by Emile Zola
The Marquis de Chouard gallantly hastened to add, “When we heard that a great actress lived in this house, we at once determined to call and personally plead the cause of our poor. Talent is ever allied to a generous heart.”
Nana made a great show of modesty. She acknowledged their remarks by slightly nodding her head, reflecting furiously, however, all the time. It must have been the old one who had brought the other; his eyes looked so wicked. Yet, the other one too was to be mistrusted, his temples seemed curiously swollen; he might have managed to come alone. No doubt, they had heard about her from the concierge, and each had called on his own account.
“Certainly, gentlemen, you were quite right to come,” said she, most pleasantly. But the sound of the bell made her start. What! another visitor, and that Zoé who would persist in letting them in! “I am only too happy to be able to give,” she continued. In reality, she felt extremely flattered.
“Ah! madame,” resumed the marquis, “if you but knew the extent of the misery! Our district contains more than three thousand poor, and yet it is one of the richest. You can have no idea of the amount of distress prevailing—children without food, women lying ill, deprived of all necessities, dying of cold.”
“Poor people!” cried Nana deeply affected.
Her pity was so great that tears filled her beautiful eyes. In an impulsive moment she leant forward, forgetting any longer to study her movements, and her open dressing-gown displayed all her neck, whilst her bended knees indicated, beneath the flimsy material, the roundness of her form. A slight tinge of colour illumined the ghastly pallor of the marquis’s cheeks, and Count Muffat, who was on the point of speaking, lowered his eyes. It was decidedly too warm in that small room, it was heavy and close like a hot-house. The roses were drooping, and the smell of the patchouli in the cup was intoxicating.
“One would like to be very rich on such occasions,” added Nana. “However one does what one can. Believe me, gentlemen, had I only known—”
She was on the point of saying something foolish under the influence of her emotion; but she recovered herself, and left the phrase unfinished. For a moment she remained perplexed, not recollecting where she had put the fifty francs when she took her dress off; but at length she recollected, they must be on a corner of her dressing-table under a pomatum-pot turned upside down. As she rose from her seat the bell sounded again, violently this time. Good! another one! Would it never cease? The count and the marquis had also risen, and the ears of the latter seemed to turn in the direction of the door; no doubt he knew what the frequent rings at the bell meant. Muffat glanced at him; then each looked on the ground; no doubt they were in each other’s way. But they soon regained their composure, the one looking proud and strong, his head well covered with his dark brown hair, the other straightening his bony shoulders, over which fell his meagre crown of rare white hairs.
“Really, gentlemen,” said Nana, laughing, as she brought the ten big silver coins, “I’m afraid I shall burden you. Remember it is for the poor.”
And an adorable little dimple appeared in her chin. She had assumed her “hail fellow well met” air, and stood in an easy posture, holding out her hand full of silver—offering it to the two men, as though saying, “Come, who’ll take?” The count was the more active, he took the money; but one coin remained in the young woman’s hand, and, to remove it, his fingers were obliged to come in contact with her skin—a skin so warm and soft that touching it sent a thrill through his frame. Nana, greatly amused, continued laughing.
“There, gentlemen,” she resumed. “Next time I hope to give more.”
Having no pretext for remaining longer, they bowed and moved towards the door. But, as they were about to leave the room, the bell sounded again. The marquis could not repress a faint smile, whilst a shadow passed over the count’s grave face. Nana detained them a few seconds, to allow Zoé time to find some out-of-the-way corner for the new comer. She did not like people to meet one another when calling on her. This time, the place must be quite full. She was agreeably surprised, however, to find the drawing-room empty. Had Zoé, then, put them into the cupboards?
“Good-day, gentlemen,” she said, as she stood in the open doorway.
