

“À BERLIN! À BERLIN! À BERLIN!”

And Lucy, who felt suffocated, flung wide the window and leaned upon
the sill. It was pleasant there; the air came fresh from the starry
sky. Opposite her the windows were all aglow with light, and the gas
sent dancing reflections over the gilt lettering of the shop signs.

Beneath these, again, a most amusing scene presented itself. The
streams of people were discernible rolling torrentwise along the
sidewalks and in the roadway, where there was a confused procession of
carriages. Everywhere there were vast moving shadows in which lanterns
and lampposts gleamed like sparks. But the band which now came roaring
by carried torches, and a red glow streamed down from the direction of
the Madeleine, crossed the mob like a trail of fire and spread out over
the heads in the distance like a vivid reflection of a burning house.
Lucy called Blanche and Caroline, forgetting where she was and
shouting:

“Do come! You get a capital view from this window!”

They all three leaned out, greatly interested. The trees got in their
way, and occasionally the torches disappeared under the foliage. They
tried to catch a glimpse of the men of their own party below, but a
protruding balcony hid the door, and they could only make out Count
Muffat, who looked like a dark parcel thrown down on the bench where he
sat. He was still burying his face in his handkerchief. A carriage had
stopped in front, and yet another woman hurried up, in whom Lucy
recognized Maria Blond. She was not alone; a stout man got down after
her.

“It’s that thief of a Steiner,” said Caroline. “How is it they haven’t
sent him back to Cologne yet? I want to see how he looks when he comes
in.”

They turned round, but when after the lapse of ten minutes Maria Blond
appeared, she was alone. She had twice mistaken the staircase. And when
Lucy, in some astonishment, questioned her:

“What, he?” she said. “My dear, don’t you go fancying that he’ll come
upstairs! It’s a great wonder he’s escorted me as far as the door.
There are nearly a dozen of them smoking cigars.”

As a matter of fact, all the gentlemen were meeting downstairs. They
had come strolling thither in order to have a look at the boulevards,
and they hailed one another and commented loudly on that poor girl’s
death. Then they began discussing politics and strategy. Bordenave,
Daguenet, Labordette, Prullière and others, besides, had swollen the
group, and now they were all listening to Fontan, who was explaining
his plan for taking Berlin within a week.

Meanwhile Maria Blond was touched as she stood by the bedside and
murmured, as the others had done before her:

“Poor pet! The last time I saw her was in the grotto at the Gaîté.”

“Ah, she’s changed; she’s changed!” Rose Mignon repeated with a smile
of gloomiest dejection.

Two more women arrived. These were Tatan Nene and Louise Violaine. They
had been wandering about the Grand Hotel for twenty minutes past,
bandied from waiter to waiter, and had ascended and descended more than
thirty flights of stairs amid a perfect stampede of travelers who were
hurrying to leave Paris amid the panic caused by the war and the
excitement on the boulevards. Accordingly they just dropped down on
chairs when they came in, for they were too tired to think about the
dead. At that moment a loud noise came from the room next door, where
people were pushing trunks about and striking against furniture to an
accompaniment of strident, outlandish syllables. It was a young
Austrian couple, and Gaga told how during her agony the neighbors had
played a game of catch as catch can and how, as only an unused door
divided the two rooms, they had heard them laughing and kissing when
one or the other was caught.

“Come, it’s time we were off,” said Clarisse. “We shan’t bring her to
life again. Are you coming, Simonne?”

They all looked at the bed out of the corners of their eyes, but they
did not budge an inch. Nevertheless, they began getting ready and gave
their skirts various little pats. Lucy was again leaning out of window.
She was alone now, and a sorrowful feeling began little by little to
overpower her, as though an intense wave of melancholy had mounted up
from the howling mob. Torches still kept passing, shaking out clouds of
sparks, and far away in the distance the various bands stretched into
the shadows, surging unquietly to and fro like flocks being driven to
the slaughterhouse at night. A dizzy feeling emanated from these
confused masses as the human flood rolled them along—a dizzy feeling, a
sense of terror and all the pity of the massacres to come. The people
were going wild; their voices broke; they were drunk with a fever of
excitement which sent them rushing toward the unknown “out there”
beyond the dark wall of the horizon.

“À BERLIN! À BERLIN! À BERLIN!”

Lucy turned round. She leaned her back against the window, and her face
was very pale.

“Good God! What’s to become of us?”

The ladies shook their heads. They were serious and very anxious about
the turn events were taking.

“For my part,” said Caroline Hequet in her decisive way, “I start for
London the day after tomorrow. Mamma’s already over there getting a
house ready for me. I’m certainly not going to let myself be massacred
in Paris.”

Her mother, as became a prudent woman, had invested all her daughters’
money in foreign lands. One never knows how a war may end! But Maria
Blond grew vexed at this. She was a patriot and spoke of following the
army.

“There’s a coward for you! Yes, if they wanted me I should put on man’s
clothes just to have a good shot at those pigs of Prussians! And if we
all die after? What of that? Our wretched skins aren’t so valuable!”

Blanche de Sivry was exasperated.

“Please don’t speak ill of the Prussians! They are just like other men,
and they’re not always running after the women, like your Frenchmen.
They’ve just expelled the little Prussian who was with me. He was an
awfully rich fellow and so gentle: he couldn’t have hurt a soul. It’s
disgraceful; I’m ruined by it. And, you know, you mustn’t say a word or
I go and find him out in Germany!”

After that, while the two were at loggerheads, Gaga began murmuring in
dolorous tones:

“It’s all over with me; my luck’s always bad. It’s only a week ago that
I finished paying for my little house at Juvisy. Ah, God knows what
trouble it cost me! I had to go to Lili for help! And now here’s the
war declared, and the Prussians’ll come and they’ll burn everything.
How am I to begin again at my time of life, I should like to know?”

“Bah!” said Clarisse. “I don’t care a damn about it. I shall always
find what I want.”

“Certainly you will,” added Simonne. “It’ll be a joke. Perhaps, after
all, it’ll be good biz.”

And her smile hinted what she thought. Tatan Nene and Louise Violaine
were of her opinion. The former told them that she had enjoyed the most
roaring jolly good times with soldiers. Oh, they were good fellows and
would have done any mortal thing for the girls. But as the ladies had
raised their voices unduly Rose Mignon, still sitting on the chest by
the bed, silenced them with a softly whispered “Hush!” They stood quite
still at this and glanced obliquely toward the dead woman, as though
this request for silence had emanated from the very shadows of the
curtains. In the heavy, peaceful stillness which ensued, a void,
deathly stillness which made them conscious of the stiff dead body
lying stretched close by them, the cries of the mob burst forth:

“À BERLIN! À BERLIN! À BERLIN!”

But soon they forgot. Léa de Horn, who had a political salon where
former ministers of Louis Philippe were wont to indulge in delicate
epigrams, shrugged her shoulders and continued the conversation in a
low tone:

“What a mistake this war is! What a bloodthirsty piece of stupidity!”

At this Lucy forthwith took up the cudgels for the empire. She had been
the mistress of a prince of the imperial house, and its defense became
a point of family honor with her.

“Do leave them alone, my dear. We couldn’t let ourselves be further
insulted! Why, this war concerns the honor of France. Oh, you know I
don’t say that because of the prince. He WAS just mean! Just imagine,
at night when he was going to bed he hid his gold in his boots, and
when we played at bezique he used beans, because one day I pounced down
on the stakes for fun. But that doesn’t prevent my being fair. The
emperor was right.”

Léa shook her head with an air of superiority, as became a woman who
was repeating the opinions of important personages. Then raising her
voice:

“This is the end of all things. They’re out of their minds at the
Tuileries. France ought to have driven them out yesterday. Don’t you
see?”

They all violently interrupted her. What was up with her? Was she mad
about the emperor? Were people not happy? Was business doing badly?
Paris would never enjoy itself so thoroughly again.

Gaga was beside herself; she woke up and was very indignant.

“Be quiet! It’s idiotic! You don’t know what you’re saying. I—I’ve seen
Louis Philippe’s reign: it was full of beggars and misers, my dear. And
then came ’48! Oh, it was a pretty disgusting business was their
republic! After February I was simply dying of starvation—yes, I, Gaga.
Oh, if only you’d been through it all you would go down on your knees
before the emperor, for he’s been a father to us; yes, a father to us.”

She had to be soothed but continued with pious fervor:

“O my God, do Thy best to give the emperor the victory. Preserve the
empire to us!”

They all repeated this aspiration, and Blanche confessed that she
burned candles for the emperor. Caroline had been smitten by him and
for two whole months had walked where he was likely to pass but had
failed to attract his attention. And with that the others burst forth
into furious denunciations of the Republicans and talked of
exterminating them on the frontiers so that Napoleon III, after having
beaten the enemy, might reign peacefully amid universal enjoyment.

“That dirty Bismarck—there’s another cad for you!” Maria Blond
remarked.

“To think that I should have known him!” cried Simonne. “If only I
could have foreseen, I’m the one that would have put some poison in his
glass.”

But Blanche, on whose heart the expulsion of her Prussian still
weighed, ventured to defend Bismarck. Perhaps he wasn’t such a bad
sort. To every man his trade!

“You know,” she added, “he adores women.”

“What the hell has that got to do with us?” said Clarisse. “We don’t
want to cuddle him, eh?”

“There’s always too many men of that sort!” declared Louise Violaine
gravely. “It’s better to do without ’em than to mix oneself up with
such monsters!”

And the discussion continued, and they stripped Bismarck, and, in her
Bonapartist zeal, each of them gave him a sounding kick, while Tatan
Nene kept saying:

“Bismarck! Why, they’ve simply driven me crazy with the chap! Oh, I
hate him! I didn’t know that there Bismarck! One can’t know everybody.”

“Never mind,” said Léa de Horn by way of conclusion, “that Bismarck
will give us a jolly good threshing.”

But she could not continue. The ladies were all down on her at once.
Eh, what? A threshing? It was Bismarck they were going to escort home
with blows from the butt ends of their muskets. What was this bad
Frenchwoman going to say next?

“Hush,” whispered Rose, for so much noise hurt her.

The cold influence of the corpse once more overcame them, and they all
paused together. They were embarrassed; the dead woman was before them
again; a dull thread of coming ill possessed them. On the boulevard the
cry was passing, hoarse and wild:

“À BERLIN! À BERLIN! À BERLIN!”

Presently, when they were making up their minds to go, a voice was
heard calling from the passage:

“Rose! Rose!”

Gaga opened the door in astonishment and disappeared for a moment. When
she returned:

“My dear,” she said, “it’s Fauchery. He’s out there at the end of the
corridor. He won’t come any further, and he’s beside himself because
you still stay near that body.”

Mignon had at last succeeded in urging the journalist upstairs. Lucy,
who was still at the window, leaned out and caught sight of the
gentlemen out on the pavement. They were looking up, making energetic
signals to her. Mignon was shaking his fists in exasperation, and
Steiner, Fontan, Bordenave and the rest were stretching out their arms
with looks of anxious reproach, while Daguenet simply stood smoking a
cigar with his hands behind his back, so as not to compromise himself.

“It’s true, dear,” said Lucy, leaving the window open; “I promised to
make you come down. They’re all calling us now.”

Rose slowly and painfully left the chest.

“I’m coming down; I’m coming down,” she whispered. “It’s very certain
she no longer needs me. They’re going to send in a Sister of Mercy.”

And she turned round, searching for her hat and shawl. Mechanically she
filled a basin of water on the toilet table and while washing her hands
and face continued:

“I don’t know! It’s been a great blow to me. We used scarcely to be
nice to one another. Ah well! You see I’m quite silly over it now. Oh!
I’ve got all sorts of strange ideas—I want to die myself—I feel the end
of the world’s coming. Yes, I need air.”

The corpse was beginning to poison the atmosphere of the room. And
after long heedlessness there ensued a panic.

“Let’s be off; let’s be off, my little pets!” Gaga kept saying. “It
isn’t wholesome here.”

They went briskly out, casting a last glance at the bed as they passed
it. But while Lucy, Blanche and Caroline still remained behind, Rose
gave a final look round, for she wanted to leave the room in order. She
drew a curtain across the window, and then it occurred to her that the
lamp was not the proper thing and that a taper should take its place.
So she lit one of the copper candelabra on the chimney piece and placed
it on the night table beside the corpse. A brilliant light suddenly
illumined the dead woman’s face. The women were horror-struck. They
shuddered and escaped.

“Ah, she’s changed; she’s changed!” murmured Rose Mignon, who was the
last to remain.

She went away; she shut the door. Nana was left alone with upturned
face in the light cast by the candle. She was fruit of the charnel
house, a heap of matter and blood, a shovelful of corrupted flesh
thrown down on the pillow. The pustules had invaded the whole of the
face, so that each touched its neighbor. Fading and sunken, they had
assumed the grayish hue of mud; and on that formless pulp, where the
features had ceased to be traceable, they already resembled some
decaying damp from the grave. One eye, the left eye, had completely
foundered among bubbling purulence, and the other, which remained half
open, looked like a deep, black, ruinous hole. The nose was still
suppurating. Quite a reddish crush was peeling from one of the cheeks
and invading the mouth, which it distorted into a horrible grin. And
over this loathsome and grotesque mask of death the hair, the beautiful
hair, still blazed like sunlight and flowed downward in rippling gold.
Venus was rotting. It seemed as though the poison she had assimilated
in the gutters and on the carrion tolerated by the roadside, the leaven
with which she had poisoned a whole people, had but now remounted to
her face and turned it to corruption.

The room was empty. A great despairing breath came up from the
boulevard and swelled the curtain.

“À BERLIN! À BERLIN! À BERLIN!”




 THE MILLER’S DAUGHTER




 CHAPTER I
 THE BETROTHAL


Père Merlier’s mill, one beautiful summer evening, was arranged for a
grand fête. In the courtyard were three tables, placed end to end,
which awaited the guests. Everyone knew that Francoise, Merlier’s
daughter, was that night to be betrothed to Dominique, a young man who
was accused of idleness but whom the fair sex for three leagues around
gazed at with sparkling eyes, such a fine appearance had he.

Père Merlier’s mill was pleasing to look upon. It stood exactly in the
center of Rocreuse, where the highway made an elbow. The village had
but one street, with two rows of huts, a row on each side of the road;
but at the elbow meadows spread out, and huge trees which lined the
banks of the Morelle covered the extremity of the valley with lordly
shade. There was not, in all Lorraine, a corner of nature more
adorable. To the right and to the left thick woods, centenarian
forests, towered up from gentle slopes, filling the horizon with a sea
of verdure, while toward the south the plain stretched away, of
marvelous fertility, displaying as far as the eye could reach patches
of ground divided by green hedges. But what constituted the special
charm of Rocreuse was the coolness of that cut of verdure in the most
sultry days of July and August. The Morelle descended from the forests
of Gagny and seemed to have gathered the cold from the foliage beneath
which it flowed for leagues; it brought with it the murmuring sounds,
the icy and concentrated shade of the woods. And it was not the sole
source of coolness: all sorts of flowing streams gurgled through the
forest; at each step springs bubbled up; one felt, on following the
narrow pathways, that there must exist subterranean lakes which pierced
through beneath the moss and availed themselves of the smallest
crevices at the feet of trees or between the rocks to burst forth in
crystalline fountains. The whispering voices of these brooks were so
numerous and so loud that they drowned the song of the bullfinches. It
was like some enchanted park with cascades falling from every portion.

Below the meadows were damp. Gigantic chestnut trees cast dark shadows.
On the borders of the meadows long hedges of poplars exhibited in lines
their rustling branches. Two avenues of enormous plane trees stretched
across the fields toward the ancient Château de Gagny, then a mass of
ruins. In this constantly watered district the grass grew to an
extraordinary height. It resembled a garden between two wooded hills, a
natural garden, of which the meadows were the lawns, the giant trees
marking the colossal flower beds. When the sun’s rays at noon poured
straight downward the shadows assumed a bluish tint; scorched grass
slept in the heat, while an icy shiver passed beneath the foliage.

And there it was that Père Merlier’s mill enlivened with its ticktack a
corner of wild verdure. The structure, built of plaster and planks,
seemed as old as the world. It dipped partially in the Morelle, which
rounded at that point into a transparent basin. A sluice had been made,
and the water fell from a height of several meters upon the mill wheel,
which cracked as it turned, with the asthmatic cough of a faithful
servant grown old in the house. When Père Merlier was advised to change
it he shook his head, saying that a new wheel would be lazier and would
not so well understand the work, and he mended the old one with
whatever he could put his hands on: cask staves, rusty iron, zinc and
lead. The wheel appeared gayer than ever for it, with its profile grown
odd, all plumed with grass and moss. When the water beat upon it with
its silvery flood it was covered with pearls; its strange carcass wore
a sparkling attire of necklaces of mother-of-pearl.

The part of the mill which dipped in the Morelle had the air of a
barbaric arch stranded there. A full half of the structure was built on
piles. The water flowed beneath the floor, and deep places were there,
renowned throughout the district for the enormous eels and crayfish
caught in them. Below the fall the basin was as clear as a mirror, and
when the wheel did not cover it with foam schools of huge fish could be
seen swimming with the slowness of a squadron. Broken steps led down to
the river near a stake to which a boat was moored. A wooden gallery
passed above the wheel. Windows opened, pierced irregularly. It was a
pell-mell of corners, of little walls, of constructions added too late,
of beams and of roofs, which gave the mill the aspect of an old,
dismantled citadel. But ivy had grown; all sorts of clinging plants
stopped the too-wide chinks and threw a green cloak over the ancient
building. The young ladies who passed by sketched Père Merlier’s mill
in their albums.

On the side facing the highway the structure was more solid. A stone
gateway opened upon the wide courtyard, which was bordered to the right
and to the left by sheds and stables. Beside a well an immense elm
covered half the courtyard with its shadow. In the background the
building displayed the four windows of its second story, surmounted by
a pigeon house. Père Merlier’s sole vanity was to have this front
plastered every ten years. It had just received a new coating and
dazzled the village when the sun shone on it at noon.

For twenty years Père Merlier had been mayor of Rocreuse. He was
esteemed for the fortune he had acquired. His wealth was estimated at
something like eighty thousand francs, amassed sou by sou. When he
married Madeleine Guillard, who brought him the mill as her dowry, he
possessed only his two arms. But Madeleine never repented of her
choice, so briskly did he manage the business. Now his wife was dead,
and he remained a widower with his daughter Francoise. Certainly he
might have rested, allowed the mill wheel to slumber in the moss, but
that would have been too dull for him, and in his eyes the building
would have seemed dead. He toiled on for pleasure.

Père Merlier was a tall old man with a long, still face, who never
laughed but who possessed, notwithstanding, a very gay heart. He had
been chosen mayor because of his money and also on account of the
imposing air he could assume during a marriage ceremony.

Francoise Merlier was just eighteen. She did not pass for one of the
handsome girls of the district, as she was not robust. Up to her
fifteenth year she had been even ugly.

The Rocreuse people had not been able to understand why the daughter of
Père and Mere Merlier, both of whom had always enjoyed excellent
health, grew ill and with an air of regret. But at fifteen, though yet
delicate, her little face became one of the prettiest in the world. She
had black hair, black eyes, and was as rosy as a peach; her lips
constantly wore a smile; there were dimples in her cheeks, and her fair
forehead seemed crowned with sunlight. Although not considered robust
in the district, she was far from thin; the idea was simply that she
could not lift a sack of grain, but she would become plump as she grew
older—she would eventually be as round and dainty as a quail. Her
father’s long periods of silence had made her thoughtful very young. If
she smiled constantly it was to please others. By nature she was
serious.

Of course all the young men of the district paid court to her, more on
account of her ecus than her pretty ways. At last she made a choice
which scandalized the community.

On the opposite bank of the Morelle lived a tall youth named Dominique
Penquer. He did not belong to Rocreuse. Ten years before he had arrived
from Belgium as the heir of his uncle, who had left him a small
property upon the very border of the forest of Gagny, just opposite the
mill, a few gunshots distant. He had come to sell this property, he
said, and return home. But the district charmed him, it appeared, for
he did not quit it. He was seen cultivating his little field, gathering
a few vegetables upon which he subsisted. He fished and hunted; many
times the forest guards nearly caught him and were on the point of
drawing up procès-verbaux against him. This free existence, the
resources of which the peasants could not clearly discover, at length
gave him a bad reputation. He was vaguely styled a poacher. At any
rate, he was lazy, for he was often found asleep on the grass when he
should have been at work. The hut he inhabited beneath the last trees
on the edge of the forest did not seem at all like the dwelling of an
honest young fellow. If he had had dealings with the wolves of the
ruins of Gagny the old women would not have been the least bit
surprised. Nevertheless, the young girls sometimes risked defending
him, for this doubtful man was superb; supple and tall as a poplar, he
had a very white skin, with flaxen hair and beard which gleamed like
gold in the sun.

One fine morning Francoise declared to Père Merlier that she loved
Dominique and would never wed any other man.

It may well be imagined what a blow this was to Père Merlier. He said
nothing, according to his custom, but his face grew thoughtful and his
internal gaiety no longer sparkled in his eyes. He looked gruff for a
week. Francoise also was exceedingly grave. What tormented Père Merlier
was to find out how this rogue of a poacher had managed to fascinate
his daughter. Dominique had never visited the mill. The miller watched
and saw the gallant on the other side of the Morelle, stretched out
upon the grass and feigning to be asleep. Francoise could see him from
her chamber window. Everything was plain: they had fallen in love by
casting sheep’s eyes at each other over the mill wheel.

