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_ 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 Zoe, 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 Zoe 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 Zoe 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 Zoe 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 Zoe.
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!
Zoe, 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 Zoe
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 Varietes, 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 Chateau 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 fete
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, Zoe
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?"
Zoe 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. _
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