She enveloped them in her smile and her clear glance. Count Muffat bowed low, disconcerted in spite of his great experience of the world, longing for a breath of fresh air, dizzy from his contact with that room, and carrying away with him an odour of woman and flowers which nearly stifled him. And, behind him, the Marquis de Chouard, certain of not being observed, dared to wink at Nana, his face, for the moment, all distorted, and his tongue between his lips. When the young woman re-entered the dressing-room, where Zoé awaited her with some letters and visiting-cards, she laughed louder than ever, and exclaimed:
“Well, there go a couple of sharks! They wheedled my fifty francs out of me!”
But she was not annoyed; it amused her to think that men should ask her for money. All the same, they were a couple of pigs; she hadn’t a sou left. The sight of the cards and the letters brought back her bad temper. The letters might be tolerated; they came from gentlemen who, after applauding her at the theatre, now hastened to make their declarations. As for the visitors, they might go to the devil! Zoé had put some everywhere; and she remarked that the suite of rooms was very convenient, for each one opened on to the passage. It was not the same at Madame Blanche’s, where you always had to pass through the drawing-room; and Madame Blanche had had a great deal of unpleasantness on that account.
“You must send them all to the right about,” resumed Nana, following her original idea. “Begin with the blackamoor.”
“I sent him off a long time ago, madame,” said Zoé with a smile. “He merely wished to tell madame that he couldn’t come to-night.”
What great joy! Nana clapped her hands. He wasn’t coming—what luck! Then she would be free! She sighed with relief, as though she had been pardoned when about to endure the most abominable of punishments. Her first thought was for Daguenet—that poor duck whom she had just put off till the Thursday! Quick, Madame Maloir must write another letter! But Zoé said that, as usual, Madame Maloir had gone off without letting any one know. Then Nana, after speaking of sending some one, began to hesitate. She was very tired. A whole night for sleep—it would be so nice! The idea of such a treat at length proved irresistible. She might, just for once, stand herself that.
“I shall go to bed at once on returning from the theatre,” she murmured, in a greedy sort of way, “and you must let me sleep till twelve o‘clock.” Then, raising her voice, she added, “Now, then, look alive! shove ’em all on to the staircase!”
Zoé didn’t stir. She would never permit herself openly to give advice to madame, only she arranged matters in such a way as to enable madame to profit by her vast experience, when she saw that madame was about to do something foolish.
“M. Steiner also?” she briefly asked.
“Certainly,” replied Nana. “He before the others.”
The maid still waited, to give madame time to reflect. Wouldn’t madame be proud to do her rival, Rose Mignon, out of such a rich gentleman—one so well known in all the theatres?
“Look sharp, my dear,” resumed Nana, who understood perfectly, “and tell him that he plagues me.” But she suddenly altered her mind. On the morrow she might want him; so, winking her eye, she laughingly added, “After all, if I want to hook him, the best thing is chuck him out.”
Zoé seemed very much struck with the remark. She gazed on her mistress with a look of admiration, then went and sent Steiner about his business without hesitation. Nana waited a few minutes to give her time to sweep the place, as she termed it. One had never before heard of such an assault! She looked into the drawing-room; it was empty—the dining-room also; but as she continued her inspection, quite reassured, and certain she would not come across any one, she suddenly found herself in the company of a very little fellow, on opening the door of a spare room. He was seat
ed on the top of a trunk, very quiet and looking very good, with an enormous bouquet on his knees.
“Oh, heavens!” she exclaimed. “There is still one in here!”
On seeing her the little fellow jumped to the floor, his face as red as a poppy, and he did not seem to know what to do with his bouquet, which he passed from one hand to the other, almost strangled by emotion. His youth, his embarrassment, the comical figure he cut with his flowers, touched Nana, who burst out laughing. What! children as well? Now men came to her when they had scarcely left off their swaddling clothes. She became quite easy, familiar, maternal, even, in her way; and, slapping her thighs, asked him, for a bit of fun,
“Have you then come to be whipped, baby?”
“Yes,” replied the youngster, in low and entreating accents.
This reply amused her all the more. He was seventeen years old, his name was George Hugon. He was at the Variety Theatre on the previous evening, and he had come to see her.
“Are those flowers for me?”
“Yes.”