Another week went by. Francoise became more and more grave. Père
Merlier still said nothing. Then one evening he himself silently
brought in Dominique. Francoise at that moment was setting the table.
She did not seem astonished; she contented herself with putting on an
additional plate, knife and fork, but the little dimples were again
seen in her cheeks, and her smile reappeared. That morning Père Merlier
had sought out Dominique in his hut on the border of the wood.

There the two men had talked for three hours with doors and windows
closed. What was the purport of their conversation no one ever knew.
Certain it was, however, that Père Merlier, on taking his departure,
already called Dominique his son-in-law. Without doubt the old man had
found the youth he had gone to seek a worthy youth in the lazy fellow
who stretched himself out upon the grass to make the girls fall in love
with him.

All Rocreuse clamored. The women at the doors had plenty to say on the
subject of the folly of Père Merlier, who had thus introduced a
reprobate into his house. The miller let people talk on. Perhaps he
remembered his own marriage. He was without a sou when he wedded
Madeleine and her mill; this, however, had not prevented him from
making a good husband. Besides, Dominique cut short the gossip by going
so vigorously to work that all the district was amazed. The miller’s
assistant had just been drawn to serve as a soldier, and Dominique
would not suffer another to be engaged. He carried the sacks, drove the
cart, fought with the old mill wheel when it refused to turn, and all
this with such good will that people came to see him out of curiosity.
Père Merlier had his silent laugh. He was excessively proud of having
formed a correct estimate of this youth. There is nothing like love to
give courage to young folks. Amid all these heavy labors Francoise and
Dominique adored each other. They did not indulge in lovers’ talks, but
there was a smiling gentleness in their glances.

Up to that time Père Merlier had not spoken a single word on the
subject of marriage, and they respected this silence, awaiting the old
man’s will. Finally one day toward the middle of July he caused three
tables to be placed in the courtyard, beneath the great elm, and
invited his friends of Rocreuse to come in the evening and drink a
glass of wine with him.

When the courtyard was full and all had their glasses in their hands,
Père Merlier raised his very high and said:

“I have the pleasure to announce to you that Francoise will wed this
young fellow here in a month, on Saint Louis’s Day.”

Then they drank noisily. Everybody smiled. But Père Merlier, again
lifting his voice, exclaimed:

“Dominique, embrace your fiancee. It is your right.”

They embraced, blushing to the tips of their ears, while all the guests
laughed joyously. It was a genuine fête. They emptied a small cask of
wine. Then when all were gone but intimate friends the conversation was
carried on without noise. The night had fallen, a starry and cloudless
night. Dominique and Francoise, seated side by side on a bench, said
nothing.

An old peasant spoke of the war the emperor had declared against
Prussia. All the village lads had already departed. On the preceding
day troops had again passed through the place. There was going to be
hard fighting.

“Bah!” said Père Merlier with the selfishness of a happy man.
“Dominique is a foreigner; he will not go to the war. And if the
Prussians come here he will be on hand to defend his wife!”

The idea that the Prussians might come there seemed a good joke. They
were going to receive a sound whipping, and the affair would soon be
over.

“I have afready seen them; I have already seen them,” repeated the old
peasant in a hollow voice.

There was silence. Then they drank again. Francoise and Dominique had
heard nothing; they had gently taken each other by the hand behind the
bench, so that nobody could see them, and it seemed so delightful that
they remained where they were, their eyes plunged into the depths of
the shadows.

What a warm and superb night it was! The village slumbered on both
edges of the white highway in infantile quietude. From time to time was
heard the crowing of some chanticleer aroused too soon. From the huge
wood near by came long breaths, which passed over the roofs like
caresses. The meadows, with their dark shadows, assumed a mysterious
and dreamy majesty, while all the springs, all the flowing waters which
gurgled in the darkness, seemed to be the cool and rhythmical
respiration of the sleeping country. Occasionally the ancient mill
wheel, lost in a doze, appeared to dream like those old watchdogs that
bark while snoring; it cracked; it talked to itself, rocked by the fall
of the Morelle, the surface of which gave forth the musical and
continuous sound of an organ pipe. Never had more profound peace
descended upon a happier corner of nature.




 CHAPTER II
 THE ATTACK ON THE MILL


A month later, on the day preceding that of Saint Louis, Rocreuse was
in a state of terror. The Prussians had beaten the emperor and were
advancing by forced marches toward the village. For a week past people
who hurried along the highway had been announcing them thus: “They are
at Lormiere—they are at Novelles!” And on hearing that they were
drawing near so rapidly, Rocreuse every morning expected to see them
descend from the wood of Gagny. They did not come, however, and that
increased the fright. They would surely fall upon the village during
the night and slaughter everybody.

That morning, a little before sunrise, there was an alarm. The
inhabitants were awakened by the loud tramp of men on the highway. The
women were already on their knees, making the sign of the cross, when
some of the people, peering cautiously through the partially opened
windows, recognized the red pantaloons. It was a French detachment. The
captain immediately asked for the mayor of the district and remained at
the mill after having talked with Père Merlier.

The sun rose gaily that morning. It would be hot at noon. Over the wood
floated a golden brightness, while in the distance white vapors arose
from the meadows. The neat and pretty village awoke amid the fresh air,
and the country, with its river and its springs, had the moist
sweetness of a bouquet. But that beautiful day caused nobody to smile.
The captain was seen to take a turn around the mill, examine the
neighboring houses, pass to the other side of the Morelle and from
there study the district with a field glass; Père Merlier, who
accompanied him, seemed to be giving him explanations. Then the captain
posted soldiers behind the walls, behind the trees and in the ditches.
The main body of the detachment encamped in the courtyard of the mill.
Was there going to be a battle? When Père Merlier returned he was
questioned. He nodded his head without speaking. Yes, there was going
to be a battle!

Francoise and Dominique were in the courtyard; they looked at him. At
last he took his pipe from his mouth and said:

“Ah, my poor young ones, you cannot get married tomorrow!”

Dominique, his lips pressed together, with an angry frown on his
forehead, at times raised himself on tiptoe and fixed his eyes upon the
wood of Gagny, as if he wished to see the Prussians arrive. Francoise,
very pale and serious, came and went, furnishing the soldiers with what
they needed. The troops were making soup in a corner of the courtyard;
they joked while waiting for it to get ready.

The captain was delighted. He had visited the chambers and the huge
hall of the mill which looked out upon the river. Now, seated beside
the well, he was conversing with Père Merlier.

“Your mill is a real fortress,” he said. “We can hold it without
difficulty until evening. The bandits are late. They ought to be here.”

The miller was grave. He saw his mill burning like a torch, but he
uttered no complaint, thinking such a course useless. He merely said:

“You had better hide the boat behind the wheel; there is a place there
just fit for that purpose. Perhaps it will be useful to have the boat.”

The captain gave the requisite order. This officer was a handsome man
of forty; he was tall and had an amiable countenance. The sight of
Francoise and Dominique seemed to please him. He contemplated them as
if he had forgotten the coming struggle. He followed Francoise with his
eyes, and his look told plainly that he thought her charming. Then
turning toward Dominique, he asked suddenly:

“Why are you not in the army, my good fellow?”

“I am a foreigner,” answered the young man.

The captain evidently did not attach much weight to this reason. He
winked his eye and smiled. Francoise was more agreeable company than a
cannon. On seeing him smile, Dominique added:

“I am a foreigner, but I can put a ball in an apple at five hundred
meters. There is my hunting gun behind you.”

“You may have use for it,” responded the captain dryly.

Francoise had approached, somewhat agitated. Without heeding the
strangers present Dominique took and grasped in his the two hands she
extended to him, as if to put herself under his protection. The captain
smiled again but said not a word. He remained seated, his sword across
his knees and his eyes plunged into space, lost in a reverie.

It was already ten o’clock. The heat had become very great. A heavy
silence prevailed. In the courtyard, in the shadows of the sheds, the
soldiers had begun to eat their soup. Not a sound came from the
village; all its inhabitants had barricaded the doors and windows of
their houses. A dog, alone upon the highway, howled. From the
neighboring forests and meadows, swooning in the heat, came a prolonged
and distant voice made up of all the scattered breaths. A cuckoo sang.
Then the silence grew more intense.

Suddenly in that slumbering air a shot was heard. The captain leaped
briskly to his feet; the soldiers left their plates of soup, yet half
full. In a few seconds everybody was at the post of duty; from bottom
to top the mill was occupied. Meanwhile the captain, who had gone out
upon the road, had discovered nothing; to the right and to the left the
highway stretched out, empty and white. A second shot was heard, and
still nothing visible, not even a shadow. But as he was returning the
captain perceived in the direction of Gagny, between two trees, a light
puff of smoke whirling away like thistledown. The wood was calm and
peaceful.

“The bandits have thrown themselves into the forest,” he muttered.
“They know we are here.”

Then the firing continued, growing more and more vigorous, between the
French soldiers posted around the mill and the Prussians hidden behind
the trees. The balls whistled above the Morelle without damaging either
side. The fusillade was irregular, the shots coming from every bush,
and still only the little puffs of smoke, tossed gently by the breeze,
were seen. This lasted nearly two hours. The officer hummed a tune with
an air of indifference. Francoise and Dominique, who had remained in
the courtyard, raised themselves on tiptoe and looked over a low wall.
They were particularly interested in a little soldier posted on the
shore of the Morelle, behind the remains of an old bateau; he stretched
himself out flat on the ground, watched, fired and then glided into a
ditch a trifle farther back to reload his gun; and his movements were
so droll, so tricky and so supple, that they smiled as they looked at
him. He must have perceived the head of a Prussian, for he arose
quickly and brought his weapon to his shoulder, but before he could
fire he uttered a cry, fell and rolled into the ditch, where for an
instant his legs twitched convulsively like the claws of a chicken just
killed. The little soldier had received a ball full in the breast. He
was the first man slain. Instinctively Francoise seized Dominique’s
hand and clasped it with a nervous contraction.

“Move away,” said the captain. “You are within range of the balls.”

At that moment a sharp little thud was heard in the old elm, and a
fragment of a branch came whirling down. But the two young folks did
not stir; they were nailed to the spot by anxiety to see what was going
on. On the edge of the wood a Prussian had suddenly come out from
behind a tree as from a theater stage entrance, beating the air with
his hands and falling backward. Nothing further moved; the two corpses
seemed asleep in the broad sunlight; not a living soul was seen in the
scorching country. Even the crack of the fusillade had ceased. The
Morelle alone whispered in its clear tones.

Père Merlier looked at the captain with an air of surprise, as if to
ask him if the struggle was over.

“They are getting ready for something worse,” muttered the officer.
“Don’t trust appearances. Move away from there.”

He had not finished speaking when there was a terrible discharge of
musketry. The great elm was riddled, and a host of leaves shot into the
air. The Prussians had happily fired too high. Dominique dragged,
almost carried, Francoise away, while Père Merlier followed them,
shouting:

“Go down into the cellar; the walls are solid!”

But they did not heed him; they entered the huge hall where ten
soldiers were waiting in silence, watching through the chinks in the
closed window shutters. The captain was alone in the courtyard,
crouching behind the little wall, while the furious discharges
continued. Without, the soldiers he had posted gave ground only foot by
foot. However, they re-entered one by one, crawling, when the enemy had
dislodged them from their hiding places. Their orders were to gain time
and not show themselves, that the Prussians might remain in ignorance
as to what force was before them. Another hour went by. As a sergeant
arrived, saying that but two or three more men remained without, the
captain glanced at his watch, muttering:

“Half-past two o’clock. We must hold the position four hours longer.”

He caused the great gate of the courtyard to be closed, and every
preparation was made for an energetic resistance. As the Prussians were
on the opposite side of the Morelle, an immediate assault was not to be
feared. There was a bridge two kilometers away, but they evidently were
not aware of its existence, and it was hardly likely that they would
attempt to ford the river. The officer, therefore, simply ordered the
highway to be watched. Every effort would be made in the direction of
the country.

Again the fusillade had ceased. The mill seemed dead beneath the
glowing sun. Not a shutter was open; no sound came from the interior.
At length, little by little, the Prussians showed themselves at the
edge of the forest of Gagny. They stretched their necks and grew bold.
In the mill several soldiers had already raised their guns to their
shoulders, but the captain cried:

“No, no; wait. Let them come nearer.”

They were exceedingly prudent, gazing at the mill with a suspicious
air. The silent and somber old structure with its curtains of ivy
filled them with uneasiness. Nevertheless, they advanced. When fifty of
them were in the opposite meadow the officer uttered the single word:

“Fire!”

A crash was heard; isolated shots followed. Francoise, all of a
tremble, had mechanically put her hands to her ears. Dominique, behind
the soldiers, looked on; when the smoke had somewhat lifted he saw
three Prussians stretched upon their backs in the center of the meadow.
The others had thrown themselves behind the willows and poplars. Then
the siege began.

For more than an hour the mill was riddled with balls. They dashed
against the old walls like hail. When they struck the stones they were
heard to flatten and fall into the water. They buried themselves in the
wood with a hollow sound. Occasionally a sharp crack announced that the
mill wheel had been hit. The soldiers in the interior were careful of
their shots; they fired only when they could take aim. From time to
time the captain consulted his watch. As a ball broke a shutter and
plowed into the ceiling he said to himself:

“Four o’clock. We shall never be able to hold out!”

Little by little the terrible fusillade weakened the old mill. A
shutter fell into the water, pierced like a bit of lace, and it was
necessary to replace it with a mattress. Père Merlier constantly
exposed himself to ascertain the extent of the damage done to his poor
wheel, the cracking of which made his heart ache. All would be over
with it this time; never could he repair it. Dominique had implored
Francoise to withdraw, but she refused to leave him; she was seated
behind a huge oaken clothespress, which protected her. A ball, however,
struck the clothespress, the sides of which gave forth a hollow sound.
Then Dominique placed himself in front of Francoise. He had not yet
fired a shot; he held his gun in his hand but was unable to approach
the windows, which were altogether occupied by the soldiers. At each
discharge the floor shook.

“Attention! Attention!” suddenly cried the captain.

He had just seen a great dark mass emerge from the wood. Immediately a
formidable platoon fire opened. It was like a waterspout passing over
the mill. Another shutter was shattered, and through the gaping opening
of the window the balls entered. Two soldiers rolled upon the floor.
One of them lay like a stone; they pushed the body against the wall
because it was in the way. The other twisted in agony, begging his
comrades to finish him, but they paid no attention to him. The balls
entered in a constant stream; each man took care of himself and strove
to find a loophole through which to return the fire. A third soldier
was hit; he uttered not a word; he fell on the edge of a table, with
eyes fixed and haggard. Opposite these dead men Francoise, stricken
with horror, had mechanically pushed away her chair to sit on the floor
against the wall; she thought she would take up less room there and not
be in so much danger. Meanwhile the soldiers had collected all the
mattresses of the household and partially stopped up the windows with
them. The hall was filled with wrecks, with broken weapons and
demolished furniture.

“Five o’clock,” said the captain. “Keep up your courage! They are about
to try to cross the river!”

At that moment Francoise uttered a cry. A ball which had ricocheted had
grazed her forehead. Several drops of blood appeared. Dominique stared
at her; then, approaching the window, he fired his first shot. Once
started, he did not stop. He loaded and fired without heeding what was
passing around him, but from time to time he glanced at Francoise. He
was very deliberate and aimed with care. The Prussians, keeping beside
the poplars, attempted the passage of the Morelle, as the captain had
predicted, but as soon as a man strove to cross he fell, shot in the
head by Dominique. The captain, who had his eyes on the young man, was
amazed. He complimented him, saying that he should be glad to have many
such skillful marksmen. Dominique did not hear him. A ball cut his
shoulder; another wounded his arm, but he continued to fire.

There were two more dead men. The mangled mattresses no longer stopped
the windows. The last discharge seemed as if it would have carried away
the mill. The position had ceased to be tenable. Nevertheless, the
captain said firmly:

“Hold your ground for half an hour more!”

Now he counted the minutes. He had promised his chiefs to hold the
enemy in check there until evening, and he would not give an inch
before the hour he had fixed on for the retreat. He preserved his
amiable air and smiled upon Francoise to reassure her. He had picked up
the gun of a dead soldier and himself was firing.

Only four soldiers remained in the hall. The Prussians appeared in a
body on the other side of the Morelle, and it was clear that they
intended speedily to cross the river. A few minutes more elapsed. The
stubborn captain would not order the retreat. Just then a sergeant
hastened to him and said:

“They are upon the highway; they will take us in the rear!”

The Prussians must have found the bridge. The captain pulled out his
watch and looked at it.

“Five minutes longer,” he said. “They cannot get here before that
time!”

Then at six o’clock exactly he at last consented to lead his men out
through a little door which opened into a lane. From there they threw
themselves into a ditch; they gained the forest of Sauval. Before
taking his departure the captain bowed very politely to Père Merlier
and made his excuses, adding:

“Amuse them! We will return!”

Dominique was now alone in the hall. He was still firing, hearing
nothing, understanding nothing. He felt only the need of defending
Francoise. He had not the least suspicion in the world that the
soldiers had retreated. He aimed and killed his man at every shot.
Suddenly there was a loud noise. The Prussians had entered the
courtyard from behind. Dominique fired a last; shot, and they fell upon
him while his gun was yet smoking.

Four men held him. Others vociferated around him in a frightful
language. They were ready to slaughter him on the spot. Francoise, with
a supplicating look, had cast herself before him. But an officer
entered and ordered the prisoner to be delivered up to him. After
exchanging a few words in German with the soldiers he turned toward
Dominique and said to him roughly in very good French:

“You will be shot in two hours!”




 CHAPTER III
 THE FLIGHT


It was a settled rule of the German staff that every Frenchman, not
belonging to the regular army, taken with arms in his hands should be
shot. The militia companies themselves were not recognized as
belligerents. By thus making terrible examples of the peasants who
defended their homes, the Germans hoped to prevent the levy en masse,
which they feared.

The officer, a tall, lean man of fifty, briefly questioned Dominique.
Although he spoke remarkably pure French he had a stiffness altogether
Prussian.

“Do you belong to this district?” he asked.

“No; I am a Belgian,” answered the young man.

“Why then did you take up arms? The fighting did not concern you!”

Dominique made no reply. At that moment the officer saw Francoise who
was standing by, very pale, listening; upon her white forehead her
slight wound had put a red bar. He looked at the young folks, one after
the other, seemed to understand matters and contented himself with
adding:

“You do not deny having fired, do you?”

“I fired as often as I could!” responded Dominique tranquilly.

This confession was useless, for he was black with powder, covered with
sweat and stained with a few drops of blood which had flowed from the
scratch on his shoulder.

“Very well,” said the officer. “You will be shot in two hours!”

Francoise did not cry out. She clasped her hands and raised them with a
gesture of mute despair. The officer noticed this gesture. Two soldiers
had taken Dominique to a neighboring apartment, where they were to keep
watch over him. The young girl had fallen upon a chair, totally
overcome; she could not weep; she was suffocating. The officer had
continued to examine her. At last he spoke to her.

“Is that young man your brother?” he demanded.

She shook her head negatively. The German stood stiffly on his feet
with out a smile. Then after a short silence he again asked:

“Has he lived long in the district?”

She nodded affirmatively.

“In that case, he ought to be thoroughly acquainted with the
neighboring forests.”

This time she spoke.

“He is thoroughly acquainted with them, monsieur,” she said, looking at
him with considerable surprise.

He said nothing further to her but turned upon his heel, demanding that
the mayor of the village should be brought to him. But Francoise had
arisen with a slight blush on her countenance; thinking that she had
seized the aim of the officer’s questions, she had recovered hope. She
herself ran to find her father.

Père Merlier, as soon as the firing had ceased, had quickly descended
to the wooden gallery to examine his wheel. He adored his daughter; he
had a solid friendship for Dominique, his future son-in-law, but his
wheel also held a large place in his heart. Since the two young ones,
as he called them, had come safe and sound out of the fight, he thought
of his other tenderness, which had suffered greatly. Bent over the huge
wooden carcass, he was studying its wounds with a sad air. Five buckets
were shattered to pieces; the central framework was riddled. He thrust
his fingers in the bullet holes to measure their depth; he thought how
he could repair all these injuries. Francoise found him already
stopping up the clefts with rubbish and moss.

“Father,” she said, “you are wanted.”

And she wept at last as she told him what she had just heard. Père
Merlier tossed his head. People were not shot in such a summary
fashion. The matter must be looked after. He re-entered the mill with
his silent and tranquil air. When the officer demanded of him
provisions for his men he replied that the inhabitants of Rocreuse were
not accustomed to be treated roughly and that nothing would be obtained
from them if violence were employed. He would see to everything but on
condition that he was not interfered with. The officer at first seemed
irritated by his calm tone; then he gave way before the old man’s short
and clear words. He even called him back and asked him:

“What is the name of that wood opposite?”

“The forest of Sauval.”

“What is its extent?”

The miller looked at him fixedly.

“I do not know,” he answered.

And he went away. An hour later the contribution of war in provisions
and money, demanded by the officer, was in the courtyard of the mill.
Night came on. Francoise watched with anxiety the movements of the
soldiers. She hung about the room in which Dominique was imprisoned.
Toward seven o’clock she experienced a poignant emotion. She saw the
officer enter the prisoner’s apartment and for a quarter of an hour
heard their voices in loud conversation. For an instant the officer
reappeared upon the threshold to give an order in German, which she did
not understand, but when twelve men ranged themselves in the courtyard,
their guns on their shoulders, she trembled and felt as if about to
faint. All then was over: the execution was going to take place. The
twelve men stood there ten minutes, Dominique’s voice continuing to be
raised in a tone of violent refusal. Finally the officer came out,
saying, as he roughly shut the door:

“Very well; reflect. I give you until tomorrow morning.”

