by Emile Zola
“I say, my child,” observed Bordenave, “supposing we adjourn to supper. We have our full number, have we not?”
“Oh! yes, to be sure we have our full number!” she replied, laughing.
She looked about her. But she suddenly became serious, as though surprised at not seeing some one there. There was doubtless still one guest missing, of whom she had not spoken. They must wait. A few minutes later they noticed in their midst a tall gentleman with a noble-looking countenance and a handsome white beard. And the strange thing was that no one had seen him enter the room; he must have got into the parlour from the bedroom by a door that was left ajar. Only some whispering broke the silence. Count de Vandeuvres evidently knew the gentleman, for they had very discreetly shaken each other by the hand, but he only answered the women’s questions with a smile. Then Caroline Héquet, in a low voice, bet he was an English nobleman who was returning to London on the morrow to be married; she knew him well, in fact only too well. This story went the round of the ladies, only Maria Blond pretended, on her side, that he was a German ambassador, and to prove it said that he was most intimately acquainted with one of her lady friends. The men, in a few words, rapidly judged him. He looked like a person of means. Perhaps he stood the supper. It was probable. It appeared like it. Well! what did it matter so long as the supper was good? At all events, every one remained in doubt; they were already forgetting the presence of the old gentleman with the white beard, when the head-waiter opened the drawing-room door.
“Madame is served.”
Nana took Steiner’s arm, without seeming to notice a movement on the part of the old gentleman, who therefore walked behind her, all by himself. Besides, it was out of the question to go in in couples. The men and women all entered anyhow, pleasantly joking on the want of ceremony, like so many worthy tradespeople. A long table stretched from one end of the large room to the other, and yet this table was too small, for the plates on it all touched. Four candelabra, with ten candles each, lighted it up; there was one especially in plated metal, with sheaves of flowers on either side. It was the luxury of a restaurant—plates and dishes without initials or crests, but with gold lines round them, plate worn and tarnished by constant washings, glasses that were almost all odd ones and of the commonest patterns. It was like a house-warming given too soon, in the midst of a sudden accession to fortune, and before anything had been put straight. A gasalier was wanting; the candles of the candelabra, being very tall, could only be snuffed with difficulty, and shed a yellow and feeble light over the dessert dishes, the centrepieces, and the glass plates in which the fruit, the cakes, and the preserves were alternated symmetrically.
“You know,” said Nana, “you must all seat yourselves as you like. It’s more amusing.”
She was standing up at the middle of the table. The old gentleman, whom no one knew, had placed himself on her right, whilst she kept Steiner on her left. Some of the guests were already seating themselves, when a storm of oaths issued from the parlour. It was Bordenave who had been forgotten, and who had the greatest difficulty in the world in getting up from his two chairs, bawling away, shouting for that jade Simone, gone off with the others. The women, full of pity, hastened to him. Bordenave soon appeared, supported, almost carried, by Caroline, Clarisse, Tatan Néné, and Maria Blond, and it was quite an affair to place him comfortably.
“In the middle of the table, opposite Nana!” they all cried. “Bordenave in the middle! He shall preside!”
Then the ladies seated him in the place indicated; but he required a second chair for his leg. Two of the women raised the injured limb and carefully placed it out straight. It didn’t matter, he would only have to eat sideways.
“Confound it all!” he groaned; “it’s a deuced tight fit! Ah, my little darlings! you must look well after papa.”
He had Rose Mignon on his right hand and Lucy Stewart on his left. They promised to take every care of him. The others now all hastened to seat themselves. The Count de Vandeuvres placed himself between Lucy and Clarisse, and Fauchery between Rose Mignon and Caroline Héquet. On the other side of the table Hector de la Faloise had hurriedly taken the seat next to Gaga, in spite of Clarisse, who sat facing them; whilst Mignon, who stuck as close as possible to Steiner, was only separated from him by Blanche, having Tatan Néné on his left. Then came Labordette, whilst at the ends of the table were several young men and some women, Simone, Léa de Horn, Maria Blond, all jumbled up together, without the least order. It was there that Daguenet and George Hugon sympathised with each other more and more as they smilingly watched Nana. There was a good deal of chaffing, however, as two persons had been unable to find seats. The men offered their knees. Clarisse, who could not move her elbows, told Vandeuvres that he would have to feed her. That Bordenave, he occupied such a lot of room with his two chairs! There was a final effort, another squeeze, and every one was at last seated; but as Mignon exclaimed, they were packed like herrings in a barrel.
“Asparagus soup—Deslignacaf soup,” murmured the waiters, as they handed round the plates behind the guests.