“Give them to me, then, you little booby!”
But, as she took the bouquet, he seized her hands, with the gluttony of his happy age. She had to strike him to make him leave go. There was a young monkey who went it hot! She quite blushed and smiled as she scolded him. Then she sent him away, giving him permission to come again. He staggered; he could scarcely find the door. Nana returned to her dressing-room, where Francis appeared almost immediately to do her hair for the evening. She never dressed before then. Seated before the looking-glass, lowering her head beneath the skilful fingers of the hair-dresser, she remained silent and pensive, when Zoé entered, saying,
“Madame, there is one who will not go away.”
“Very well, then, let him stop,” she calmly replied.
“Besides, as fast as some go others come.”
“Never mind, tell them to wait. When they get very hungry they will go off!”
She had again altered her mind. It now delighted her to keep the men waiting. A sudden idea perfected her amusement. She escaped from Francis’s hands, and ran and bolted the door. Now they could come and fill the other rooms as much as they liked, they wouldn’t be able to pierce the walls, she supposed! Zoé could go in and out by the little door that led into the kitchen. However, the electric bell kept on as lively as ever. Every five minutes the sound came again, sharp and clear, with the regularity of a well-oiled machine; and Nana counted the tinklings by way of distraction. But a sudden recollection burst upon her.
“And my burnt almonds, what about them?” she cried.
Francis also was forgetting the burnt almonds. He withdrew a packet from the pocket of his frockcoat, with the discreet manner of a man of the world offering a present to a lady friend. However, each time his account was settled he did not forget to include the burnt almonds in the bill. Nana put the bag between her knees and commenced to munch, moving her head now and again, according to the gentle pushes of the hair-dresser.
“The deuce!” she murmured, after a short silence, “there’s a regular band of them.” Three times successively had the bell sounded. It scarcely ceased ringing. Some of the rings were very modest ones, they seemed to falter with the nervousness of a first avowal; others were very bold, vibrating beneath the touch of some rough hand; whilst others, still, were very hurried, and passed away in a moment. They produced an incessant peal, as Zoé said, sufficient to disturb the whole neighbourhood, all this crowd of men pushing in turn the ivory knob of the electric bell. It was too bad of that joker Bordenave. He had really given the address to too many persons—nearly all the previous night’s audience seemed to be calling.
“By the way, Francis,” said Nana, “have you five louis?”
He took a step backwards, scrutinized the head-dress, then quietly replied, “Five louis? well, that depends.”
“Oh! you know,” she returned, “if you want securities—”
And, without finishing the sentence, she nodded in the direction of the adjoining rooms. Francis lent the five louis. Zoé, in her moments of respite, came and prepared everything for her mistress’s toilet. Soon she had to come and dress her, whilst the hair-dresser waited, wishing to give a few finishing touches to his work. But the sound of the bell constantly called away the maid, who left her mistress with her stays half unlaced, or with only one stocking on. She got quite bewildered in spite of her experience. After having put men everywhere, even in the smallest corners, she was at length obliged to put three or four together, a proceeding which was altogether against her principles. Well, so much the worse if they ate each other, it would give more room! And Nana, safely bolted in, laughed at them, saying that she could hear them puffing and blowing. They must have a very queer look, all with their tongues hanging out, like a lot of puppies sitting on their haunches in a ring. It was the success of the previous evening continuing; this pack of men had followed on her trail.
“I hope they won’t break anything,” she murmured. She was commencing to get uneasy, under the influence of the hot breaths which percolated through the cracks. But Zoé ushered in Labordette, and the young woman uttered a cry of relief. He had called to tell her of an account he had settled for her at the office of the justice of the peace. She didn’t listen to him, but kept repeating, “I shall take you with me. We will dine together. Then you shall see me to the Variety Theatre. I don’t go on till half-past nine.”
That dear Labordette, he had just dropped in at the right time. He never asked for anything! He was merely the ladies’ friend, and interested himself in their little affairs. For instance, on coming in, he had sent all the creditors to the right about. Those worthy people, however, had not wished to be paid; on the contrary, if they persisted in waiting, it was merely to compliment madame, and personally to offer her their services after her great success.