And with a gesture he ordered the twelve men to break ranks. Francoise
was stupefied. Père Merlier, who had been smoking his pipe and looking
at the platoon simply with an air of curiosity, took her by the arm
with paternal gentleness. He led her to her chamber.

“Be calm,” he said, “and try to sleep. Tomorrow, when it is light, we
will see what can be done.”

As he withdrew he prudently locked her in. It was his opinion that
women were good for nothing and that they spoiled everything when they
took a hand in a serious affair. But Francoise did not retire. She sat
for a long while upon the side of her bed, listening to the noises of
the house. The German soldiers encamped in the courtyard sang and
laughed; they must have been eating and drinking until eleven o’clock,
for the racket did not cease an instant. In the mill itself heavy
footsteps resounded from time to time, without doubt those of the
sentinels who were being relieved. But she was interested most by the
sounds she could distinguish in the apartment beneath her chamber. Many
times she stretched herself out at full length and put her ear to the
floor. That apartment was the one in which Dominique was confined. He
must have been walking back and forth from the window to the wall, for
she long heard the regular cadence of his steps. Then deep silence
ensued; he had doubtless seated himself. Finally every noise ceased and
all was as if asleep. When slumber appeared to her to have settled on
the house she opened her window as gently as possible and leaned her
elbows on the sill.

Without, the night had a warm serenity. The slender crescent of the
moon, which was sinking behind the forest of Sauval, lit up the country
with the glimmer of a night lamp. The lengthened shadows of the tall
trees barred the meadows with black, while the grass in uncovered spots
assumed the softness of greenish velvet. But Francoise did not pause to
admire the mysterious charms of the night. She examined the country,
searching for the sentinels whom the Germans had posted obliquely. She
clearly saw their shadows extending like the rounds of a ladder along
the Morelle. Only one was before the mill, on the other shore of the
river, beside a willow, the branches of which dipped in the water.
Francoise saw him plainly. He was a tall man and was standing
motionless, his face turned toward the sky with the dreamy air of a
shepherd.

When she had carefully inspected the locality she again seated herself
on her bed. She remained there an hour, deeply absorbed. Then she
listened once more: there was not a sound in the mill. She returned to
the window and glanced out, but doubtless one of the horns of the moon,
which was still visible behind the trees, made her uneasy, for she
resumed her waiting attitude. At last she thought the proper time had
come. The night was as black as jet; she could no longer see the
sentinel opposite; the country spread out like a pool of ink. She
strained her ear for an instant and made her decision. Passing near the
window was an iron ladder, the bars fastened to the wall, which mounted
from the wheel to the garret and formerly enabled the millers to reach
certain machinery; afterward the mechanism had been altered, and for a
long while the ladder had been hidden under the thick ivy which covered
that side of the mill.

Francoise bravely climbed out of her window and grasped one of the bars
of the ladder. She began to descend. Her skirts embarrassed her
greatly. Suddenly a stone was detached from the wall and fell into the
Morelle with a loud splash. She stopped with an icy shiver of fear.
Then she realized that the waterfall with its continuous roar would
drown every noise she might make, and she descended more courageously,
feeling the ivy with her foot, assuring herself that the rounds were
firm. When she was at the height of the chamber which served as
Dominique’s prison she paused. An unforeseen difficulty nearly caused
her to lose all her courage: the window of the chamber was not directly
below that of her apartment. She hung off from the ladder, but when she
stretched out her arm her hand encountered only the wall. Must she,
then, ascend without pushing her plan to completion? Her arms were
fatigued; the murmur of the Morelle beneath her commenced to make her
dizzy. Then she tore from the wall little fragments of plaster and
threw them against Dominique’s window. He did not hear; he was
doubtless asleep. She crumbled more plaster from the wall, scraping the
skin off her fingers. She was utterly exhausted; she felt herself
falling backward, when Dominique at last softly opened the window.

“It is I!” she murmured. “Catch me quickly; I’m falling!”

It was the first time that she had addressed him familiarly. Leaning
out, he seized her and drew her into the chamber. There she gave vent
to a flood of tears, stifling her sobs that she might not be heard.
Then by a supreme effort she calmed herself.

“Are you guarded?” she asked in a low voice.

Dominique, still stupefied at seeing her thus, nodded his head
affirmatively, pointing to the door. On the other side they heard
someone snoring; the sentinel, yielding to sleep, had thrown himself on
the floor against the door, arguing that by disposing himself thus the
prisoner could not escape.

“You must fly,” resumed Francoise excitedly. “I have come to beg you to
do so and to bid you farewell.”

But he did not seem to hear her. He repeated:

“What? Is it you; is it you? Oh, what fear you caused me! You might
have killed yourself!”

He seized her hands; he kissed them.

“How I love you, Francoise!” he murmured. “You are as courageous as
good. I had only one dread: that I should die without seeing you again.
But you are here, and now they can shoot me. When I have passed a
quarter of an hour with you I shall be ready.”

Little by little he had drawn her to him, and she leaned her head upon
his shoulder. The danger made them dearer to each other. They forgot
everything in that warm clasp.

“Ah, Francoise,” resumed Dominique in a caressing voice, “this is Saint
Louis’s Day, the day, so long awaited, of our marriage. Nothing has
been able to separate us, since we are both here alone, faithful to the
appointment. Is not this our wedding morning?”

“Yes, yes,” she repeated, “it is our wedding morning.”

They tremblingly exchanged a kiss. But all at once she disengaged
herself from Dominique’s arms; she remembered the terrible reality.

“You must fly; you must fly,” she whispered. “There is not a minute to
be lost!”

And as he stretched out his arms in the darkness to clasp her again,
she said tenderly:

“Oh, I implore you to listen to me! If you die I shall die also! In an
hour it will be light. I want you to go at once.”

Then rapidly she explained her plan. The iron ladder descended to the
mill wheel; there he could climb down the buckets and get into the boat
which was hidden away in a nook. Afterward it would be easy for him to
reach the other bank of the river and escape.

“But what of the sentinels?” he asked.

“There is only one, opposite, at the foot of the first willow.”

“What if he should see me and attempt to give an alarm?”

Francoise shivered. She placed in his hand a knife she had brought with
her. There was a brief silence.

“What is to become of your father and yourself?” resumed Dominique.
“No, I cannot fly! When I am gone those soldiers will, perhaps,
massacre you both! You do not know them. They offered me my life if I
would consent to guide them through the forest of Sauval. When they
discover my escape they will be capable of anything!”

The young girl did not stop to argue. She said simply in reply to all
the reasons he advanced:

“Out of love for me, fly! If you love me, Dominique, do not remain here
another moment!”

Then she promised to climb back to her chamber. No one would know that
she had helped him. She finally threw her arms around him to convince
him with an embrace, with a burst of extraordinary love. He was
vanquished. He asked but one more question:

“Can you swear to me that your father knows what you have done and that
he advises me to fly?”

“My father sent me!” answered Francoise boldly.

She told a falsehood. At that moment she had only one immense need: to
know that he was safe, to escape from the abominable thought that the
sun would be the signal for his death. When he was far away every
misfortune might fall upon her; that would seem delightful to her from
the moment he was secure. The selfishness of her tenderness desired
that he should live before everything.

“Very well,” said Dominique; “I will do what you wish.”

They said nothing more. Dominique reopened the window. But suddenly a
sound froze them. The door was shaken, and they thought that it was
about to be opened. Evidently a patrol had heard their voices. Standing
locked in each other’s arms, they waited in unspeakable anguish. The
door was shaken a second time, but it did not open. They uttered low
sighs of relief; they comprehended that the soldier who was asleep
against the door must have turned over. In fact, silence succeeded; the
snoring was resumed.

Dominique exacted that Francoise should ascend to her chamber before he
departed. He clasped her in his arms and bade her a mute adieu. Then he
aided her to seize the ladder and clung to it in his turn. But he
refused to descend a single round until convinced that she was in her
apartment. When Francoise had entered her window she let fall in a
voice as light as a breath:

“Au revoir, my love!”

She leaned her elbows on the sill and strove to follow Dominique with
her eyes. The night was yet very dark. She searched for the sentinel
but could not see him; the willow alone made a pale stain in the midst
of the gloom. For an instant she heard the sound produced by
Dominique’s body in passing along the ivy. Then the wheel cracked, and
there was a slight agitation in the water which told her that the young
man had found the boat. A moment afterward she distinguished the somber
silhouette of the bateau on the gray surface of the Morelle. Terrible
anguish seized upon her. Each instant she thought she heard the
sentinel’s cry of alarm; the smallest sounds scattered through the
gloom seemed to her the hurried tread of soldiers, the clatter of
weapons, the charging of guns. Nevertheless, the seconds elapsed and
the country maintained its profound peace. Dominique must have reached
the other side of the river. Francoise saw nothing more. The silence
was majestic. She heard a shuffling of feet, a hoarse cry and the
hollow fall of a body. Afterward the silence grew deeper. Then as if
she had felt Death pass by, she stood, chilled through and through,
staring into the thick night.




 CHAPTER IV
 A TERRIBLE EXPERIENCE


At dawn a clamor of voices shook the mill. Père Merlier opened the door
of Francoise’s chamber. She went down into the courtyard, pale and very
calm. But there she could not repress a shiver as she saw the corpse of
a Prussian soldier stretched out on a cloak beside the well.

Around the body troops gesticulated, uttering cries of fury. Many of
them shook their fists at the village. Meanwhile the officer had
summoned Père Merlier as the mayor of the commune.

“Look!” he said to him in a voice almost choking with anger. “There
lies one of our men who was found assassinated upon the bank of the
river. We must make a terrible example, and I count on you to aid us in
discovering the murderer.”

“As you choose,” answered the miller with his usual stoicism, “but you
will find it no easy task.”

The officer stooped and drew aside a part of the cloak which hid the
face of the dead man. Then appeared a horrible wound. The sentinel had
been struck in the throat, and the weapon had remained in the cut. It
was a kitchen knife with a black handle.

“Examine that knife,” said the officer to Père Merlier; “perhaps it
will help us in our search.”

The old man gave a start but recovered control of himself immediately.
He replied without moving a muscle of his face:

“Everybody in the district has similar knives. Doubtless your man was
weary of fighting and put an end to his own life. It looks like it!”

“Mind what you say!” cried the officer furiously. “I do not know what
prevents me from setting fire to the four corners of the village!”

Happily in his rage he did not notice the deep trouble pictured on
Francoise’s countenance. She had been forced to sit down on a stone
bench near the well. Despite herself her eyes were fixed upon the
corpse stretched our on the ground almost at her feet. It was that of a
tall and handsome man who resembled Dominique, with flaxen hair and
blue eyes. This resemblance made her heart ache. She thought that
perhaps the dead soldier had left behind him in Germany a sweetheart
who would weep her eyes out for him. She recognized her knife in the
throat of the murdered man. She had killed him.

The officer was talking of striking Rocreuse with terrible measures,
when soldiers came running to him. Dominique’s escape had just been
discovered. It caused an extreme agitation. The officer went to the
apartment in which the prisoner had been confined, looked out of the
window which had remained open, understood everything and returned,
exasperated.

Père Merlier seemed greatly vexed by Dominique’s flight.

“The imbecile!” he muttered. “He has ruined all!”

Francoise heard him and was overcome with anguish. But the miller did
not suspect her of complicity in the affair. He tossed his head, saying
to her in an undertone:

“We are in a nice scrape!”

“It was that wretch who assassinated the soldier! I am sure of it!”
cried the officer. “He has undoubtedly reached the forest. But he must
be found for us or the village shall pay for him!”

Turning to the miller, he said:

“See here, you ought to know where he is hidden!”

Père Merlier laughed silently, pointing to the wide stretch of wooden
hills.

“Do you expect to find a man in there?” he said.

“Oh, there must be nooks there with which you are acquainted. I will
give you ten men. You must guide them.”

“As you please. But it will take a week to search all the wood in the
vicinity.”

The old man’s tranquillity enraged the officer. In fact, the latter
comprehended the asburdity of this search. At that moment he saw
Francoise, pale and trembling, on the bench. The anxious attitude of
the young girl struck him. He was silent for an instant, during which
he in turn examined the miller and his daughter.

At length he demanded roughly of the old man:

“Is not that fellow your child’s lover?”

Père Merlier grew livid and seemed about to hurl himself upon the
officer to strangle him. He stiffened himself but made no answer.
Francoise buried her face in her hands.

“Yes, that’s it!” continued the Prussian. “And you or your daughter
helped him to escape! One of you is his accomplice! For the last time,
will you give him up to us?”

The miller uttered not a word. He turned away and looked into space
with an air of indifference, as if the officer had not addressed him.
This brought the latter’s rage to a head.

“Very well!” he shouted. “You shall be shot in his place!”

And he again ordered out the platoon of execution. Père Merlier
remained as stoical as ever. He hardly even shrugged his shoulders; all
this drama appeared to him in bad taste. Without doubt he did not
believe that they would shoot a man so lightly. But when the platoon
drew up before him he said gravely:

“So it is serious, is it? Go on with your bloody work then! If you must
have a victim I will do as well as another!”

But Francoise started up, terrified, stammering:

“In pity, monsieur, do no harm to my father! Kill me in his stead! I
aided Dominique to fly! I alone am guilty!”

“Hush, my child!” cried Père Merlier. “Why do you tell an untruth? She
passed the night locked in her chamber, monsieur. She tells a
falsehood, I assure you!”

“No, I do not tell a falsehood!” resumed the young girl ardently. “I
climbed out of my window and went down the iron ladder; I urged
Dominique to fly. This is the truth, the whole truth!”

The old man became very pale. He saw clearly in her eyes that she did
not lie, and her story terrified him. Ah, these children with their
hearts, how they spoil everything! Then he grew angry and exclaimed:

“She is mad; do not heed her. She tells you stupid tales. Come, finish
your work!”

She still protested. She knelt, clasping her hands. The officer
tranquilly watched this dolorous struggle.

“MON DIEU!” he said at last. “I take your father because I have not the
other. Find the fugitive and the old man shall be set at liberty!”

She gazed at him with staring eyes, astonished at the atrocity of the
proposition.

“How horrible!” she murmured. “Where do you think I can find Dominique
at this hour? He has departed; I know no more about him.”

“Come, make your choice—him or your father.”

“Oh, MON DIEU! How can I choose? If I knew where Dominique was I could
not choose! You are cutting my heart. I would rather die at once. Yes,
it would be the sooner over. Kill me, I implore you, kill me!”

This scene of despair and tears finally made the officer impatient. He
cried out:

“Enough! I will be merciful. I consent to give you two hours. If in
that time your lover is not here your father will be shot in his
place!”

He caused Père Merlier to be taken to the chamber which had served as
Dominique’s prison. The old man demanded tobacco and began to smoke.
Upon his impassible face not the slightest emotion was visible. But
when alone, as he smoked, he shed two big tears which ran slowly down
his cheeks. His poor, dear child, how she was suffering!

Francoise remained in the middle of the courtyard. Prussian soldiers
passed, laughing. Some of them spoke to her, uttered jokes she could
not understand. She stared at the door through which her father had
disappeared. With a slow movement she put her hand to her forehead, as
if to prevent it from bursting.

The officer turned upon his heel, saying:

“You have two hours. Try to utilize them.”

She had two hours. This phrase buzzed in her ears. Then mechanically
she quitted the courtyard; she walked straight ahead. Where should she
go?—what should she do? She did not even try to make a decision because
she well understood the inutility of her efforts. However, she wished
to see Dominique. They could have an understanding together; they
might, perhaps, find an expedient. And amid the confusion of her
thoughts she went down to the shore of the Morelle, which she crossed
below the sluice at a spot where there were huge stones. Her feet led
her beneath the first willow, in the corner of the meadow. As she
stooped she saw a pool of blood which made her turn pale. It was there
the murder had been committed. She followed the track of Dominique in
the trodden grass; he must have run, for she perceived a line of long
footprints stretching across the meadow. Then farther on she lost these
traces. But in a neighboring field she thought she found them again.
The new trail conducted her to the edge of the forest, where every
indication was effaced.

Francoise, nevertheless, plunged beneath the trees. It solaced her to
be alone. She sat down for an instant, but at the thought that time was
passing she leaped to her feet. How long had it been since she left the
mill? Five minutes?—half an hour? She had lost all conception of time.
Perhaps Dominique had concealed himself in a copse she knew of, where
they had one afternoon eaten filberts together. She hastened to the
copse, searched it. Only a blackbird flew away, uttering its soft, sad
note. Then she thought he might have taken refuge in a hollow of the
rocks, where it had sometimes been his custom to lie in wait for game,
but the hollow of the rocks was empty. What good was it to hunt for
him? She would never find him, but little by little the desire to
discover him took entire possession of her, and she hastened her steps.
The idea that he might have climbed a tree suddenly occurred to her.
She advanced with uplifted eyes, and that he might be made aware of her
presence she called him every fifteen or twenty steps. Cuckoos
answered; a breath of wind which passed through the branches made her
believe that he was there and was descending. Once she even imagined
she saw him; she stopped, almost choked, and wished to fly. What was
she to say to him? Had she come to take him back to be shot? Oh no, she
would not tell him what had happened. She would cry out to him to
escape, not to remain in the neighborhood. Then the thought that her
father was waiting for her gave her a sharp pain. She fell upon the
turf, weeping, crying aloud:

“MON DIEU! MON DIEU! Why am I here?”

She was mad to have come. And as if seized with fear, she ran; she
sought to leave the forest. Three times she deceived herself; she
thought she never again would find the mill, when she entered a meadow
just opposite Rocreuse. As soon as she saw the village she paused. Was
she going to return alone? She was still hesitating when a voice softly
called:

“Francoise! Francoise!”

And she saw Dominique, who had raised his head above the edge of a
ditch. Just God! She had found him! Did heaven wish his death? She
restrained a cry; she let herself glide into the ditch.

“Are you searching for me?” asked the young man.

“Yes,” she answered, her brain in a whirl, not knowing what she said.

“What has happened?”

She lowered her eyes, stammered:

“Nothing. I was uneasy; I wanted to see you.”

Then, reassured, he explained to her that he had resolved not to go
away. He was doubtful about the safety of herself and her father. Those
Prussian wretches were fully capable of taking vengeance upon women and
old men. But everything was getting on well. He added with a laugh:

“Our wedding will take place in a week—I am sure of it.”

Then as she remained overwhelmed, he grew grave again and said:

“But what ails you? You are concealing something from me!”

“No; I swear it to you. I am out of breath from running.”

He embraced her, saying that it was imprudent for them to be talking,
and he wished to climb out of the ditch to return to the forest. She
restrained him. She trembled.

“Listen,” she said: “it would, perhaps, be wise for you to remain where
you are. No one is searching for you; you have nothing to fear.”

“Francoise, you are concealing something from me,” he repeated.

Again she swore that she was hiding nothing. She had simply wished to
know that he was near her. And she stammered forth still further
reasons. She seemed so strange to him that he now could not be induced
to flee. Besides, he had faith in the return of the French. Troops had
been seen in the direction of Sauval.

“Ah, let them hurry; let them get here as soon as possible,” she
murmured fervently.

At that moment eleven o’clock sounded from the belfry of Rocreuse. The
strokes were clear and distinct. She arose with a terrified look; two
hours had passed since she quitted the mill.

“Hear me,” she said rapidly: “if we have need of you I will wave my
handkerchief from my chamber window.”

And she departed on a run, while Dominique, very uneasy, stretched
himself out upon the edge of the ditch to watch the mill. As she was
about to enter Rocreuse, Francoise met an old beggar, Père Bontemps,
who knew everybody in the district. He bowed to her; he had just seen
the miller in the midst of the Prussians; then, making the sign of the
cross and muttering broken words, he went on his way.

“The two hours have passed,” said the officer when Francoise appeared.

Père Merlier was there, seated upon the bench beside the well. He was
smoking. The young girl again begged, wept, sank on her knees. She
wished to gain time. The hope of seeing the French return had increased
in her, and while lamenting she thought she heard in the distance, the
measured tramp of an army. Oh, if they would come, if they would
deliver them all?

“Listen, monsieur,” she said: “an hour, another hour; you can grant us
another hour!”

But the officer remained inflexible. He even ordered two men to seize
her and take her away, that they might quietly proceed with the
execution of the old man. Then a frightful struggle took place in
Francoise’s heart. She could not allow her father to be thus
assassinated. No, no; she would die rather with Dominique. She was
running toward her chamber when Dominique himself entered the
courtyard.

The officer and the soldiers uttered a shout of triumph. But the young
man, calmly, with a somewhat severe look, went up to Francoise, as if
she had been the only person present.

“You did wrong,” he said. “Why did you not bring me back? It remained
for Père Bontemps to tell me everything. But I am here!”




 CHAPTER V
 THE RETURN OF THE FRENCH


It was three o’clock in the afternoon. Great black clouds, the trail of
some neighboring storm, had slowly filled the sky. The yellow heavens,
the brass covered uniforms, had changed the valley of Rocreuse, so gay
in the sunlight, into a den of cutthroats full of sinister gloom. The
Prussian officer had contented himself with causing Dominique to be
imprisoned without announcing what fate he reserved for him. Since noon
Francoise had been torn by terrible anguish. Despite her father’s
entreaties she would not quit the courtyard. She was awaiting the
French. But the hours sped on; night was approaching, and she suffered
the more as all the time gained did not seem to be likely to change the
frightful denouement.

About three o’clock the Prussians made their preparations for
departure. For an instant past the officer had, as on the previous day,
shut himself up with Dominique. Francoise realized that the young man’s
life was in balance. She clasped her hands; she prayed. Père Merlier,
beside her, maintained silence and the rigid attitude of an old peasant
who does not struggle against fate.