Bordenave was advising every one to take the Deslignac soup, when a shout of protestation and anger rose. The door had a once more opened, and three late comers, a woman and two men, had entered the room. Oh, no! it was too much; it would never do! Nana, however, without leaving her chair, shaded her eyes, and tried to see if she knew them. The woman was Louise Violaine but she had never seen the men before.
“My dear,” said Vandeuvres, “this gentleman, M. de Foucarmont, whom I invited, is a friend of mine and a naval officer.”
Foucarmont, bowing in an easy sort of way, added, “And I ventured to bring one of my friends.”
“Oh! quite right, quite right,” said Nana, “pray be seated. Come, Clarisse, move a little this way. You have lots of room over there. There, now, with a little good will.”
They all squeezed together closer than ever, and Foucarmont and Louise managed to get a tiny corner of the table for themselves; but the friend had to sit at some distance from his plate, and eat by passing his arms between his neighbours’ shoulders. The waiters removed the soup plates, and truffled rabbit formed the next course. Bordenave created quite a row by stating that he had had the idea of bringing Prullière, Fontan, and old Bosc. Nana became most dignified at once. She said sharply that she would have received them in a way that they would not have liked. If she had wanted her comrades she was quite capable of asking them herself. No, no; she would have none of that sort. Old Bosc was always drunk, Prulliere was a good deal too conceited; and as for Fontan, he made himself quite unbearable in society, with his loud voice and his stupidity. Then, you see, such wretched strollers as they were always out of place with gentlemen.
“Yes, yes; it’s quite true,” declared Mignon.
All these gentlemen seated round the table looked very stylish in their dress suits, and with their pale faces, which their fast way of living rendered all the more refined. The old gentleman was very deliberate in his movements, and smiled serenely, as though he were presiding at a congress of diplomatists. Vandeuvres was so exquisitely polite to the ladies on either side of him, that one might have thought him at Countess Muffat’s. That very morning Nana had said to her aunt that one could not hope for better sort of men, all noble or else rich—in fact, men who were quite the fashion; and as for the ladies, they behaved themselves very well. A few—Blanche, Léa, Louise—had come with low-neck dresses. Gaga alone displayed more, perhaps, than she ought, especially as at her age she had far better have shown nothing at all. Now that they had all managed to seat themselves, the laughter and chaffing ceased. George could not help thinking that he had assisted at much livelier meals at the houses of the middle-class citizens of Orleans. There was hardly any conversation. The men, not knowing one another, merely stared, and the women kept very quiet. That was what most astonished George. He thought them very slow—he had expected that there would have been a great deal of kissing at once.
They were serving the next course, consisting of Rhine carp and venison cooked in the English style, when Blanche said, out loud, “Lucy, my dear, I met your Ollivier on Sunday. How tall he has grown!”
“Well, you know! he is eighteen years old,” replied Lucy. “It doesn’t make me look any the younger. He went back to school yesterday.”
Her son Ollivier, of whom she spoke with pride, was a student at the naval school. Then they started talking of the children. All the ladies became very tender-hearted. Nana told them how happy she was; her baby, her little Louis, was now at her aunt‘s, who brought him to see her every morning at eleven o’clock, and she took him into bed with her, where he played with Lulu, her terrier. It would make you laugh to see them get under the clothes right down to the bottom of the bed. No one had any idea how sharp little Louis had already become.
“Oh! yesterday, I had such a day of it!” related Rose Mignon in her turn. “Only fancy, I went and fetched Charles and Henri from their school, and in the evening they insisted on going to the theatre. They jumped for joy and clapped their little hands: ‘We shall see mamma act! we shall see mamma act!’ Oh! they were quite delighted!”
Mignon smiled complacently, his eyes wet with tears of paternal love. “And during the performance,” he continued, “they were so funny, looking as serious as men, devouring Rose with their eyes, and asking me why their mamma hadn’t any clothes on her legs.”
Every one round the table burst out laughing. Mignon triumphed, flattered in his paternal pride. He adored the little ones, his only anxiety was to increase their fortune by administering, with all the skill of a faithful steward, the money which Rose earned at the theatre and elsewhere. At the time they married, when he was leader of the band at the music-hall where she was engaged to sing, they loved each other passionately. Now they remained merely good friends. It was all arranged between them. She worked as hard as she could, with all her talent and with all her beauty; he had given up his violin the better to watch over her successes as an actress and a woman. One could never have found a more comfortable or united couple.
“How old is the eldest?” asked Vandeuvres.