“Let’s be off,” said Nana, who was now dressed.
Just then Zoé hastened into the room crying, “I cannot answer the bell again, madame. There’s a regular crowd coming up the stairs.”
A crowd on the stairs! Even Francis laughed, in spite of the coolness he affected, as he gathered up his combs. Nana, seizing hold of Labordette’s arm, dragged him into the kitchen; and, free at length of the men, she hurried away thoroughly happy, knowing that she could be alone with him, no matter where, without any fear of his making a fool of himself.
“You must bring me home again,” she said, as they went down the back stairs. “Then I shall be safe. Only fancy, I intend to sleep a whole night—a whole night all to myself! Just a whim of mine, old fellow!”
CHAPTER III
Countess Sabine, as Madame Muffat de Beuville was called to distinguish her from the count’s mother who had died the year before, received every Tuesday, at her house in the Rue de Miromesnil at the corner of the Rue de Penthièvre. It was a large square building, and had been occupied by the Muffat family for more than a hundred years past. The frontage, overlooking the street, was high and dark, and as quiet and melancholy-looking as a convent, with immense shutters which were nearly always closed; at the rear, in a little damp garden, some trees had grown up in their search for sunshine, so tall and lank that their branches could be seen overtopping the roof. On this particular Tuesday evening, towards ten o’clock, there were scarcely a dozen persons assembled in the drawing-room. When she was only expecting intimate friends the countess never threw open either the parlour or dining-room. One was more comfortable and could gather round the fire and chat. The drawing-room, moreover, was very large and very high; four windows looked on to the garden, the dampness of which could be more especially felt on this showery April evening, in spite of the substantial logs burning in the fireplace. The sun never shone there. In the day-time a greenish light only very imperfectly illuminated the apartment; but at night-time, when the lamps and the chandelier were lit, it merely looked solemn, with the massive mahogany furniture in the style of the First Empire, and the hangings and chair-coverin
gs in yellow velvet ornamented with satin-like designs. On entering the room one found oneself in an atmosphere of cold dignity, of ancient customs and of a past age, exhaling an odour of godliness. However, on the side of the fireplace, facing the arm-chair in which the count’s mother died—a square chair with stiff straight woodwork and hard cushions—the Countess Sabine was reclining in a low easy-chair, covered with crimson silk, the padding of which had the softness of eider-down. It was the only modern article of furniture in the room, the gratification of a fancy which seemed like a blasphemy amidst the surrounding austerity.
“So,” the young woman was saying, “we are to have the Shah of Persia.”
They were talking of the great personages who were coming to Paris on account of the Exhibition. Several ladies were seated in a semicircle round the fire. Madame du Joncquoy, whose brother, a diplomatist, had fulfilled a mission in the East, was giving some details respecting the Court of that potentate.
“Are you unwell, my dear?” asked Madame Chantereau, the wife of an iron-founder, seeing the countess shudder slightly and turn pale.
“Oh, no, not at all,” replied the latter, with a smile. “I felt rather cold. This room takes such a long time to get warm!” and she looked along the walls, and up to the ceiling. Her daughter, Estelle, a young girl of sixteen, skinny and insignificant-looking, got up from the stool on which she was sitting, and came and silently replaced on the top of the fire one of the logs which had rolled off. Madame de Chezelles, one of Sabine’s convent friends, but five years younger than she, exclaimed:
“Well! I should like to have a drawing-room like yours! You, at least, are able to receive. In modern houses the rooms are no bigger than boxes. If I was in your place—”
She spoke thoughtlessly, with animated gestures, explaining that she would change the hangings, the seats, everything; then she would give balls to which all Paris would long to be invited. Behind her, her husband, a judge, listened with a grave face. It was said that she deceived him, and openly, too; but every one forgave her, and received her all the same, because, so the report ran, she was mad.