“Oh, MON DIEU! Oh, MON DIEU!” murmured Francoise. “They are going to
kill him!”

The miller drew her to him and took her on his knees as if she had been
a child.

At that moment the officer came out, while behind him two men brought
Dominique.

“Never! Never!” cried the latter. “I am ready to die!”

“Think well,” resumed the officer. “The service you refuse me another
will render us. I am generous: I offer you your life. I want you simply
to guide us through the forest to Montredon. There must be pathways
leading there.”

Dominique was silent.

“So you persist in your infatuation, do you?”

“Kill me and end all this!” replied the young man.

Francoise, her hands clasped, supplicated him from afar. She had
forgotten everything; she would have advised him to commit an act of
cowardice. But Père Merlier seized her hands that the Prussians might
not see her wild gestures.

“He is right,” he whispered: “it is better to die!”

The platoon of execution was there. The officer awaited a sign of
weakness on Dominique’s part. He still expected to conquer him. No one
spoke. In the distance violent crashes of thunder were heard.
Oppressive heat weighed upon the country. But suddenly, amid the
silence, a cry broke forth:

“The French! The French!”

Yes, the French were at hand. Upon the Sauval highway, at the edge of
the wood, the line of red pantaloons could be distinguished. In the
mill there was an extraordinary agitation. The Prussian soldiers ran
hither and thither with guttural exclamations. Not a shot had yet been
fired.

“The French! The French!” cried Francoise, clapping her hands.

She was wild with joy. She escaped from her father’s grasp; she laughed
and tossed her arms in the air. At last they had come and come in time,
since Dominique was still alive!

A terrible platoon fire, which burst upon her ears like a clap of
thunder, caused her to turn. The officer muttered between his teeth:

“Before everything, let us settle this affair!”

And with his own hand pushing Dominique against the wall of a shed he
ordered his men to fire. When Francoise looked Dominique lay upon the
ground with blood streaming from his neck and shoulders.

She did not weep; she stood stupefied. Her eyes grew fixed, and she sat
down under the shed, a few paces from the body. She stared at it,
wringing her hands. The Prussians had seized Père Merlier as a hostage.

It was a stirring combat. The officer had rapidly posted his men,
comprehending that he could not beat a retreat without being cut to
pieces. Hence he would fight to the last. Now the Prussians defended
the mill, and the French attacked it. The fusillade began with unusual
violence. For half an hour it did not cease. Then a hollow sound was
heard, and a ball broke a main branch of the old elm. The French had
cannon. A battery, stationed just above the ditch in which Dominique
had hidden himself, swept the wide street of Rocreuse. The struggle
could not last long.

Ah, the poor mill! Balls pierced it in every part. Half of the roof was
carried away. Two walls were battered down. But it was on the side of
the Morelle that the destruction was most lamentable. The ivy, torn
from the tottering edifice, hung like rags; the river was encumbered
with wrecks of all kinds, and through a breach was visible Francoise’s
chamber with its bed, the white curtains of which were carefully
closed. Shot followed shot; the old wheel received two balls and gave
vent to an agonizing groan; the buckets were borne off by the current;
the framework was crushed. The soul of the gay mill had left it!

Then the French began the assault. There was a furious fight with
swords and bayonets. Beneath the rust-colored sky the valley was choked
with the dead. The broad meadows had a wild look with their tall,
isolated trees and their hedges of poplars which stained them with
shade. To the right and to the left the forests were like the walls of
an ancient ampitheater which enclosed the fighting gladiators, while
the springs, the fountains and the flowing brooks seemed to sob amid
the panic of the country.

Beneath the shed Francoise still sat near Dominique’s body; she had not
moved. Père Merlier had received a slight wound. The Prussians were
exterminated, but the ruined mill was on fire in a dozen places. The
French rushed into the courtyard, headed by their captain. It was his
first success of the war. His face beamed with triumph. He waved his
sword, shouting:

“Victory! Victory!”

On seeing the wounded miller, who was endeavoring to comfort Francoise,
and noticing the body of Dominique, his joyous look changed to one of
sadness. Then he knelt beside the young man and, tearing open his
blouse, put his hand to his heart.

“Thank God!” he cried. “It is yet beating! Send for the surgeon!”

At the captain’s words Francoise leaped to her feet.

“There is hope!” she cried. “Oh, tell me there is hope!”

At that moment the surgeon appeared. He made a hasty examination and
said:

“The young man is severely hurt, but life is not extinct; he can be
saved!” By the surgeon’s orders Dominique was transported to a
neighboring cottage, where he was placed in bed. His wounds were
dressed; restoratives were administered, and he soon recovered
consciousness. When he opened his eyes he saw Francoise sitting beside
him and through the open window caught sight of Père Merlier talking
with the French captain. He passed his hand over his forehead with a
bewildered air and said:

“They did not kill me after all!”

“No,” replied Francoise. “The French came, and their surgeon saved
you.”

Père Merlier turned and said through the window:

“No talking yet, my young ones!”

In due time Dominique was entirely restored, and when peace again
blessed the land he wedded his beloved Francoise.

The mill was rebuilt, and Père Merlier had a new wheel upon which to
bestow whatever tenderness was not engrossed by his daughter and her
husband.




 CAPTAIN BURLE




 CHAPTER I
 THE SWINDLE


It was nine o’clock. The little town of Vauchamp, dark and silent, had
just retired to bed amid a chilly November rain. In the Rue des
Recollets, one of the narrowest and most deserted streets of the
district of Saint-Jean, a single window was still alight on the third
floor of an old house, from whose damaged gutters torrents of water
were falling into the street. Mme Burle was sitting up before a meager
fire of vine stocks, while her little grandson Charles pored over his
lessons by the pale light of a lamp.

The apartment, rented at one hundred and sixty francs per annum,
consisted of four large rooms which it was absolutely impossible to
keep warm during the winter. Mme Burle slept in the largest chamber,
her son Captain and Quartermaster Burle occupying a somewhat smaller
one overlooking the street, while little Charles had his iron cot at
the farther end of a spacious drawing room with mildewed hangings,
which was never used. The few pieces of furniture belonging to the
captain and his mother, furniture of the massive style of the First
Empire, dented and worn by continuous transit from one garrison town to
another, almost disappeared from view beneath the lofty ceilings whence
darkness fell. The flooring of red-colored tiles was cold and hard to
the feet; before the chairs there were merely a few threadbare little
rugs of poverty-stricken aspect, and athwart this desert all the winds
of heaven blew through the disjointed doors and windows.

Near the fireplace sat Mme Burle, leaning back in her old yellow velvet
armchair and watching the last vine branch smoke, with that stolid,
blank stare of the aged who live within themselves. She would sit thus
for whole days together, with her tall figure, her long stern face and
her thin lips that never smiled. The widow of a colonel who had died
just as he was on the point of becoming a general, the mother of a
captain whom she had followed even in his campaigns, she had acquired a
military stiffness of bearing and formed for herself a code of honor,
duty and patriotism which kept her rigid, desiccated, as it were, by
the stern application of discipline. She seldom, if ever, complained.
When her son had become a widower after five years of married life she
had undertaken the education of little Charles as a matter of course,
performing her duties with the severity of a sergeant drilling
recruits. She watched over the child, never tolerating the slightest
waywardness or irregularity, but compelling him to sit up till midnight
when his exercises were not finished, and sitting up herself until he
had completed them. Under such implacable despotism Charles, whose
constitution was delicate, grew up pale and thin, with beautiful eyes,
inordinately large and clear, shining in his white, pinched face.

During the long hours of silence Mme Burle dwelt continuously upon one
and the same idea: she had been disappointed in her son. This thought
sufficed to occupy her mind, and under its influence she would live her
whole life over again, from the birth of her son, whom she had pictured
rising amid glory to the highest rank, till she came down to mean and
narrow garrison life, the dull, monotonous existence of nowadays, that
stranding in the post of a quartermaster, from which Burle would never
rise and in which he seemed to sink more and more heavily. And yet his
first efforts had filled her with pride, and she had hoped to see her
dreams realized. Burle had only just left Saint-Cyr when he
distinguished himself at the battle of Solferino, where he had captured
a whole battery of the enemy’s artillery with merely a handful of men.
For this feat he had won the cross; the papers had recorded his
heroism, and he had become known as one of the bravest soldiers in the
army. But gradually the hero had grown stout, embedded in flesh,
timorous, lazy and satisfied. In 1870, still a captain, he had been
made a prisoner in the first encounter, and he returned from Germany
quite furious, swearing that he would never be caught fighting again,
for it was too absurd. Being prevented from leaving the army, as he was
incapable of embracing any other profession, he applied for and
obtained the position of captain quartermaster, “a kennel,” as he
called it, “in which he would be left to kick the bucket in peace.”
That day Mme Burle experienced a great internal disruption. She felt
that it was all over, and she ever afterward preserved a rigid attitude
with tightened lips.

A blast of wind shook the Rue des Recollets and drove the rain angrily
against the windowpanes. The old lady lifted her eyes from the smoking
vine roots now dying out, to make sure that Charles was not falling
asleep over his Latin exercise. This lad, twelve years of age, had
become the old lady’s supreme hope, the one human being in whom she
centered her obstinate yearning for glory. At first she had hated him
with all the loathing she had felt for his mother, a weak and pretty
young lacemaker whom the captain had been foolish enough to marry when
he found out that she would not listen to his passionate addresses on
any other condition. Later on, when the mother had died and the father
had begun to wallow in vice, Mme Burle dreamed again in presence of
that little ailing child whom she found it so hard to rear. She wanted
to see him robust, so that he might grow into the hero that Burle had
declined to be, and for all her cold ruggedness she watched him
anxiously, feeling his limbs and instilling courage into his soul. By
degrees, blinded by her passionate desires, she imagined that she had
at last found the man of the family. The boy, whose temperament was of
a gentle, dreamy character, had a physical horror of soldiering, but as
he lived in mortal dread of his grandmother and was extremely shy and
submissive, he would echo all she said and resignedly express his
intention of entering the army when he grew up.

Mme Burle observed that the exercise was not progressing. In fact,
little Charles, overcome by the deafening noise of the storm, was
dozing, albeit his pen was between his fingers and his eyes were
staring at the paper. The old lady at once struck the edge of the table
with her bony hand; whereupon the lad started, opened his dictionary
and hurriedly began to turn over the leaves. Then, still preserving
silence, his grandmother drew the vine roots together on the hearth and
unsuccessfully attempted to rekindle the fire.

At the time when she had still believed in her son she had sacrificed
her small income, which he had squandered in pursuits she dared not
investigate. Even now he drained the household; all its resources went
to the streets, and it was through him that she lived in penury, with
empty rooms and cold kitchen. She never spoke to him of all those
things, for with her sense of discipline he remained the master. Only
at times she shuddered at the sudden fear that Burle might someday
commit some foolish misdeed which would prevent Charles from entering
the army.

She was rising up to fetch a fresh piece of wood in the kitchen when a
fearful hurricane fell upon the house, making the doors rattle, tearing
off a shutter and whirling the water in the broken gutters like a spout
against the window. In the midst of the uproar a ring at the bell
startled the old lady. Who could it be at such an hour and in such
weather? Burle never returned till after midnight, if he came home at
all. However, she went to the door. An officer stood before her,
dripping with rain and swearing savagely.

“Hell and thunder!” he growled. “What cursed weather!”

It was Major Laguitte, a brave old soldier who had served under Colonel
Burle during Mme Burle’s palmy days. He had started in life as a
drummer boy and, thanks to his courage rather than his intellect, had
attained to the command of a battalion, when a painful infirmity—the
contraction of the muscles of one of his thighs, due to a wound—obliged
him to accept the post of major. He was slightly lame, but it would
have been imprudent to tell him so, as he refused to own it.

“What, you, Major?” said Mme Burle with growing astonishment.

“Yes, thunder,” grumbled Laguitte, “and I must be confoundedly fond of
you to roam the streets on such a night as this. One would think twice
before sending even a parson out.”

He shook himself, and little rivulets fell from his huge boots onto the
floor. Then he looked round him.

“I particularly want to see Burle. Is the lazy beggar already in bed?”

“No, he is not in yet,” said the old woman in her harsh voice.

The major looked furious, and, raising his voice, he shouted: “What,
not at home? But in that case they hoaxed me at the cafe, Melanie’s
establishment, you know. I went there, and a maid grinned at me, saying
that the captain had gone home to bed. Curse the girl! I suspected as
much and felt like pulling her ears!”

After this outburst he became somewhat calmer, stamping about the room
in an undecided way, withal seeming greatly disturbed. Mme Burle looked
at him attentively.

“Is it the captain personally whom you want to see?” she said at last.

“Yes,” he answered.

“Can I not tell him what you have to say?”

“No.”

She did not insist but remained standing without taking her eyes off
the major, who did not seem able to make up his mind to leave. Finally
in a fresh burst of rage he exclaimed with an oath: “It can’t be
helped. As I am here you may as well know—after all, it is, perhaps,
best.”

He sat down before the chimney piece, stretching out his muddy boots as
if a bright fire had been burning. Mme Burle was about to resume her
own seat when she remarked that Charles, overcome by fatigue, had
dropped his head between the open pages of his dictionary. The arrival
of the major had at first interested him, but, seeing that he remained
unnoticed, he had been unable to struggle against his sleepiness. His
grandmother turned toward the table to slap his frail little hands,
whitening in the lamplight, when Laguitte stopped her.

“No—no!” he said. “Let the poor little man sleep. I haven’t got
anything funny to say. There’s no need for him to hear me.”

The old lady sat down in her armchair; deep silence reigned, and they
looked at one another.

“Well, yes,” said the major at last, punctuating his words with an
angry motion of his chin, “he has been and done it; that hound Burle
has been and done it!”

Not a muscle of Mme Burle’s face moved, but she became livid, and her
figure stiffened. Then the major continued: “I had my doubts. I had
intended mentioning the subject to you. Burle was spending too much
money, and he had an idiotic look which I did not fancy. Thunder and
lightning! What a fool a man must be to behave so filthily!”

Then he thumped his knee furiously with his clenched fist and seemed to
choke with indignation. The old woman put the straightforward question:

“He has stolen?”

“You can’t have an idea of it. You see, I never examined his accounts;
I approved and signed them. You know how those things are managed.
However, just before the inspection—as the colonel is a crotchety old
maniac—I said to Burle: ‘I say, old man, look to your accounts; I am
answerable, you know,’ and then I felt perfectly secure. Well, about a
month ago, as he seemed queer and some nasty stories were circulating,
I peered a little closer into the books and pottered over the entries.
I thought everything looked straight and very well kept—”

At this point he stopped, convulsed by such a fit of rage that he had
to relieve himself by a volley of appalling oaths. Finally he resumed:
“It isn’t the swindle that angers me; it is his disgusting behavior to
me. He has gammoned me, Madame Burle. By God! Does he take me for an
old fool?”

“So he stole?” the mother again questioned.

“This evening,” continued the major more quietly, “I had just finished
my dinner when Gagneux came in—you know Gagneux, the butcher at the
corner of the Place aux Herbes? Another dirty beast who got the meat
contract and makes our men eat all the diseased cow flesh in the
neighborhood! Well, I received him like a dog, and then he let it all
out—blurted out the whole thing, and a pretty mess it is! It appears
that Burle only paid him in driblets and had got himself into a
muddle—a confusion of figures which the devil himself couldn’t
disentangle. In short, Burle owes the butcher two thousand francs, and
Gagneux threatens that he’ll inform the colonel if he is not paid. To
make matters worse, Burle, just to blind me, handed me every week a
forged receipt which he had squarely signed with Gagneux’s name. To
think he did that to me, his old friend! Ah, curse him!”

With increasing profanity the major rose to his feet, shook his fist at
the ceiling and then fell back in his chair. Mme Burle again repeated:
“He has stolen. It was inevitable.”

Then without a word of judgment or condemnation she added simply: “Two
thousand francs—we have not got them. There are barely thirty francs in
the house.”

“I expected as much,” said Laguitte. “And do you know where all the
money goes? Why, Melanie gets it—yes, Melanie, a creature who has
turned Burle into a perfect fool. Ah, those women! Those fiendish
women! I always said they would do for him! I cannot conceive what he
is made of! He is only five years younger than I am, and yet he is as
mad as ever. What a woman hunter he is!”

Another long silence followed. Outside the rain was increasing in
violence, and throughout the sleepy little town one could hear the
crashing of slates and chimney pots as they were dashed by the blast
onto the pavements of the streets.

“Come,” suddenly said the major, rising, “my stopping here won’t mend
matters. I have warned you—and now I’m off.”

“What is to be done? To whom can we apply?” muttered the old woman
drearily.

“Don’t give way—we must consider. If I only had the two thousand
francs—but you know that I am not rich.”

The major stopped short in confusion. This old bachelor, wifeless and
childless, spent his pay in drink and gambled away at ecarte whatever
money his cognac and absinthe left in his pocket. Despite that,
however, he was scrupulously honest from a sense of discipline.

“Never mind,” he added as he reached the threshold. “I’ll begin by
stirring him up. I shall move heaven and earth! What! Burle, Colonel
Burle’s son, condemned for theft! That cannot be! I would sooner burn
down the town. Now, thunder and lightning, don’t worry; it is far more
annoying for me than for you.”

He shook the old lady’s hand roughly and vanished into the shadows of
the staircase, while she held the lamp aloft to light the way. When she
returned and replaced the lamp on the table she stood for a moment
motionless in front of Charles, who was still asleep with his face
lying on the dictionary. His pale cheeks and long fair hair made him
look like a girl, and she gazed at him dreamily, a shade of tenderness
passing over her harsh countenance. But it was only a passing emotion;
her features regained their look of cold, obstinate determination, and,
giving the youngster a sharp rap on his little hand, she said:

“Charles—your lessons.”

The boy awoke, dazed and shivering, and again rapidly turned over the
leaves. At the same moment Major Laguitte, slamming the house door
behind him, received on his head a quantity of water falling from the
gutters above, whereupon he began to swear in so loud a voice that he
could be heard above the storm. And after that no sound broke upon the
pelting downpour save the slight rustle of the boy’s pen traveling over
the paper. Mme Burle had resumed her seat near the chimney piece, still
rigid, with her eyes fixed on the dead embers, preserving, indeed, her
habitual attitude and absorbed in her one idea.




 CHAPTER II
 THE CAFE


The Café de Paris, kept by Melanie Cartier, a widow, was situated on
the Place du Palais, a large irregular square planted with meager,
dusty elm trees. The place was so well known in Vauchamp that it was
customary to say, “Are you coming to Melanie’s?” At the farther end of
the first room, which was a spacious one, there was another called “the
divan,” a narrow apartment having sham leather benches placed against
the walls, while at each corner there stood a marble-topped table. The
widow, deserting her seat in the front room, where she left her little
servant Phrosine, spent her evenings in the inner apartment,
ministering to a few customers, the usual frequenters of the place,
those who were currently styled “the gentlemen of the divan.” When a
man belonged to that set it was as if he had a label on his back; he
was spoken of with smiles of mingled contempt and envy.

Mme Cartier had become a widow when she was five and twenty. Her
husband, a wheelwright, who on the death of an uncle had amazed
Vauchamp by taking the Café de Paris, had one fine day brought her back
with him from Montpellier, where he was wont to repair twice a year to
purchase liqueurs. As he was stocking his establishment he selected,
together with divers beverages, a woman of the sort he wanted—of an
engaging aspect and apt to stimulate the trade of the house. It was
never known where he had picked her up, but he married her after trying
her in the cafe during six months or so. Opinions were divided in
Vauchamp as to her merits, some folks declaring that she was superb,
while others asserted that she looked like a drum-major. She was a tall
woman with large features and coarse hair falling low over her
forehead. However, everyone agreed that she knew very well how to fool
the sterner sex. She had fine eyes and was wont to fix them with a bold
stare on the gentlemen of the divan, who colored and became like wax in
her hands. She also had the reputation of possessing a wonderfully fine
figure, and southerners appreciate a statuesque style of beauty.

Cartier had died in a singular way. Rumor hinted at a conjugal quarrel,
a kick, producing some internal tumor. Whatever may have been the
truth, Melanie found herself encumbered with the cafe, which was far
from doing a prosperous business. Her husband had wasted his uncle’s
inheritance in drinking his own absinthe and wearing out the cloth of
his own billiard table. For a while it was believed that the widow
would have to sell out, but she liked the life and the establishment
just as it was. If she could secure a few customers the bigger room
might remain deserted. So she limited herself to repapering the divan
in white and gold and recovering the benches. She began by entertaining
a chemist. Then a vermicelli maker, a lawyer and a retired magistrate
put in an appearance; and thus it was that the cafe remained open,
although the waiter did not receive twenty orders a day. No objections
were raised by the authorities, as appearances were kept up; and,
indeed, it was not deemed advisable to interfere, for some respectable
folks might have been worried.

Of an evening five or six well-to-do citizens would enter the front
room and play at dominoes there. Although Cartier was dead and the Café
de Paris had got a queer name, they saw nothing and kept up their old
habits. In course of time, the waiter having nothing to do, Melanie
dismissed him and made Phrosine light the solitary gas burner in the
corner where the domino players congregated. Occasionally a party of
young men, attracted by the gossip that circulated through the town,
would come in, wildly excited and laughing loudly and awkwardly. But
they were received there with icy dignity. As a rule they did not even
see the widow, and even if she happened to be present she treated them
with withering disdain, so that they withdrew, stammering and confused.
Melanie was too astute to indulge in any compromising whims. While the
front room remained obscure, save in the corner where the few townsfolk
rattled their dominoes, she personally waited on the gentlemen of the
divan, showing herself amiable without being free, merely venturing in
moments of familiarity to lean on the shoulder of one or another of
them, the better to watch a skillfully played game of ecarte.

One evening the gentlemen of the divan, who had ended by tolerating
each other’s presence, experienced a disagreeable surprise on finding
Captain Burle at home there. He had casually entered the cafe that same
morning to get a glass of vermouth, so it seemed, and he had found
Melanie there. They had conversed, and in the evening when he returned
Phrosine immediately showed him to the inner room.

Two days later Burle reigned there supreme; still he had not frightened
the chemist, the vermicelli maker, the lawyer or the retired magistrate
away. The captain, who was short and dumpy, worshiped tall, plump
women. In his regiment he had been nicknamed “Petticoat Burle” on
account of his constant philandering. Whenever the officers, and even
the privates, met some monstrous-looking creature, some giantess puffed
out with fat, whether she were in velvet or in rags, they would
invariably exclaim, “There goes one to Petticoat Burle’s taste!” Thus
Melanie, with her opulent presence, quite conquered him. He was
lost—quite wrecked. In less than a fortnight he had fallen to vacuous
imbecility. With much the expression of a whipped hound in the tiny
sunken eyes which lighted up his bloated face, he was incessantly
watching the widow in mute adoration before her masculine features and
stubby hair. For fear that he might be dismissed, he put up with the
presence of the other gentlemen of the divan and spent his pay in the
place down to the last copper. A sergeant reviewed the situation in one
sentence: “Petticoat Burle is done for; he’s a buried man!”

It was nearly ten o’clock when Major Laguitte furiously flung the door
of the cafe open. For a moment those inside could see the deluged
square transformed into a dark sea of liquid mud, bubbling under the
terrible downpour. The major, now soaked to the skin and leaving a
stream behind him, strode up to the small counter where Phrosine was
reading a novel.

“You little wretch,” he yelled, “you have dared to gammon an officer;
you deserve—”

And then he lifted his hand as if to deal a blow such as would have
felled an ox. The little maid shrank back, terrified, while the amazed
domino players looked, openmouthed. However, the major did not linger
there—he pushed the divan door open and appeared before Melanie and
Burle just as the widow was playfully making the captain sip his grog
in small spoonfuls, as if she were feeding a pet canary. Only the
ex-magistrate and the chemist had come that evening, and they had
retired early in a melancholy frame of mind. Then Melanie, being in
want of three hundred francs for the morrow, had taken advantage of the
opportunity to cajole the captain.

“Come.” she said, “open your mouth; ain’t it nice, you greedy
piggy-wiggy?”

Burle, flushing scarlet, with glazed eyes and sunken figure, was
sucking the spoon with an air of intense enjoyment.

“Good heavens!” roared the major from the threshold. “You now play
tricks on me, do you? I’m sent to the roundabout and told that you
never came here, and yet all the while here you are, addling your silly
brains.”

Burle shuddered, pushing the grog away, while Melanie stepped angrily
in front of him as if to shield him with her portly figure, but
Laguitte looked at her with that quiet, resolute expression well known
to women who are familiar with bodily chastisement.

“Leave us,” he said curtly.

She hesitated for the space of a second. She almost felt the gust of
the expected blow, and then, white with rage, she joined Phrosine in
the outer room.

When the two men were alone Major Laguitte walked up to Burle, looked
at him and, slightly stooping, yelled into his face these two words:
“You pig!”

The captain, quite dazed, endeavored to retort, but he had not time to
do so.

“Silence!” resumed the major. “You have bamboozled a friend. You palmed
off on me a lot of forged receipts which might have sent both of us to
the gallows. Do you call that proper behavior? Is that the sort of
trick to play a friend of thirty years’ standing?”

Burle, who had fallen back in his chair, was livid; his limbs shook as
if with ague. Meanwhile the major, striding up and down and striking
the tables wildly with his fists, continued: “So you have become a
thief like the veriest scribbling cur of a clerk, and all for the sake
of that creature here! If at least you had stolen for your mother’s
sake it would have been honorable! But, curse it, to play tricks and
bring the money into this shanty is what I cannot understand! Tell
me—what are you made of at your age to go to the dogs as you are going
all for the sake of a creature like a grenadier!”

“YOU gamble—” stammered the captain.

“Yes, I do—curse it!” thundered the major, lashed into still greater
fury by this remark. “And I am a pitiful rogue to do so, because it
swallows up all my pay and doesn’t redound to the honor of the French
army. However, I don’t steal. Kill yourself, if it pleases you; starve
your mother and the boy, but respect the regimental cashbox and don’t
drag your friends down with you.”

He stopped. Burle was sitting there with fixed eyes and a stupid air.
Nothing was heard for a moment save the clatter of the major’s heels.

“And not a single copper,” he continued aggressively. “Can you picture
yourself between two gendarmes, eh?”

He then grew a little calmer, caught hold of Burle’s wrists and forced
him to rise.

“Come!” he said gruffly. “Something must be done at once, for I cannot
go to bed with this affair on my mind—I have an idea.”

In the front room Melanie and Phrosine were talking eagerly in low
voices. When the widow saw the two men leaving the divan she moved
toward Burle and said coaxingly: “What, are you going already,
Captain?”

“Yes, he’s going,” brutally answered Laguitte, “and I don’t intend to
let him set foot here again.”

The little maid felt frightened and pulled her mistress back by the
skirt of her dress; in doing so she imprudently murmured the word
“drunkard” and thereby brought down the slap which the major’s hand had
been itching to deal for some time past. Both women having stooped,
however, the blow only fell on Phrosine’s back hair, flattening her cap
and breaking her comb. The domino players were indignant.

“Let’s cut it,” shouted Laguitte, and he pushed Burle on the pavement.
“If I remained I should smash everyone in the place.”

To cross the square they had to wade up to their ankles in mud. The
rain, driven by the wind, poured off their faces. The captain walked on
in silence, while the major kept on reproaching him with his cowardice
and its disastrous consequences. Wasn’t it sweet weather for tramping
the streets? If he hadn’t been such an idiot they would both be warmly
tucked in bed instead of paddling about in the mud. Then he spoke of
Gagneux—a scoundrel whose diseased meat had on three separate occasions
made the whole regiment ill. In a week, however, the contract would
come to an end, and the fiend himself would not get it renewed.

“It rests with me,” the major grumbled. “I can select whomsoever I
choose, and I’d rather cut off my right arm than put that poisoner in
the way of earning another copper.”

Just then he slipped into a gutter and, half choked by a string of
oaths, he gasped:

“You understand—I am going to rout up Gagneux. You must stop outside
while I go in. I must know what the rascal is up to and if he’ll dare
to carry out his threat of informing the colonel tomorrow. A
butcher—curse him! The idea of compromising oneself with a butcher! Ah,
you aren’t over-proud, and I shall never forgive you for all this.”

They had now reached the Place aux Herbes. Gagneux’s house was quite
dark, but Laguitte knocked so loudly that he was eventually admitted.
Burle remained alone in the dense obscurity and did not even attempt to
seek any shelter. He stood at a corner of the market under the pelting
rain, his head filled with a loud buzzing noise which prevented him
from thinking. He did not feel impatient, for he was unconscious of the
flight of time. He stood there looking at the house, which, with its
closed door and windows, seemed quite lifeless. When at the end of an
hour the major came out again it appeared to the captain as if he had
only just gone in.

Laguitte was so grimly mute that Burle did not venture to question him.
For a moment they sought each other, groping about in the dark; then
they resumed their walk through the somber streets, where the water
rolled as in the bed of a torrent. They moved on in silence side by
side, the major being so abstracted that he even forgot to swear.
However, as they again crossed the Place du Palais, at the sight of the
Café de Paris, which was still lit up, he dropped his hand on Burle’s
shoulder and said, “If you ever re-enter that hole I—”

“No fear!” answered the captain without letting his friend finish his
sentence.

Then he stretched out his hand.

“No, no,” said Laguitte, “I’ll see you home; I’ll at least make sure
that you’ll sleep in your bed tonight.”

They went on, and as they ascended the Rue des Recollets they slackened
their pace. When the captain’s door was reached and Burle had taken out
his latchkey he ventured to ask:

“Well?”

“Well,” answered the major gruffly, “I am as dirty a rogue as you are.
Yes! I have done a scurrilous thing. The fiend take you! Our soldiers
will eat carrion for three months longer.”

Then he explained that Gagneux, the disgusting Gagneux, had a horribly
level head and that he had persuaded him—the major—to strike a bargain.
He would refrain from informing the colonel, and he would even make a
present of the two thousand francs and replace the forged receipts by
genuine ones, on condition that the major bound himself to renew the
meat contract. It was a settled thing.

“Ah,” continued Laguitte, “calculate what profits the brute must make
out of the meat to part with such a sum as two thousand francs.”

Burle, choking with emotion, grasped his old friend’s hands, stammering
confused words of thanks. The vileness of the action committed for his
sake brought tears into his eyes.

“I never did such a thing before,” growled Laguitte, “but I was driven
to it. Curse it, to think that I haven’t those two thousand francs in
my drawer! It is enough to make one hate cards. It is my own fault. I
am not worth much; only, mark my words, don’t begin again, for, curse
it—I shan’t.”

The captain embraced him, and when he had entered the house the major
stood a moment before the closed door to make certain that he had gone
upstairs to bed. Then as midnight was striking and the rain was still
belaboring the dark town, he slowly turned homeward. The thought of his
men almost broke his heart, and, stopping short, he said aloud in a
voice full of compassion:

“Poor devils! what a lot of cow beef they’ll have to swallow for those
two thousand francs!”




 CHAPTER III
 AGAIN?


The regiment was altogether nonplused: Petticoat Burle had quarreled
with Melanie. When a week had elapsed it became a proved and undeniable
fact; the captain no longer set foot inside the Café de Paris, where
the chemist, it was averred, once more reigned in his stead, to the
profound sorrow of the retired magistrate. An even more incredible
statement was that Captain Burle led the life of a recluse in the Rue
des Recollets. He was becoming a reformed character; he spent his
evenings at his own fireside, hearing little Charles repeat his
lessons. His mother, who had never breathed a word to him of his
manipulations with Gagneux, maintained her old severity of demeanor as
she sat opposite to him in her armchair, but her looks seemed to imply
that she believed him reclaimed.

A fortnight later Major Laguitte came one evening to invite himself to
dinner. He felt some awkwardness at the prospect of meeting Burle
again, not on his own account but because he dreaded awakening painful
memories. However, as the captain was mending his ways he wished to
shake hands and break a crust with him. He thought this would please
his old friend.

When Laguitte arrived Burle was in his room, so it was the old lady who
received the major. The latter, after announcing that he had come to
have a plate of soup with them, added, lowering his voice:

“Well, how goes it?”

“It is all right,” answered the old lady.

“Nothing queer?”

“Absolutely nothing. Never away—in bed at nine—and looking quite
happy.”

“Ah, confound it,” replied the major, “I knew very well he only wanted
a shaking. He has some heart left, the dog!”

When Burle appeared he almost crushed the major’s hands in his grasp,
and standing before the fire, waiting for the dinner, they conversed
peacefully, honestly, together, extolling the charms of home life. The
captain vowed he wouldn’t exchange his home for a kingdom and declared
that when he had removed his braces, put on his slippers and settled
himself in his armchair, no king was fit to hold a candle to him. The
major assented and examined him. At all events his virtuous conduct had
not made him any thinner; he still looked bloated; his eyes were
bleared, and his mouth was heavy. He seemed to be half asleep as he
repeated mechanically: “Home life! There’s nothing like home life,
nothing in the world!”

“No doubt,” said the major; “still, one mustn’t exaggerate—take a
little exercise and come to the cafe now and then.”

“To the cafe, why?” asked Burle. “Do I lack anything here? No, no, I
remain at home.”

When Charles had laid his books aside Laguitte was surprised to see a
maid come in to lay the cloth.

“So you keep a servant now,” he remarked to Mme Burle.

“I had to get one,” she answered with a sigh. “My legs are not what
they used to be, and the household was going to rack and ruin.
Fortunately Cabrol let me have his daughter. You know old Cabrol, who
sweeps the market? He did not know what to do with Rose—I am teaching
her how to work.”

Just then the girl left the room.

“How old is she?” asked the major.

“Barely seventeen. She is stupid and dirty, but I only give her ten
francs a month, and she eats nothing but soup.”

When Rose returned with an armful of plates Laguitte, though he did not
care about women, began to scrutinize her and was amazed at seeing so
ugly a creature. She was very short, very dark and slightly deformed,
with a face like an ape’s: a flat nose, a huge mouth and narrow
greenish eyes. Her broad back and long arms gave her an appearance of
great strength.

“What a snout!” said Laguitte, laughing, when the maid had again left
the room to fetch the cruets.

“Never mind,” said Burle carelessly, “she is very obliging and does all
one asks her. She suits us well enough as a scullion.”

The dinner was very pleasant. It consisted of boiled beef and mutton
hash. Charles was encouraged to relate some stories of his school, and
Mme Burle repeatedly asked him the same question: “Don’t you want to be
a soldier?” A faint smile hovered over the child’s wan lips as he
answered with the frightened obedience of a trained dog, “Oh yes,
Grandmother.” Captain Burle, with his elbows on the table, was
masticating slowly with an absent-minded expression. The big room was
getting warmer; the single lamp placed on the table left the corners in
vague gloom. There was a certain amount of heavy comfort, the familiar
intimacy of penurious people who do not change their plates at every
course but become joyously excited at the unexpected appearance of a
bowl of whipped egg cream at the close of the meal.

Rose, whose heavy tread shook the floor as she paced round the table,
had not yet opened her mouth. At last she stopped behind the captain’s
chair and asked in a gruff voice: “Cheese, sir?”

Burle started. “What, eh? Oh yes—cheese. Hold the plate tight.”

He cut a piece of Gruyere, the girl watching him the while with her
narrow eyes. Laguitte laughed; Rose’s unparalleled ugliness amused him
immensely. He whispered in the captain’s ear, “She is ripping! There
never was such a nose and such a mouth! You ought to send her to the
colonel’s someday as a curiosity. It would amuse him to see her.”

More and more struck by this phenomenal ugliness, the major felt a
paternal desire to examine the girl more closely.

“Come here,” he said, “I want some cheese too.”

She brought the plate, and Laguitte, sticking the knife in the Gruyere,
stared at her, grinning the while because he discovered that she had
one nostril broader than the other. Rose gravely allowed herself to be
looked at, waiting till the gentleman had done laughing.

She removed the cloth and disappeared. Burle immediately went to sleep
in the chimney corner while the major and Mme Burle began to chat.
Charles had returned to his exercises. Quietude fell from the loft
ceiling; the quietude of a middle-class household gathered in concord
around their fireside. At nine o’clock Burle woke up, yawned and
announced that he was going off to bed; he apologized but declared that
he could not keep his eyes open. Half an hour later, when the major
took his leave, Mme Burle vainly called for Rose to light him
downstairs; the girl must have gone up to her room; she was, indeed, a
regular hen, snoring the round of the clock without waking.

“No need to disturb anybody,” said Laguitte on the landing; “my legs
are not much better than yours, but if I get hold of the banisters I
shan’t break any bones. Now, my dear lady, I leave you happy; your
troubles are ended at last. I watched Burle closely, and I’ll take my
oath that he’s guileless as a child. Dash it—after all, it was high
time for Petticoat Burle to reform; he was going downhill fast.”

The major went away fully satisfied with the house and its inmates; the
walls were of glass and could harbor no equivocal conduct. What
particularly delighted him in his friend’s return to virtue was that it
absolved him from the obligation of verifying the accounts. Nothing was
more distasteful to him than the inspection of a number of ledgers, and
as long as Burle kept steady, he—Laguitte—could smoke his pipe in peace
and sign the books in all confidence. However, he continued to keep one
eye open for a little while longer and found the receipts genuine, the
entries correct, the columns admirably balanced. A month later he
contented himself with glancing at the receipts and running his eye
over the totals. Then one morning, without the slightest suspicion of
there being anything wrong, simply because he had lit a second pipe and
had nothing to do, he carelessly added up a row of figures and fancied
that he detected an error of thirteen francs. The balance seemed
perfectly correct, and yet he was not mistaken; the total outlay was
thirteen francs more than the various sums for which receipts were
furnished. It looked queer, but he said nothing to Burle, just making
up his mind to examine the next accounts closely. On the following week
he detected a fresh error of nineteen francs, and then, suddenly
becoming alarmed, he shut himself up with the books and spent a
wretched morning poring over them, perspiring, swearing and feeling as
if his very skull were bursting with the figures. At every page he
discovered thefts of a few francs—the most miserable petty thefts—ten,
eight, eleven francs, latterly, three and four; and, indeed, there was
one column showing that Burle had pilfered just one franc and a half.
For two months, however, he had been steadily robbing the cashbox, and
by comparing dates the major found to his disgust that the famous
lesson respecting Gagneux had only kept him straight for one week! This
last discovery infuriated Laguitte, who struck the books with his
clenched fists, yelling through a shower of oaths:

“This is more abominable still! At least there was some pluck about
those forged receipts of Gagneux. But this time he is as contemptible
as a cook charging twopence extra for her cabbages. Powers of hell! To
pilfer a franc and a half and clap it in his pocket! Hasn’t the brute
got any pride then? Couldn’t he run away with the safe or play the fool
with actresses?”

The pitiful meanness of these pilferings revolted the major, and,
moreover, he was enraged at having been duped a second time, deceived
by the simple, stupid dodge of falsified additions. He rose at last and
paced his office for a whole hour, growling aloud.

“This gives me his measure. Even if I were to thresh him to a jelly
every morning he would still drop a couple of coins into his pocket
every afternoon. But where can he spend it all? He is never seen
abroad; he goes to bed at nine, and everything looks so clean and
proper over there. Can the brute have vices that nobody knows of?”

He returned to the desk, added up the subtracted money and found a
total of five hundred and forty-five francs. Where was this deficiency
to come from? The inspection was close at hand, and if the crotchety
colonel should take it into his head to examine a single page, the
murder would be out and Burle would be done for.

This idea froze the major, who left off cursing, picturing Mme Burle
erect and despairing, and at the same time he felt his heart swell with
personal grief and shame.

“Well,” he muttered, “I must first of all look into the rogue’s
business; I will act afterward.”

As he walked over to Burle’s office he caught sight of a skirt
vanishing through the doorway. Fancying that he had a clue to the
mystery, he slipped up quietly and listened and speedily recognized
Melanie’s shrill voice. She was complaining of the gentlemen of the
divan. She had signed a promissory note which she was unable to meet;
the bailiffs were in the house, and all her goods would be sold. The
captain, however, barely replied to her. He alleged that he had no
money, whereupon she burst into tears and began to coax him. But her
blandishments were apparently ineffectual, for Burle’s husky voice
could be heard repeating, “Impossible! Impossible!” And finally the
widow withdrew in a towering passion. The major, amazed at the turn
affairs were taking, waited a few moments longer before entering the
office, where Burle had remained alone. He found him very calm, and
despite his furious inclination to call him names he also remained
calm, determined to begin by finding out the exact truth.

The office certainly did not look like a swindler’s den. A cane-seated
chair, covered with an honest leather cushion, stood before the
captain’s desk, and in a corner there was the locked safe. Summer was
coming on, and the song of a canary sounded through the open window.
The apartment was very neat and tidy, redolent of old papers, and
altogether its appearance inspired one with confidence.

“Wasn’t it Melanie who was leaving here as I came along?” asked
Laguitte.

Burle shrugged his shoulders.

“Yes,” he mumbled. “She has been dunning me for two hundred francs, but
she can’t screw ten out of me—not even tenpence.”

“Indeed!” said the major, just to try him. “I heard that you had made
up with her.”

“I? Certainly not. I have done with the likes of her for good.”

Laguitte went away, feeling greatly perplexed. Where had the five
hundred and forty-five francs gone? Had the idiot taken to drinking or
gambling? He decided to pay Burle a surprise visit that very evening at
his own house, and maybe by questioning his mother he might learn
something. However, during the afternoon his leg became very painful;
latterly he had been feeling in ill-health, and he had to use a stick
so as not to limp too outrageously. This stick grieved him sorely, and
he declared with angry despair that he was now no better than a
pensioner. However, toward the evening, making a strong effort, he
pulled himself out of his armchair and, leaning heavily on his stick,
dragged himself through the darkness to the Rue des Recollets, which he
reached about nine o’clock. The street door was still unlocked, and on
going up he stood panting on the third landing, when he heard voices on
the upper floor. One of these voices was Burle’s, so he fancied, and
out of curiosity he ascended another flight of stairs. Then at the end
of a passage on the left he saw a ray of light coming from a door which
stood ajar. As the creaking of his boots resounded, this door was
sharply closed, and he found himself in the dark.

“Some cook going to bed!” he muttered angrily. “I’m a fool.”

All the same he groped his way as gently as possible to the door and
listened. Two people were talking in the room, and he stood aghast, for
it was Burle and that fright Rose! Then he listened, and the
conversation he heard left him no doubt of the awful truth. For a
moment he lifted his stick as if to beat down the door. Then he
shuddered and, staggering back, leaned against the wall. His legs were
trembling under him, while in the darkness of the staircase he
brandished his stick as if it had been a saber.

What was to be done? After his first moment of passion there had come
thoughts of the poor old lady below. And these made him hesitate. It
was all over with the captain now; when a man sank as low as that he
was hardly worth the few shovelfuls of earth that are thrown over
carrion to prevent them from polluting the atmosphere. Whatever might
be said of Burle, however much one might try to shame him, he would
assuredly begin the next day. Ah, heavens, to think of it! The money!
The honor of the army! The name of Burle, that respected name, dragged
through the mire! By all that was holy this could and should not be!

Presently the major softened. If he had only possessed five hundred and
forty-five francs! But he had not got such an amount. On the previous
day he had drunk too much cognac, just like a mere sub, and had lost
shockingly at cards. It served him right—he ought to have known better!
And if he was so lame he richly deserved it too; by rights, in fact,
his leg ought to be much worse.

At last he crept downstairs and rang at the bell of Mme Burle’s flat.
Five minutes elapsed, and then the old lady appeared.

“I beg your pardon for keeping you waiting,” she said; “I thought that
dormouse Rose was still about. I must go and shake her.”

But the major detained her.

“Where is Burle?” he asked.

“Oh, he has been snoring since nine o’clock. Would you like to knock at
his door?”

“No, no, I only wanted to have a chat with you.”

In the parlor Charles sat at his usual place, having just finished his
exercises. He looked terrified, and his poor little white hands were
tremulous. In point of fact, his grandmother, before sending him to
bed, was wont to read some martial stories aloud so as to develop the
latent family heroism in his bosom. That night she had selected the
episode of the Vengeur, the man-of-war freighted with dying heroes and
sinking into the sea. The child, while listening, had become almost
hysterical, and his head was racked as with some ghastly nightmare.

Mme Burle asked the major to let her finish the perusal. “Long live the
republic!” She solemnly closed the volume. Charles was as white as a
sheet.

“You see,” said the old lady, “the duty of every French soldier is to
die for his country.”

“Yes, Grandmother.”

Then the lad kissed her on the forehead and, shivering with fear, went
to bed in his big room, where the faintest creak of the paneling threw
him into a cold sweat.

The major had listened with a grave face. Yes, by heavens! Honor was
honor, and he would never permit that wretched Burle to disgrace the
old woman and the boy! As the lad was so devoted to the military
profession, it was necessary that he should be able to enter Saint-Cyr
with his head erect.

When Mme Burle took up the lamp to show the major out, she passed the
door of the captain’s room, and stopped short, surprised to see the key
outside, which was a most unusual occurrence.

“Do go in,” she said to Laguitte; “it is bad for him to sleep so much.”

And before he could interpose she had opened the door and stood
transfixed on finding the room empty. Laguitte turned crimson and
looked so foolish that she suddenly understood everything, enlightened
by the sudden recollection of several little incidents to which she had
previously attached no importance.

“You knew it—you knew it!” she stammered. “Why was I not told? Oh, my
God, to think of it! Ah, he has been stealing again—I feel it!”

She remained erect, white and rigid. Then she added in a harsh voice:

“Look you—I wish he were dead!”

Laguitte caught hold of both her hands, which for a moment he kept
tightly clasped in his own. Then he left her hurriedly, for he felt a
lump rising in his throat and tears coming to his eyes. Ah, by all the
powers, this time his mind was quite made up.




 CHAPTER IV
 INSPECTION


The regimental inspection was to take place at the end of the month.
The major had ten days before him. On the very next morning, however,
he crawled, limping, as far as the Café de Paris, where he ordered some
beer. Melanie grew pale when she saw him enter, and it was with a
lively recollection of a certain slap that Phrosine hastened to serve
him. The major seemed very calm, however; he called for a second chair
to rest his bad leg upon and drank his beer quietly like any other
thirsty man. He had sat there for about an hour when he saw two
officers crossing the Place du Palais—Morandot, who commanded one of
the battalions of the regiment, and Captain Doucet. Thereupon he
excitedly waved his cane and shouted: “Come in and have a glass of beer
with me!”

The officers dared not refuse, but when the maid had brought the beer
Morandot said to the major: “So you patronize this place now?”

“Yes—the beer is good.”

Captain Doucet winked and asked archly: “Do you belong to the divan,
Major?”

Laguitte chuckled but did not answer. Then the others began to chaff
him about Melanie, and he took their remarks good-naturedly, simply
shrugging his shoulders. The widow was undoubtedly a fine woman,
however much people might talk. Some of those who disparaged her would,
in reality, be only too pleased to win her good graces. Then turning to
the little counter and assuming an engaging air, he shouted:

“Three more glasses, madame.”

Melanie was so taken aback that she rose and brought the beer herself.
The major detained her at the table and forgot himself so far as to
softly pat the hand which she had carelessly placed on the back of a
chair. Used as she was to alternate brutality and flattery, she
immediately became confident, believing in a sudden whim of gallantry
on the part of the “old wreck,” as she was wont to style the major when
talking with Phrosine. Doucet and Morandot looked at each other in
surprise. Was the major actually stepping into Petticoat Burle’s shoes?
The regiment would be convulsed if that were the case.

Suddenly, however, Laguitte, who kept his eye on the square, gave a
start.

“Hallo, there’s Burle!” he exclaimed.

“Yes, it is his time,” explained Phrosine. “The captain passes every
afternoon on his way from the office.”

In spite of his lameness the major had risen to his feet, pushing aside
the chairs as he called out: “Burle! I say—come along and have a
glass.”

The captain, quite aghast and unable to understand why Laguitte was at
the widow’s, advanced mechanically. He was so perplexed that he again
hesitated at the door.

“Another glass of beer,” ordered the major, and then turning to Burle,
he added, “What’s the matter with you? Come in. Are you afraid of being
eaten alive?”

The captain took a seat, and an awkward pause followed. Melanie, who
brought the beer with trembling hands, dreaded some scene which might
result in the closing of her establishment. The major’s gallantry made
her uneasy, and she endeavored to slip away, but he invited her to
drink with them, and before she could refuse he had ordered Phrosine to
bring a liqueur glass of anisette, doing so with as much coolness as if
he had been master of the house. Melanie was thus compelled to sit down
between the captain and Laguitte, who exclaimed aggressively: “I WILL
have ladies respected. We are French officers! Let us drink Madame’s
health!”

Burle, with his eyes fixed on his glass, smiled in an embarrassed way.
The two officers, shocked at the proceedings, had already tried to get
off. Fortunately the cafe was deserted, save that the domino players
were having their afternoon game. At every fresh oath which came from
the major they glanced around, scandalized by such an unusual accession
of customers and ready to threaten Melanie that they would leave her
for the Café de la Gare if the soldiery was going to invade her place
like flies that buzzed about, attracted by the stickiness of the tables
which Phrosine scoured only on Saturdays. She was now reclining behind
the counter, already reading a novel again.

“How’s this—you are not drinking with Madame?” roughly said the major
to Burle. “Be civil at least!”

Then as Doucet and Morandot were again preparing to leave, he stopped
them.

“Why can’t you wait? We’ll go together. It is only this brute who never
knows how to behave himself.”

The two officers looked surprised at the major’s sudden bad temper.
Melanie attempted to restore peace and with a light laugh placed her
hands on the arms of both men. However, Laguitte disengaged himself.

“No,” he roared, “leave me alone. Why does he refuse to chink glasses
with you? I shall not allow you to be insulted—do you hear? I am quite
sick of him.”

Burle, paling under the insult, turned slightly and said to Morandot,
“What does this mean? He calls me in here to insult me. Is he drunk?”

With a wild oath the major rose on his trembling legs and struck the
captain’s cheek with his open hand. Melanie dived and thus escaped one
half of the smack. An appalling uproar ensued. Phrosine screamed behind
the counter as if she herself had received the blow; the domino players
also entrenched themselves behind their table in fear lest the soldiers
should draw their swords and massacre them. However, Doucet and
Morandot pinioned the captain to prevent him from springing at the
major’s throat and forcibly let him to the door. When they got him
outside they succeeded in quieting him a little by repeating that
Laguitte was quite in the wrong. They would lay the affair before the
colonel, having witnessed it, and the colonel would give his decision.
As soon as they had got Burle away they returned to the cafe where they
found Laguitte in reality greatly disturbed, with tears in his eyes but
affecting stolid indifference and slowly finishing his beer.

“Listen, Major,” began Morandot, “that was very wrong on your part. The
captain is your inferior in rank, and you know that he won’t be allowed
to fight you.”

“That remains to be seen,” answered the major.

“But how has he offended you? He never uttered a word. Two old comrades
too; it is absurd.”

The major made a vague gesture. “No matter. He annoyed me.”

He could never be made to say anything else. Nothing more as to his
motive was ever known. All the same, the scandal was a terrible one.
The regiment was inclined to believe that Melanie, incensed by the
captain’s defection, had contrived to entrap the major, telling him
some abominable stories and prevailing upon him to insult and strike
Burle publicly. Who would have thought it of that old fogy Laguitte,
who professed to be a woman hater? they said. So he, too, had been
caught at last. Despite the general indignation against Melanie, this
adventure made her very conspicuous, and her establishment soon drove a
flourishing business.

On the following day the colonel summoned the major and the captain
into his presence. He censured them sternly, accusing them of
disgracing their uniform by frequenting unseemly haunts. What
resolution had they come to, he asked, as he could not authorize them
to fight? This same question had occupied the whole regiment for the
last twenty-four hours. Apologies were unacceptable on account of the
blow, but as Laguitte was almost unable to stand, it was hoped that,
should the colonel insist upon it, some reconciliation might be patched
up.

“Come,” said the colonel, “will you accept me as arbitrator?”

“I beg your pardon, Colonel,” interrupted the major; “I have brought
you my resignation. Here it is. That settles everything. Please name
the day for the duel.”

Burle looked at Laguitte in amazement, and the colonel thought it his
duty to protest.

“This is a most serious step, Major,” he began. “Two years more and you
would be entitled to your full pension.”

But again did Laguitte cut him short, saying gruffly, “That is my own
affair.”

“Oh, certainly! Well, I will send in your resignation, and as soon as
it is accepted I will fix a day for the duel.”

The unexpected turn that events had taken startled the regiment. What
possessed that lunatic major to persist in cutting the throat of his
old comrade Burle? The officers again discussed Melanie; they even
began to dream of her. There must surely be something wonderful about
her since she had completely fascinated two such tough old veterans and
brought them to a deadly feud. Morandot, having met Laguitte, did not
disguise his concern. If he—the major—was not killed, what would he
live upon? He had no fortune, and the pension to which his cross of the
Legion of Honor entitled him, with the half of a full regimental
pension which he would obtain on resigning, would barely find him in
bread. While Morandot was thus speaking Laguitte simply stared before
him with his round eyes, persevering in the dumb obstinacy born of his
narrow mind; and when his companion tried to question him regarding his
hatred for Burle, he simply made the same vague gesture as before and
once again repeated:

“He annoyed me; so much the worse.”

Every morning at mess and at the canteen the first words were: “Has the
acceptance of the major’s resignation arrived?” The duel was
impatiently expected and ardently discussed. The majority believed that
Laguitte would be run through the body in three seconds, for it was
madness for a man to fight with a paralyzed leg which did not even
allow him to stand upright. A few, however, shook their heads. Laguitte
had never been a marvel of intellect, that was true; for the last
twenty years, indeed, he had been held up as an example of stupidity,
but there had been a time when he was known as the best fencer of the
regiment, and although he had begun as a drummer he had won his
epaulets as the commander of a battalion by the sanguine bravery of a
man who is quite unconscious of danger. On the other hand, Burle fenced
indifferently and passed for a poltroon. However, they would soon know
what to think.

Meanwhile the excitement became more and more intense as the acceptance
of Laguitte’s resignation was so long in coming. The major was
unmistakably the most anxious and upset of everybody. A week had passed
by, and the general inspection would commence two days later. Nothing,
however, had come as yet. He shuddered at the thought that he had,
perhaps, struck his old friend and sent in his resignation all in vain,
without delaying the exposure for a single minute. He had in reality
reasoned thus: If he himself were killed he would not have the worry of
witnessing the scandal, and if he killed Burle, as he expected to do,
the affair would undoubtedly be hushed up. Thus he would save the honor
of the army, and the little chap would be able to get in at Saint-Cyr.
Ah, why wouldn’t those wretched scribblers at the War Office hurry up a
bit? The major could not keep still but was forever wandering about
before the post office, stopping the estafettes and questioning the
colonel’s orderly to find out if the acceptance had arrived. He lost
his sleep and, careless as to people’s remarks, he leaned more and more
heavily on his stick, hobbling about with no attempt to steady his
gait.

On the day before that fixed for the inspection he was, as usual, on
his way to the colonel’s quarters when he paused, startled, to see Mme
Burle (who was taking Charles to school) a few paces ahead of him. He
had not met her since the scene at the Café de Paris, for she had
remained in seclusion at home. Unmanned at thus meeting her, he stepped
down to leave the whole sidewalk free. Neither he nor the old lady
bowed, and the little boy lifted his large inquisitive eyes in mute
surprise. Mme Burle, cold and erect, brushed past the major without the
least sign of emotion or recognition. When she had passed he looked
after her with an expression of stupefied compassion.

“Confound it, I am no longer a man,” he growled, dashing away a tear.

When he arrived at the colonel’s quarters a captain in attendance
greeted him with the words: “It’s all right at last. The papers have
come.”

“Ah!” murmured Laguitte, growing very pale.

And again he beheld the old lady walking on, relentlessly rigid and
holding the little boy’s hand. What! He had longed so eagerly for those
papers for eight days past, and now when the scraps had come he felt
his brain on fire and his heart lacerated.

The duel took place on the morrow, in the barrack yard behind a low
wall. The air was keen, the sun shining brightly. Laguitte had almost
to be carried to the ground; one of his seconds supported him on one
side, while on the other he leaned heavily, on his stick. Burle looked
half asleep; his face was puffy with unhealthy fat, as if he had spent
a night of debauchery. Not a word was spoken. They were all anxious to
have it over.

Captain Doucet crossed the swords of the two adversaries and then drew
back, saying: “Set to, gentlemen.”

Burle was the first to attack; he wanted to test Laguitte’s strength
and ascertain what he had to expect. For the last ten days the
encounter had seemed to him a ghastly nightmare which he could not
fathom. At times a hideous suspicion assailed him, but he put it aside
with terror, for it meant death, and he refused to believe that a
friend could play him such a trick, even to set things right. Besides,
Laguitte’s leg reasssured him; he would prick the major on the
shoulder, and then all would be over.

During well-nigh a couple of minutes the swords clashed, and then the
captain lunged, but the major, recovering his old suppleness of wrist,
parried in a masterly style, and if he had returned the attack Burle
would have been pierced through. The captain now fell back; he was
livid, for he felt that he was at the mercy of the man who had just
spared him. At last he understood that this was an execution.

Laguitte, squarely poised on his infirm legs and seemingly turned to
stone, stood waiting. The two men looked at each other fixedly. In
Burle’s blurred eyes there arose a supplication—a prayer for pardon. He
knew why he was going to die, and like a child he promised not to
transgress again. But the major’s eyes remained implacable; honor had
spoken, and he silenced his emotion and his pity.

“Let it end,” he muttered between his teeth.

Then it was he who attacked. Like a flash of lightning his sword
flamed, flying from right to left, and then with a resistless thrust it
pierced the breast of the captain, who fell like a log without even a
groan.

Laguitte had released his hold upon his sword and stood gazing at that
poor old rascal Burle, who was stretched upon his back with his fat
stomach bulging out.

“Oh, my God! My God!” repeated the major furiously and despairingly,
and then he began to swear.

They led him away, and, both his legs failing him, he had to be
supported on either side, for he could not even use his stick.

Two months later the ex-major was crawling slowly along in the sunlight
down a lonely street of Vauchamp, when he again found himself face to
face with Mme Burle and little Charles. They were both in deep
mourning. He tried to avoid them, but he now only walked with
difficulty, and they advanced straight upon him without hurrying or
slackening their steps. Charles still had the same gentle, girlish,
frightened face, and Mme Burle retained her stern, rigid demeanor,
looking even harsher than ever.

As Laguitte shrank into the corner of a doorway to leave the whole
street to them, she abruptly stopped in front of him and stretched out
her hand. He hesitated and then took it and pressed it, but he trembled
so violently that he made the old lady’s arm shake. They exchanged
glances in silence.

“Charles,” said the boy’s grandmother at last, “shake hands with the
major.” The boy obeyed without understanding. The major, who was very
pale, barely ventured to touch the child’s frail fingers; then, feeling
that he ought to speak, he stammered out: “You still intend to send him
to Saint-Cyr?”

“Of course, when he is old enough,” answered Mme Burle.

But during the following week Charles was carried off by typhoid fever.
One evening his grandmother had again read him the story of the Vengeur
to make him bold, and in the night he had become delirious. The poor
little fellow died of fright.




 THE DEATH OF OLIVIER BECAILLE




 CHAPTER I
 MY PASSING


It was on a Saturday, at six in the morning, that I died after a three
days’ illness. My wife was searching a trunk for some linen, and when
she rose and turned she saw me rigid, with open eyes and silent pulses.
She ran to me, fancying that I had fainted, touched my hands and bent
over me. Then she suddenly grew alarmed, burst into tears and
stammered:

“My God, my God! He is dead!”

I heard everything, but the sounds seemed to come from a great
distance. My left eye still detected a faint glimmer, a whitish light
in which all objects melted, but my right eye was quite bereft of
sight. It was the coma of my whole being, as if a thunderbolt had
struck me. My will was annihilated; not a fiber of flesh obeyed my
bidding. And yet amid the impotency of my inert limbs my thoughts
subsisted, sluggish and lazy, still perfectly clear.

My poor Marguerite was crying; she had dropped on her knees beside the
bed, repeating in heart-rending tones:

“He is dead! My God, he is dead!”

Was this strange state of torpor, this immobility of the flesh, really
death, although the functions of the intellect were not arrested? Was
my soul only lingering for a brief space before it soared away forever?
From my childhood upward I had been subject to hysterical attacks, and
twice in early youth I had nearly succumbed to nervous fevers. By
degrees all those who surrounded me had got accustomed to consider me
an invalid and to see me sickly. So much so that I myself had forbidden
my wife to call in a doctor when I had taken to my bed on the day of
our arrival at the cheap lodginghouse of the Rue Dauphine in Paris. A
little rest would soon set me right again; it was only the fatigue of
the journey which had caused my intolerable weariness. And yet I was
conscious of having felt singularly uneasy. We had left our province
somewhat abruptly; we were very poor and had barely enough money to
support ourselves till I drew my first month’s salary in the office
where I had obtained a situation. And now a sudden seizure was carrying
me off!

Was it really death? I had pictured to myself a darker night, a deeper
silence. As a little child I had already felt afraid to die. Being weak
and compassionately petted by everyone, I had concluded that I had not
long to live, that I should soon be buried, and the thought of the cold
earth filled me with a dread I could not master—a dread which haunted
me day and night. As I grew older the same terror pursued me.
Sometimes, after long hours spent in reasoning with myself, I thought
that I had conquered my fear. I reflected, “After all, what does it
matter? One dies and all is over. It is the common fate; nothing could
be better or easier.”

I then prided myself on being able to look death boldly in the face,
but suddenly a shiver froze my blood, and my dizzy anguish returned, as
if a giant hand had swung me over a dark abyss. It was some vision of
the earth returning and setting reason at naught. How often at night
did I start up in bed, not knowing what cold breath had swept over my
slumbers but clasping my despairing hands and moaning, “Must I die?” In
those moments an icy horror would stop my pulses while an appalling
vision of dissolution rose before me. It was with difficulty that I
could get to sleep again. Indeed, sleep alarmed me; it so closely
resembled death. If I closed my eyes they might never open again—I
might slumber on forever.

I cannot tell if others have endured the same torture; I only know that
my own life was made a torment by it. Death ever rose between me and
all I loved; I can remember how the thought of it poisoned the happiest
moments I spent with Marguerite. During the first months of our married
life, when she lay sleeping by my side and I dreamed of a fair future
for her and with her, the foreboding of some fatal separation dashed my
hopes aside and embittered my delights. Perhaps we should be parted on
the morrow—nay, perhaps in an hour’s time. Then utter discouragement
assailed me; I wondered what the bliss of being united availed me if it
were to end in so cruel a disruption.

My morbid imagination reveled in scenes of mourning. I speculated as to
who would be the first to depart, Marguerite or I. Either alternative
caused me harrowing grief, and tears rose to my eyes at the thought of
our shattered lives. At the happiest periods of my existence I often
became a prey to grim dejection such as nobody could understand but
which was caused by the thought of impending nihility. When I was most
successful I was to general wonder most depressed. The fatal question,
“What avails it?” rang like a knell in my ears. But the sharpest sting
of this torment was that it came with a secret sense of shame, which
rendered me unable to confide my thoughts to another. Husband and wife
lying side by side in the darkened room may quiver with the same
shudder and yet remain mute, for people do not mention death any more
than they pronounce certain obscene words. Fear makes it nameless.

I was musing thus while my dear Marguerite knelt sobbing at my feet. It
grieved me sorely to be unable to comfort her by telling her that I
suffered no pain. If death were merely the annihilation of the flesh it
had been foolish of me to harbor so much dread. I experienced a selfish
kind of restfulness in which all my cares were forgotten. My memory had
become extraordinarily vivid. My whole life passed before me rapidly
like a play in which I no longer acted a part; it was a curious and
enjoyable sensation—I seemed to hear a far-off voice relating my own
history.

I saw in particular a certain spot in the country near Guerande, on the
way to Piriac. The road turns sharply, and some scattered pine trees
carelessly dot a rocky slope. When I was seven years old I used to pass
through those pines with my father as far as a crumbling old house,
where Marguerite’s parents gave me pancakes. They were salt gatherers
and earned a scanty livelihood by working the adjacent salt marshes.
Then I remembered the school at Nantes, where I had grown up, leading a
monotonous life within its ancient walls and yearning for the broad
horizon of Guerande and the salt marshes stretching to the limitless
sea widening under the sky.

Next came a blank—my father was dead. I entered the hospital as clerk
to the managing board and led a dreary life with one solitary
diversion: my Sunday visits to the old house on Piriac road. The
saltworks were doing badly; poverty reigned in the land, and
Marguerite’s parents were nearly penniless. Marguerite, when merely a
child, had been fond of me because I trundled her about in a
wheelbarrow, but on the morning when I asked her in marriage she shrank
from me with a frightened gesture, and I realized that she thought me
hideous. Her parents, however, consented at once; they looked upon my
offer as a godsend, and the daughter submissively acquiesced. When she
became accustomed to the idea of marrying me she did not seem to
dislike it so much. On our wedding day at Guerande the rain fell in
torrents, and when we got home my bride had to take off her dress,
which was soaked through, and sit in her petticoats.

That was all the youth I ever had. We did not remain long in our
province. One day I found my wife in tears. She was miserable; life was
so dull; she wanted to get away. Six months later I had saved a little
money by taking in extra work after office hours, and through the
influence of a friend of my father’s I obtained a petty appointment in
Paris. I started off to settle there with the dear little woman so that
she might cry no more. During the night, which we spent in the
third-class railway carriage, the seats being very hard, I took her in
my arms in order that she might sleep.

That was the past, and now I had just died on the narrow couch of a
Paris lodginghouse, and my wife was crouching on the floor, crying
bitterly. The white light before my left eye was growing dim, but I
remembered the room perfectly. On the left there was a chest of
drawers, on the right a mantelpiece surmounted by a damaged clock
without a pendulum, the hands of which marked ten minutes past ten. The
window overlooked the Rue Dauphine, a long, dark street. All Paris
seemed to pass below, and the noise was so great that the window shook.

We knew nobody in the city; we had hurried our departure, but I was not
expected at the office till the following Monday. Since I had taken to
my bed I had wondered at my imprisonment in this narrow room into which
we had tumbled after a railway journey of fifteen hours, followed by a
hurried, confusing transit through the noisy streets. My wife had
nursed me with smiling tenderness, but I knew that she was anxious. She
would walk to the window, glance out and return to the bedside, looking
very pale and startled by the sight of the busy thoroughfare, the
aspect of the vast city of which she did not know a single stone and
which deafened her with its continuous roar. What would happen to her
if I never woke up again—alone, friendless and unknowing as she was?

Marguerite had caught hold of one of my hands which lay passive on the
coverlet, and, covering it with kisses, she repeated wildly: “Olivier,
answer me. Oh, my God, he is dead, dead!”

So death was not complete annihilation. I could hear and think. I had
been uselessly alarmed all those years. I had not dropped into utter
vacancy as I had anticipated. I could not picture the disappearance of
my being, the suppression of all that I had been, without the
possibility of renewed existence. I had been wont to shudder whenever
in any book or newspaper I came across a date of a hundred years hence.
A date at which I should no longer be alive, a future which I should
never see, filled me with unspeakable uneasiness. Was I not the whole
world, and would not the universe crumble away when I was no more?

To dream of life had been a cherished vision, but this could not
possibly be death. I should assuredly awake presently. Yes, in a few
moments I would lean over, take Marguerite in my arms and dry her
tears. I would rest a little while longer before going to my office,
and then a new life would begin, brighter than the last. However, I did
not feel impatient; the commotion had been too strong. It was wrong of
Marguerite to give way like that when I had not even the strength to
turn my head on the pillow and smile at her. The next time that she
moaned out, “He is dead! Dead!” I would embrace her and murmur softly
so as not to startle her: “No, my darling, I was only asleep. You see,
I am alive, and I love you.”




 CHAPTER II
 FUNERAL PREPARATIONS


Marguerite’s cries had attracted attention, for all at once the door
was opened and a voice exclaimed: “What is the matter, neighbor? Is he
worse?”

I recognized the voice; it was that of an elderly woman, Mme Gabin, who
occupied a room on the same floor. She had been most obliging since our
arrival and had evidently become interested in our concerns. On her own
side she had lost no time in telling us her history. A stern landlord
had sold her furniture during the previous winter to pay himself his
rent, and since then she had resided at the lodginghouse in the Rue
Dauphine with her daughter Dede, a child of ten. They both cut and
pinked lamp shades, and between them they earned at the utmost only two
francs a day.

“Heavens! Is it all over?” cried Mme Gabin, looking at me.

I realized that she was drawing nearer. She examined me, touched me
and, turning to Marguerite, murmured compassionately: “Poor girl! Poor
girl!”

My wife, wearied out, was sobbing like a child. Mme Gabin lifted her,
placed her in a dilapidated armchair near the fireplace and proceeded
to comfort her.

“Indeed, you’ll do yourself harm if you go on like this, my dear. It’s
no reason because your husband is gone that you should kill yourself
with weeping. Sure enough, when I lost Gabin I was just like you. I
remained three days without swallowing a morsel of food. But that
didn’t help me—on the contrary, it pulled me down. Come, for the Lord’s
sake, be sensible!”

By degrees Marguerite grew calmer; she was exhausted, and it was only
at intervals that she gave way to a fresh flow of tears. Meanwhile the
old woman had taken possession of the room with a sort of rough
authority.

“Don’t worry yourself,” she said as she bustled about. “Neighbors must
help each other. Luckily Dede has just gone to take the work home. Ah,
I see your trunks are not yet all unpacked, but I suppose there is some
linen in the chest of drawers, isn’t there?”

I heard her pull a drawer open; she must have taken out a napkin which
she spread on the little table at the bedside. She then struck a match,
which made me think that she was lighting one of the candles on the
mantelpiece and placing it near me as a religious rite. I could follow
her movements in the room and divine all her actions.

“Poor gentleman,” she muttered. “Luckily I heard you sobbing, poor
dear!” Suddenly the vague light which my left eye had detected
vanished. Mme Gabin had just closed my eyelids, but I had not felt her
finger on my face. When I understood this I felt chilled.

The door had opened again, and Dede, the child of ten, now rushed in,
calling out in her shrill voice: “Mother, Mother! Ah, I knew you would
be here! Look here, there’s the money—three francs and four sous. I
took back three dozen lamp shades.”

“Hush, hush! Hold your tongue,” vainly repeated the mother, who, as the
little girl chattered on, must have pointed to the bed, for I guessed
that the child felt perplexed and was backing toward the door.

“Is the gentleman asleep?” she whispered.

“Yes, yes—go and play,” said Mme Gabin.

But the child did not go. She was, no doubt, staring at me with widely
opened eyes, startled and vaguely comprehending. Suddenly she seemed
convulsed with terror and ran out, upsetting a chair.

“He is dead, Mother; he is dead!” she gasped.

Profound silence followed. Marguerite, lying back in the armchair, had
left off crying. Mme Gabin was still rummaging about the room and
talking under her breath.

“Children know everything nowadays. Look at that girl. Heaven knows how
carefully she’s brought up! When I send her on an errand or take the
shades back I calculate the time to a minute so that she can’t loiter
about, but for all that she learns everything. She saw at a glance what
had happened here—and yet I never showed her but one corpse, that of
her uncle Francois, and she was then only four years old. Ah well,
there are no children left—it can’t be helped.”

She paused and without any transition passed to another subject.

“I say, dearie, we must think of the formalities—there’s the
declaration at the municipal offices to be made and the seeing about
the funeral. You are not in a fit state to attend to business. What do
you say if I look in at Monsieur Simoneau’s to find out if he’s at
home?”

Marguerite did not reply. It seemed to me that I watched her from afar
and at times changed into a subtle flame hovering above the room, while
a stranger lay heavy and unconscious on my bed. I wished that
Marguerite had declined the assistance of Simoneau. I had seen him
three or four times during my brief illness, for he occupied a room
close to ours and had been civil and neighborly. Mme Gabin had told us
that he was merely making a short stay in Paris, having come to collect
some old debts due to his father, who had settled in the country and
recently died. He was a tall, strong, handsome young man, and I hated
him, perhaps on account of his healthy appearance. On the previous
evening he had come in to make inquiries, and I had much disliked
seeing him at Marguerite’s side; she had looked so fair and pretty, and
he had gazed so intently into her face when she smilingly thanked him
for his kindness.

“Ah, here is Monsieur Simoneau,” said Mme Gabin, introducing him.

He gently pushed the door ajar, and as soon as Marguerite saw him enter
she burst into a flood of tears. The presence of a friend, of the only
person she knew in Paris besides the old woman, recalled her
bereavement. I could not see the young man, but in the darkness that
encompassed me I conjured up his appearance. I pictured him distinctly,
grave and sad at finding poor Marguerite in such distress. How lovely
she must have looked with her golden hair unbound, her pale face and
her dear little baby hands burning with fever!

“I am at your disposal, madame,” he said softly. “Pray allow me to
manage everything.”

She only answered him with broken words, but as the young man was
leaving, accompanied by Mme Gabin, I heard the latter mention money.
These things were always expensive, she said, and she feared that the
poor little body hadn’t a farthing—anyhow, he might ask her. But
Simoneau silenced the old woman; he did not want to have the widow
worried; he was going to the municipal office and to the undertaker’s.

When silence reigned once more I wondered if my nightmare would last
much longer. I was certainly alive, for I was conscious of passing
incidents, and I began to realize my condition. I must have fallen into
one of those cataleptic states that I had read of. As a child I had
suffered from syncopes which had lasted several hours, but surely my
heart would beat anew, my blood circulate and my muscles relax. Yes, I
should wake up and comfort Marguerite, and, reasoning thus, I tried to
be patient.

Time passed. Mme Gabin had brought in some breakfast, but Marguerite
refused to taste any food. Later on the afternoon waned. Through the
open window I heard the rising clamor of the Rue Dauphine. By and by a
slight ringing of the brass candlestick on the marble-topped table made
me think that a fresh candle had been lighted. At last Simoneau
returned.

“Well?” whispered the old woman.

“It is all settled,” he answered; “the funeral is ordered for tomorrow
at eleven. There is nothing for you to do, and you needn’t talk of
these things before the poor lady.”

Nevertheless, Mme Gabin remarked: “The doctor of the dead hasn’t come
yet.”

Simoneau took a seat beside Marguerite and after a few words of
encouragement remained silent. The funeral was to take place at eleven!
Those words rang in my brain like a passing bell. And the doctor
coming—the doctor of the dead, as Mme Gabin had called him. HE could
not possibly fail to find out that I was only in a state of lethargy;
he would do whatever might be necessary to rouse me, so I longed for
his arrival with feverish anxiety.

The day was drawing to a close. Mme Gabin, anxious to waste no time,
had brought in her lamp shades and summoned Dede without asking
Marguerite’s permission. “To tell the truth,” she observed, “I do not
like to leave children too long alone.”

“Come in, I say,” she whispered to the little girl; “come in, and don’t
be frightened. Only don’t look toward the bed or you’ll catch it.”

She thought it decorous to forbid Dede to look at me, but I was
convinced that the child was furtively glancing at the corner where I
lay, for every now and then I heard her mother rap her knuckles and
repeat angrily: “Get on with your work or you shall leave the room, and
the gentleman will come during the night and pull you by the feet.”

The mother and daughter had sat down at our table. I could plainly hear
the click of their scissors as they clipped the lamp shades, which no
doubt required very delicate manipulation, for they did not work
rapidly. I counted the shades one by one as they were laid aside, while
my anxiety grew more and more intense.

The clicking of the scissors was the only noise in the room, so I
concluded that Marguerite had been overcome by fatigue and was dozing.
Twice Simoneau rose, and the torturing thought flashed through me that
he might be taking advantage of her slumbers to touch her hair with his
lips. I hardly knew the man and yet felt sure that he loved my wife. At
last little Dede began to giggle, and her laugh exasperated me.

“Why are you sniggering, you idiot?” asked her mother. “Do you want to
be turned out on the landing? Come, out with it; what makes you laugh
so?”

The child stammered: she had not laughed; she had only coughed, but I
felt certain she had seen Simoneau bending over Marguerite and had felt
amused.

The lamp had been lit when a knock was heard at the door.

“It must be the doctor at last,” said the old woman.

It was the doctor; he did not apologize for coming so late, for he had
no doubt ascended many flights of stairs during the day. The room being
but imperfectly lighted by the lamp, he inquired: “Is the body here?”

“Yes, it is,” answered Simoneau.

Marguerite had risen, trembling violently. Mme Gabin dismissed Dede,
saying it was useless that a child should be present, and then she
tried to lead my wife to the window, to spare her the sight of what was
about to take place.

The doctor quickly approached the bed. I guessed that he was bored,
tired and impatient. Had he touched my wrist? Had he placed his hand on
my heart? I could not tell, but I fancied that he had only carelessly
bent over me.

“Shall I bring the lamp so that you may see better?” asked Simoneau
obligingly.

“No it is not necessary,” quietly answered the doctor.

Not necessary! That man held my life in his hands, and he did not think
it worth while to proceed to a careful examination! I was not dead! I
wanted to cry out that I was not dead!

“At what o’clock did he die?” asked the doctor.

“At six this morning,” volunteered Simoneau.

A feeling of frenzy and rebellion rose within me, bound as I was in
seemingly iron chains. Oh, for the power of uttering one word, of
moving a single limb!

“This close weather is unhealthy,” resumed the doctor; “nothing is more
trying than these early spring days.”

And then he moved away. It was like my life departing. Screams, sobs
and insults were choking me, struggling in my convulsed throat, in
which even my breath was arrested. The wretch! Turned into a mere
machine by professional habits, he only came to a deathbed to
accomplish a perfunctory formality; he knew nothing; his science was a
lie, since he could not at a glance distinguish life from death—and now
he was going—going!

“Good night, sir,” said Simoneau.

There came a moment’s silence; the doctor was probably bowing to
Marguerite, who had turned while Mme Gabin was fastening the window. He
left the room, and I heard his footsteps descending the stairs.

It was all over; I was condemned. My last hope had vanished with that
man. If I did not wake before eleven on the morrow I should be buried
alive. The horror of that thought was so great that I lost all
consciousness of my surroundings—’twas something like a fainting fit in
death. The last sound I heard was the clicking of the scissors handled
by Mme Gabin and Dede. The funeral vigil had begun; nobody spoke.

Marguerite had refused to retire to rest in the neighbor’s room. She
remained reclining in her armchair, with her beautiful face pale, her
eyes closed and her long lashes wet with tears, while before her in the
gloom Simoneau sat silently watching her.




 CHAPTER III
 THE PROCESSION


I cannot describe my agony during the morning of the following day. I
remember it as a hideous dream in which my impressions were so ghastly
and so confused that I could not formulate them. The persistent
yearning for a sudden awakening increased my torture, and as the hour
for the funeral drew nearer my anguish became more poignant still.

It was only at daybreak that I had recovered a fuller consciousness of
what was going on around me. The creaking of hinges startled me out of
my stupor. Mme Gabin had just opened the window. It must have been
about seven o’clock, for I heard the cries of hawkers in the street,
the shrill voice of a girl offering groundsel and the hoarse voice of a
man shouting “Carrots!” The clamorous awakening of Paris pacified me at
first. I could not believe that I should be laid under the sod in the
midst of so much life; and, besides, a sudden thought helped to calm
me. It had just occurred to me that I had witnessed a case similar to
my own when I was employed at the hospital of Guerande. A man had been
sleeping twenty-eight hours, the doctors hesitating in presence of his
apparent lifelessness, when suddenly he had sat up in bed and was
almost at once able to rise. I myself had already been asleep for some
twenty-five hours; if I awoke at ten I should still be in time.

I endeavored to ascertain who was in the room and what was going on
there. Dede must have been playing on the landing, for once when the
door opened I heard her shrill childish laughter outside. Simoneau must
have retired, for nothing indicated his presence. Mme Gabin’s slipshod
tread was still audible over the floor. At last she spoke.

“Come, my dear,” she said. “It is wrong of you not to take it while it
is hot. It would cheer you up.”

She was addressing Marguerite, and a slow trickling sound as of
something filtering indicated that she had been making some coffee.

“I don’t mind owning,” she continued, “that I needed it. At my age
sitting up IS trying. The night seems so dreary when there is a
misfortune in the house. DO have a cup of coffee, my dear—just a drop.”

She persuaded Marguerite to taste it.

“Isn’t it nice and hot?” she continued, “and doesn’t it set one up? Ah,
you’ll be wanting all your strength presently for what you’ve got to go
through today. Now if you were sensible you’d step into my room and
just wait there.”

“No, I want to stay here,” said Marguerite resolutely.

Her voice, which I had not heard since the previous evening, touched me
strangely. It was changed, broken as by tears. To feel my dear wife
near me was a last consolation. I knew that her eyes were fastened on
me and that she was weeping with all the anguish of her heart.

The minutes flew by. An inexplicable noise sounded from beyond the
door. It seemed as if some people were bringing a bulky piece of
furniture upstairs and knocking against the walls as they did so.
Suddenly I understood, as I heard Marguerite begin to sob; it was the
coffin.

“You are too early,” said Mme Gabin crossly. “Put it behind the bed.”

What o’clock was it? Nine, perhaps. So the coffin had come. Amid the
opaque night around me I could see it plainly, quite new, with roughly
planed boards. Heavens! Was this the end then? Was I to be borne off in
that box which I realized was lying at my feet?

However, I had one supreme joy. Marguerite, in spite of her weakness,
insisted upon discharging all the last offices. Assisted by the old
woman, she dressed me with all the tenderness of a wife and a sister.
Once more I felt myself in her arms as she clothed me in various
garments. She paused at times, overcome by grief; she clasped me
convulsively, and her tears rained on my face. Oh, how I longed to
return her embrace and cry, “I live!” And yet I was lying there
powerless, motionless, inert!

“You are foolish,” suddenly said Mme Gabin; “it is all wasted.”

“Never mind,” answered Marguerite, sobbing. “I want him to wear his
very best things.”

I understood that she was dressing me in the clothes I had worn on my
wedding day. I had kept them carefully for great occasions. When she
had finished she fell back exhausted in the armchair.

Simoneau now spoke; he had probably just entered the room.

“They are below,” he whispered.

“Well, it ain’t any too soon,” answered Mme Gabin, also lowering her
voice. “Tell them to come up and get it over.”

“But I dread the despair of the poor little wife.”

The old woman seemed to reflect and presently resumed: “Listen to me,
Monsieur Simoneau. You must take her off to my room. I wouldn’t have
her stop here. It is for her own good. When she is out of the way we’ll
get it done in a jiffy.”

These words pierced my heart, and my anguish was intense when I
realized that a struggle was actually taking place. Simoneau had walked
up to Marguerite, imploring her to leave the room.

“Do, for pity’s sake, come with me!” he pleaded. “Spare yourself
useless pain.”

“No, no!” she cried. “I will remain till the last minute. Remember that
I have only him in the world, and when he is gone I shall be all
alone!”

From the bedside Mme Gabin was prompting the young man.

“Don’t parley—take hold of her, carry her off in your arms.”

Was Simoneau about to lay his hands on Marguerite and bear her away?
She screamed. I wildly endeavored to rise, but the springs of my limbs
were broken. I remained rigid, unable to lift my eyelids to see what
was going on. The struggle continued, and my wife clung to the
furniture, repeating, “Oh, don’t, don’t! Have mercy! Let me go! I will
not—”

He must have lifted her in his stalwart arms, for I heard her moaning
like a child. He bore her away; her sobs were lost in the distance, and
I fancied I saw them both—he, tall and strong, pressing her to his
breast; she, fainting, powerless and conquered, following him wherever
he listed.

“Drat it all! What a to-do!” muttered Mme Gabin. “Now for the tug of
war, as the coast is clear at last.”

In my jealous madness I looked upon this incident as a monstrous
outrage. I had not been able to see Marguerite for twenty-four hours,
but at least I had still heard her voice. Now even this was denied me;
she had been torn away; a man had eloped with her even before I was
laid under the sod. He was alone with her on the other side of the
wall, comforting her—embracing her, perhaps!

But the door opened once more, and heavy footsteps shook the floor.

“Quick, make haste,” repeated Mme Gabin. “Get it done before the lady
comes back.”

She was speaking to some strangers, who merely answered her with
uncouth grunts.

“You understand,” she went on, “I am not a relation; I’m only a
neighbor. I have no interest in the matter. It is out of pure good
nature that I have mixed myself up in their affairs. And I ain’t
overcheerful, I can tell you. Yes, yes, I sat up the whole blessed
night—it was pretty cold, too, about four o’clock. That’s a fact. Well,
I have always been a fool—I’m too soft-hearted.”

The coffin had been dragged into the center of the room. As I had not
awakened I was condemned. All clearness departed from my ideas;
everything seemed to revolve in a black haze, and I experienced such
utter lassitude that it seemed almost a relief to leave off hoping.

“They haven’t spared the material,” said one of the undertaker’s men in
a gruff voice. “The box is too long.”

“He’ll have all the more room,” said the other, laughing.

I was not heavy, and they chuckled over it since they had three flights
of stairs to descend. As they were seizing me by the shoulders and feet
I heard Mme Gabin fly into a violent passion.

“You cursed little brat,” she screamed, “what do you mean by poking
your nose where you’re not wanted? Look here, I’ll teach you to spy and
pry.”

Dede had slipped her tousled head through the doorway to see how the
gentleman was being put into the box. Two ringing slaps resounded,
however, by an explosion of sobs. And as soon as the mother returned
she began to gossip about her daughter for the benefit of the two men
who were settling me in the coffin.

“She is only ten, you know. She is not a bad girl, but she is
frightfully inquisitive. I do not beat her often; only I WILL be
obeyed.”

“Oh,” said one of the men, “all kids are alike. Whenever there is a
corpse lying about they always want to see it.”

I was commodiously stretched out, and I might have thought myself still
in bed, had it not been that my left arm felt a trifle cramped from
being squeezed against a board. The men had been right. I was pretty
comfortable inside on account of my diminutive stature.

“Stop!” suddenly exclaimed Mme Gabin. “I promised his wife to put a
pillow under his head.”

The men, who were in a hurry, stuffed in the pillow roughly. One of
them, who had mislaid his hammer, began to swear. He had left the tool
below and went to fetch it, dropping the lid, and when two sharp blows
of the hammer drove in the first nail, a shock ran through my being—I
had ceased to live. The nails then entered in rapid succession with a
rhythmical cadence. It was as if some packers had been closing a case
of dried fruit with easy dexterity. After that such sounds as reached
me were deadened and strangely prolonged, as if the deal coffin had
been changed into a huge musical box. The last words spoken in the room
of the Rue Dauphine—at least the last ones that I heard distinctly—were
uttered by Mme Gabin.

“Mind the staircase,” she said; “the banister of the second flight
isn’t safe, so be careful.”

While I was being carried down I experienced a sensation similar to
that of pitching as when one is on board a ship in a rough sea.
However, from that moment my impressions became more and more vague. I
remember that the only distinct thought that still possessed me was an
imbecile, impulsive curiosity as to the road by which I should be taken
to the cemetery. I was not acquainted with a single street of Paris,
and I was ignorant of the position of the large burial grounds (though
of course I had occasionally heard their names), and yet every effort
of my mind was directed toward ascertaining whether we were turning to
the right or to the left. Meanwhile the jolting of the hearse over the
paving stones, the rumbling of passing vehicles, the steps of the foot
passengers, all created a confused clamor, intensified by the
acoustical properties of the coffin.

At first I followed our course pretty closely; then came a halt. I was
again lifted and carried about, and I concluded that we were in church,
but when the funeral procession once more moved onward I lost all
consciousness of the road we took. A ringing of bells informed me that
we were passing another church, and then the softer and easier progress
of the wheels indicated that we were skirting a garden or park. I was
like a victim being taken to the gallows, awaiting in stupor a
deathblow that never came.

At last they stopped and pulled me out of the hearse. The business
proceeded rapidly. The noises had ceased; I knew that I was in a
deserted space amid avenues of trees and with the broad sky over my
head. No doubt a few persons followed the bier, some of the inhabitants
of the lodginghouse, perhaps—Simoneau and others, for instance—for
faint whisperings reached my ear. Then I heard a psalm chanted and some
Latin words mumbled by a priest, and afterward I suddenly felt myself
sinking, while the ropes rubbing against the edges of the coffin
elicited lugubrious sounds, as if a bow were being drawn across the
strings of a cracked violoncello. It was the end. On the left side of
my head I felt a violent shock like that produced by the bursting of a
bomb, with another under my feet and a third more violent still on my
chest. So forcible, indeed, was this last one that I thought the lid
was cleft atwain. I fainted from it.




 CHAPTER IV
 THE NAIL


It is impossible for me to say how long my swoon lasted. Eternity is
not of longer duration than one second spent in nihility. I was no
more. It was slowly and confusedly that I regained some degree of
consciousness. I was still asleep, but I began to dream; a nightmare
started into shape amid the blackness of my horizon, a nightmare
compounded of a strange fancy which in other days had haunted my morbid
imagination whenever with my propensity for dwelling upon hideous
thoughts I had conjured up catastrophes.

Thus I dreamed that my wife was expecting me somewhere—at Guerande, I
believe—and that I was going to join her by rail. As we passed through
a tunnel a deafening roll thundered over our head, and a sudden
subsidence blocked up both issues of the tunnel, leaving our train
intact in the center. We were walled up by blocks of rock in the heart
of a mountain. Then a long and fearful agony commenced. No assistance
could possibly reach us; even with powerful engines and incessant labor
it would take a month to clear the tunnel. We were prisoners there with
no outlet, and so our death was only a question of time.

My fancy had often dwelt on that hideous drama and had constantly
varied the details and touches. My actors were men, women and children;
their number increased to hundreds, and they were ever furnishing me
with new incidents. There were some provisions in the train, but these
were soon exhausted, and the hungry passengers, if they did not
actually devour human flesh, at least fought furiously over the last
piece of bread. Sometimes an aged man was driven back with blows and
slowly perished; a mother struggled like a she-wolf to keep three or
four mouthfuls for her child. In my own compartment a bride and
bridegroom were dying, clasped in each other’s arms in mute despair.

The line was free along the whole length of the train, and people came
and went, prowling round the carriages like beasts of prey in search of
carrion. All classes were mingled together. A millionaire, a high
functionary, it was said, wept on a workman’s shoulder. The lamps had
been extinguished from the first, and the engine fire was nearly out.
To pass from one carriage to another it was necessary to grope about,
and thus, too, one slowly reached the engine, recognizable by its
enormous barrel, its cold, motionless flanks, its useless strength, its
grim silence, in the overwhelming night. Nothing could be more
appalling than this train entombed alive with its passengers perishing
one by one.

I gloated over the ghastliness of each detail; howls resounded through
the vault; somebody whom one could not see, whose vicinity was not even
suspected, would suddenly drop upon another’s shoulder. But what
affected me most of all was the cold and the want of air. I have never
felt so chilled; a mantle of snow seemed to enwrap me; heavy moisture
rained upon my skull; I was gasping; the rocky vault seemed to crush my
chest; the whole mountain was seemingly weighing upon me.

Suddenly a cry of deliverance sounded. For some time past we fancied
that we could hear a dull sound, and we tried to hope that men were at
work and that help was coming, but it came not thus. One of the
passengers, however, had discovered an air shaft in the tunnel, and,
crowding round, we all saw this shaft, above which we could discern a
blue patch about the size of a wafer. That blue patch filled us with
rapture, for it was the sky. We stretched ourselves and stood on
tiptoes to breathe more freely. Then we distinguished some black specks
moving about, specks that must surely be workmen about to deliver us. A
furious clamor arose. The cry “Saved! Saved!” burst from every mouth,
while trembling arms were uplifted toward the tiny azure patch above.

That roar of voices aroused me. Where was I? In the tunnel, of course.
I was lying at full length; hard walls were pressing against my ribs.
Then I attempted to rise and struck my head roughly. Was it the rock
closing in on all sides? The blue speck had vanished—aye, the sky had
disappeared and I was still suffocating, shivering, with chattering
teeth.

All at once I remembered. Intense horror raised my hair on end. I felt
the hideous truth freeze me from head to foot like ice. I had shaken
off the long coma which for many hours had stricken me with corpselike
rigidity. Yes, I could move; my hands could feel the boards of my
coffin; my lips parted; words came to me, and instinctively I called
out Marguerite’s name. It was a scream I raised. In that deal box my
voice took so hoarse and weird a sound that it terrified me. Oh, my
God, was this thing true? I was able to walk, speak, cry out that I was
living, and yet my voice could not be heard; I was entombed under the
earth.

I made a desperate effort to remain calm and reflect. Was there no
means of getting out? Then my dream began afresh in my troubled brain.
The fanciful air shaft with the blue bit of sky overhead was mingled
with the real grave in which I was lying. I stared at the darkness with
widely opened eyes; perhaps I might discover a hole, a slit, a glimmer
of light, but only sparks of fire flitted through that night, with rays
that broadened and then faded away. I was in a somber abyss again. With
returning lucidity I struggled against these fatal visions. Indeed, I
should need all my reason if I meant to try to save myself.

The most immediate peril lay in an increasing sense of suffocation. If
I had been able to live so long without air it was owing to suspended
animation, which had changed all the normal conditions of my existence,
but now that my heart beat and my lungs breathed I should die,
asphyxiated, if I did not promptly liberate myself. I also suffered
from cold and dreaded lest I should succumb to the mortal numbness of
those who fall asleep in the snow, never to wake again. Still, while
unceasingly realizing the necessity of remaining calm, I felt maddening
blasts sweep through my brain, and to quiet my senses I exhorted myself
to patience, trying to remember the circumstances of my burial.
Probably the ground had been bought for five years, and this would be
against my chances of self-deliverance, for I remembered having noticed
at Nantes that in the trenches of the common graves one end of the last
lowered coffins protruded into the next open cavity, in which case I
should only have had to break through one plank. But if I were in a
separate hole, filled up above me with earth, the obstacles would prove
too great. Had I not been told that the dead were buried six feet deep
in Paris? How was I to get through the enormous mass of soil above me?
Even if I succeeded in slitting the lid of my bier open the mold would
drift in like fine sand and fill my mouth and eyes. That would be death
again, a ghastly death, like drowning in mud.

However, I began to feel the planks carefully. The coffin was roomy,
and I found that I was able to move my arms with tolerable ease. On
both sides the roughly planed boards were stout and resistive. I
slipped my arm onto my chest to raise it over my head. There I
discovered in the top plank a knot in the wood which yielded slightly
at my pressure. Working laboriously, I finally succeeded in driving out
this knot, and on passing my finger through the hole I found that the
earth was wet and clayey. But that availed me little. I even regretted
having removed the knot, vaguely dreading the irruption of the mold. A
second experiment occupied me for a while. I tapped all over the coffin
to ascertain if perhaps there were any vacuum outside. But the sound
was everywhere the same. At last, as I was slightly kicking the foot of
the coffin, I fancied that it gave out a clearer echoing noise, but
that might merely be produced by the sonority of the wood.

At any rate, I began to press against the boards with my arms and my
closed fists. In the same way, too, I used my knees, my back and my
feet without eliciting even a creak from the wood. I strained with all
my strength, indeed, with so desperate an effort of my whole frame,
that my bruised bones seemed breaking. But nothing moved, and I became
insane.

Until that moment I had held delirium at bay. I had mastered the
intoxicating rage which was mounting to my head like the fumes of
alcohol; I had silenced my screams, for I feared that if I again cried
out aloud I should be undone. But now I yelled; I shouted; unearthly
howls which I could not repress came from my relaxed throat. I called
for help in a voice that I did not recognize, growing wilder with each
fresh appeal and crying out that I would not die. I also tore at the
wood with my nails; I writhed with the contortions of a caged wolf. I
do not know how long this fit of madness lasted, but I can still feel
the relentless hardness of the box that imprisoned me; I can still hear
the storm of shrieks and sobs with which I filled it; a remaining
glimmer of reason made me try to stop, but I could not do so.

Great exhaustion followed. I lay waiting for death in a state of
somnolent pain. The coffin was like stone, which no effort could break,
and the conviction that I was powerless left me unnerved, without
courage to make any fresh attempts. Another suffering—hunger—was
presently added to cold and want of air. The torture soon became
intolerable. With my finger I tried to pull small pinches of earth
through the hole of the dislodged knot, and I swallowed them eagerly,
only increasing my torment. Tempted by my flesh, I bit my arms and
sucked my skin with a fiendish desire to drive my teeth in, but I was
afraid of drawing blood.

Then I ardently longed for death. All my life long I had trembled at
the thought of dissolution, but I had come to yearn for it, to crave
for an everlasting night that could never be dark enough. How childish
it had been of me to dread the long, dreamless sleep, the eternity of
silence and gloom! Death was kind, for in suppressing life it put an
end to suffering. Oh, to sleep like the stones, to be no more!

With groping hands I still continued feeling the wood, and suddenly I
pricked my left thumb. That slight pain roused me from my growing
numbness. I felt again and found a nail—a nail which the undertaker’s
men had driven in crookedly and which had not caught in the lower wood.
It was long and very sharp; the head was secured to the lid, but it
moved. Henceforth I had but one idea—to possess myself of that nail—and
I slipped my right hand across my body and began to shake it. I made
but little progress, however; it was a difficult job, for my hands soon
tired, and I had to use them alternately. The left one, too, was of
little use on account of the nail’s awkward position.

While I was obstinately persevering a plan dawned on my mind. That nail
meant salvation, and I must have it. But should I get it in time?
Hunger was torturing me; my brain was swimming; my limbs were losing
their strength; my mind was becoming confused. I had sucked the drops
that trickled from my punctured finger, and suddenly I bit my arm and
drank my own blood! Thereupon, spurred on by pain, revived by the
tepid, acrid liquor that moistened my lips, I tore desperately at the
nail and at last I wrenched it off!

I then believed in success. My plan was a simple one; I pushed the
point of the nail into the lid, dragging it along as far as I could in
a straight line and working it so as to make a slit in the wood. My
fingers stiffened, but I doggedly persevered, and when I fancied that I
had sufficiently cut into the board I turned on my stomach and, lifting
myself on my knees and elbows thrust the whole strength of my back
against the lid. But although it creaked it did not yield; the notched
line was not deep enough. I had to resume my old position—which I only
managed to do with infinite trouble—and work afresh. At last after
another supreme effort the lid was cleft from end to end.

I was not saved as yet, but my heart beat with renewed hope. I had
ceased pushing and remained motionless, lest a sudden fall of earth
should bury me. I intended to use the lid as a screen and, thus
protected, to open a sort of shaft in the clayey soil. Unfortunately I
was assailed by unexpected difficulties. Some heavy clods of earth
weighed upon the boards and made them unmanageable; I foresaw that I
should never reach the surface in that way, for the mass of soil was
already bending my spine and crushing my face.

Once more I stopped, affrighted; then suddenly, while I was stretching
my legs, trying to find something firm against which I might rest my
feet, I felt the end board of the coffin yielding. I at once gave a
desperate kick with my heels in the faint hope that there might be a
freshly dug grave in that direction.

It was so. My feet abruptly forced their way into space. An open grave
was there; I had only a slight partition of earth to displace, and soon
I rolled into the cavity. I was saved!

I remained for a time lying on my back in the open grave, with my eyes
raised to heaven. It was dark; the stars were shining in a sky of
velvety blueness. Now and then the rising breeze wafted a springlike
freshness, a perfume of foliage, upon me. I was saved! I could breathe;
I felt warm, and I wept and I stammered, with my arms prayerfully
extended toward the starry sky. O God, how sweet seemed life!




 CHAPTER V
 MY RESURRECTION


My first impulse was to find the custodian of the cemetery and ask him
to have me conducted home, but various thoughts that came to me
restrained me from following that course. My return would create
general alarm; why should I hurry now that I was master of the
situation? I felt my limbs; I had only an insignificant wound on my
left arm, where I had bitten myself, and a slight feverishness lent me
unhoped-for strength. I should no doubt be able to walk unaided.

Still I lingered; all sorts of dim visions confused my mind. I had felt
beside me in the open grave some sextons’ tools which had been left
there, and I conceived a sudden desire to repair the damage I had done,
to close up the hole through which I had crept, so as to conceal all
traces of my resurrection. I do not believe that I had any positive
motive in doing so. I only deemed it useless to proclaim my adventure
aloud, feeling ashamed to find myself alive when the whole world
thought me dead. In half an hour every trace of my escape was
obliterated, and then I climbed out of the hole.

The night was splendid, and deep silence reigned in the cemetery; the
black trees threw motionless shadows over the white tombs. When I
endeavored to ascertain my bearings I noticed that one half of the sky
was ruddy, as if lit by a huge conflagration; Paris lay in that
direction, and I moved toward it, following a long avenue amid the
darkness of the branches.

However, after I had gone some fifty yards I was compelled to stop,
feeling faint and weary. I then sat down on a stone bench and for the
first time looked at myself. I was fully attired with the exception
that I had no hat. I blessed my beloved Marguerite for the pious
thought which had prompted her to dress me in my best clothes—those
which I had worn at our wedding. That remembrance of my wife brought me
to my feet again. I longed to see her without delay.

At the farther end of the avenue I had taken a wall arrested my
progress. However, I climbed to the top of a monument, reached the
summit of the wall and then dropped over the other side. Although
roughly shaken by the fall, I managed to walk for a few minutes along a
broad deserted street skirting the cemetery. I had no notion as to
where I might be, but with the reiteration of monomania I kept saying
to myself that I was going toward Paris and that I should find the Rue
Dauphine somehow or other. Several people passed me but, seized with
sudden distrust, I would not stop them and ask my way. I have since
realized that I was then in a burning fever and already nearly
delirious. Finally, just as I reached a large thoroughfare, I became
giddy and fell heavily upon the pavement.

Here there is a blank in my life. For three whole weeks I remained
unconscious. When I awoke at last I found myself in a strange room. A
man who was nursing me told me quietly that he had picked me up one
morning on the Boulevard Montparnasse and had brought me to his house.
He was an old doctor who had given up practicing.

When I attempted to thank him he sharply answered that my case had
seemed a curious one and that he had wished to study it. Moreover,
during the first days of my convalescence he would not allow me to ask
a single question, and later on he never put one to me. For eight days
longer I remained in bed, feeling very weak and not even trying to
remember, for memory was a weariness and a pain. I felt half ashamed
and half afraid. As soon as I could leave the house I would go and find
out whatever I wanted to know. Possibly in the delirium of fever a name
had escaped me; however, the doctor never alluded to anything I may
have said. His charity was not only generous; it was discreet.

The summer had come at last, and one warm June morning I was permitted
to take a short walk. The sun was shining with that joyous brightness
which imparts renewed youth to the streets of old Paris. I went along
slowly, questioning the passers-by at every crossing I came to and
asking the way to Rue Dauphine. When I reached the street I had some
difficulty in recognizing the lodginghouse where we had alighted on our
arrival in the capital. A childish terror made me hesitate. If I
appeared suddenly before Marguerite the shock might kill her. It might
be wiser to begin by revealing myself to our neighbor Mme Gabin; still
I shrank from taking a third party into confidence. I seemed unable to
arrive at a resolution, and yet in my innermost heart I felt a great
void, like that left by some sacrifice long since consummated.

The building looked quite yellow in the sunshine. I had just recognized
it by a shabby eating house on the ground floor, where we had ordered
our meals, having them sent up to us. Then I raised my eyes to the last
window of the third floor on the left-hand side, and as I looked at it
a young woman with tumbled hair, wearing a loose dressing gown,
appeared and leaned her elbows on the sill. A young man followed and
printed a kiss upon her neck. It was not Marguerite. Still I felt no
surprise. It seemed to me that I had dreamed all this with other
things, too, which I was to learn presently.

For a moment I remained in the street, uncertain whether I had better
go upstairs and question the lovers, who were still laughing in the
sunshine. However, I decided to enter the little restaurant below. When
I started on my walk the old doctor had placed a five-franc piece in my
hand. No doubt I was changed beyond recognition, for my beard had grown
during the brain fever, and my face was wrinkled and haggard. As I took
a seat at a small table I saw Mme Gabin come in carrying a cup; she
wished to buy a penny-worth of coffee. Standing in front of the
counter, she began to gossip with the landlady of the establishment.

“Well,” asked the latter, “so the poor little woman of the third floor
has made up her mind at last, eh?”

“How could she help herself?” answered Mme Gabin. “It was the very best
thing for her to do. Monsieur Simoneau showed her so much kindness. You
see, he had finished his business in Paris to his satisfaction, for he
has inherited a pot of money. Well, he offered to take her away with
him to his own part of the country and place her with an aunt of his,
who wants a housekeeper and companion.”

The landlady laughed archly. I buried my face in a newspaper which I
picked off the table. My lips were white and my hands shook.

“It will end in a marriage, of course,” resumed Mme Gabin. “The little
widow mourned for her husband very properly, and the young man was
extremely well behaved. Well, they left last night—and, after all, they
were free to please themselves.”

Just then the side door of the restaurant, communicating with the
passage of the house, opened, and Dede appeared.

“Mother, ain’t you coming?” she cried. “I’m waiting, you know; do be
quick.”

“Presently,” said the mother testily. “Don’t bother.”

The girl stood listening to the two women with the precocious
shrewdness of a child born and reared amid the streets of Paris.

“When all is said and done,” explained Mme Gabin, “the dear departed
did not come up to Monsieur Simoneau. I didn’t fancy him overmuch; he
was a puny sort of a man, a poor, fretful fellow, and he hadn’t a penny
to bless himself with. No, candidly, he wasn’t the kind of husband for
a young and healthy wife, whereas Monsieur Simoneau is rich, you know,
and as strong as a Turk.”

“Oh yes!” interrupted Dede. “I saw him once when he was washing—his
door was open. His arms are so hairy!”

“Get along with you,” screamed the old woman, shoving the girl out of
the restaurant. “You are always poking your nose where it has no
business to be.”

Then she concluded with these words: “Look here, to my mind the other
one did quite right to take himself off. It was fine luck for the
little woman!”

When I found myself in the street again I walked along slowly with
trembling limbs. And yet I was not suffering much; I think I smiled
once at my shadow in the sun. It was quite true. I WAS very puny. It
had been a queer notion of mine to marry Marguerite. I recalled her
weariness at Guerande, her impatience, her dull, monotonous life. The
dear creature had been very good to me, but I had never been a real
lover; she had mourned for me as a sister for her brother, not
otherwise. Why should I again disturb her life? A dead man is not
jealous.

When I lifted my eyelids I saw the garden of the Luxembourg before me.
I entered it and took a seat in the sun, dreaming with a sense of
infinite restfulness. The thought of Marguerite stirred me softly. I
pictured her in the provinces, beloved, petted and very happy. She had
grown handsomer, and she was the mother of three boys and two girls. It
was all right. I had behaved like an honest man in dying, and I would
not commit the cruel folly of coming to life again.

Since then I have traveled a good deal. I have been a little
everywhere. I am an ordinary man who has toiled and eaten like anybody
else. Death no longer frightens me, but it does not seem to care for me
now that I have no motive in living, and I sometimes fear that I have
been forgotten upon earth.