“Henri is nine years old,” replied Mignon. “Oh! but he’s so strong! ”
Then he chaffed Steiner, who did not care for children, and told him with quiet audacity that if he were a father he would not squander his fortune so stupidly. Whilst talking, he kept eyeing the banker across Blanche’s shoulders, to see how he was getting on with Nana. But, for some minutes past, Rose and Fauchery, who had been speaking very close to each other, had made him rather anxious. He hoped Rose was not going to waste her time with such stupidity. If she were he would make it his business to prevent it. And with his well-shaped hands, which sported a diamond ring on the little finger, he finished cutting up his venison steak. The conversation about children, however, continued. La Faloise, rendered quite bashful by Gaga’s proximity, began to ask her for news of her daughter, whom he had had the pleasure of seeing with her at the Variety Theatre. Lili was very well, but she was still quite a tomboy! He was quite astounded when he heard that she was almost nineteen years old. Gaga at once became in his eyes far more imposing. And as he tried to find out why she had not brought Lili with her—
“Oh, no! never, never!” she said, highly indignant. “Only three months ago she insisted on leaving school. I wished to marry her at once. But she loves me so much, I was obliged to have her with me, ah! quite against my wish, I assure you.”
Her blue eyelids, with the lashes all burnt away, blinked as she spoke of settling the young lady in life. If, at her age, she had never been able to put a sou on one side—always working, obliging the men still, especially very young ones, whose grandmother she might have been—it was really because a good marriage was worth far more. She leaned towards La Faloise, who turned quite red beneath the enormous naked and plastered shoulder with which she almost crushed him.
“You know,” she murmured, “if she makes a mistake, it won’t be my fault. But girls are so peculiar when they are young!”
There was a good deal of commotion going on round the table. The waiters hurried about. The next course, consisting of fattened pullets, fillets of sole and stewed liver, made its appearance. The head-waiter, who, in the way of wine, had up till then only offered Meursault, now sent round some Chambertin and some Léoville. In the slight hubbub occasioned by the changing of the plates, George, more surprised than ever, asked Daguenet if all the ladies had children; and he, amused by the questions, gave him a few particulars.
Lucy Stewart was the daughter of a porter of English origin employed on the Northern Railway; she was thirty-nine years old, with the head of a horse, but nevertheless a most adorable person, frightfully consumptive yet never dying—the greatest swell of all the women there, and who could count amongst her conquests three princes and a duke. Caroline Héquet, who was born at Bordeaux, was the daughter of a clerk in humble circumstances, who died of shame. She had the good luck to possess a mother who was a strong-minded woman, and who, after cursing her and indulging in a year’s reflection, suddenly restored her to her place in the maternal affections, with the object of watching over her fortunes. The daughter, who was twenty-five years old, and of a very cold nature, enjoyed the reputation of being one of the prettiest women in the market, at the price that never varied. The mother, a very orderly woman, kept the books with the utmost accuracy as to profit and loss, and managed the entire establishment from the small apartment she occupied two floors above, and where she had set up a dressmaking business for the production of her daughter’s elegant costumes and underclothing. As for Blanche de Sivry, whose real name was Jacqueline Baudu, she came from a village near Amiens. She was magnificently shaped but was very stupid and a great liar, pretending her grandfather was a general and not owning to her thirty-two years. She was very much in vogue with the Russians, on account of her corpulence.
Then Daguenet rapidly added a few details about the others. Clarisse Besnus was brought from Saint-Aubin-sur-Mer to Paris by a lady as nursery maid, and was debauched by the husband, who started her in her new career. Simone Cabiroche, the daughter of a furniture dealer of the Faubourg Saint-Antoine, was educated at a high-class school with the object of becoming a governess; and Maria Blond, and Louise Violaine, and Lea de Horn, had all been driven on to the streets, without counting Tatan Néné, who had tended cattle until twenty years old, in the beggarly Champagne. George listened, watching the women as he did so, and feeling quite dazed and excited by such a cynical undressing coarsely muttered into his ear; whilst, behind him, the waiters kept repeating in a respectful tone of voice, “Fattened pullet—fillet of sole.”
“My boy,” said Daguenet, giving him the benefit of his experience, “don’t take any fish, it’s not advisable to do so so late at night as this; and stick to the Léoville, it is less treacherous.”
The atmosphere was becoming quite impregnated with the heat from the candles and the fumes of the dishes and of everything else on the table, around which thirty-eight persons were almost suffocating; and the waiters, becoming careless, were scurrying about over the carpet, which was already grease-stained in several places. The supper, however, still continued a rather quiet affair. The ladies trifled with their food, leaving half of it on their plates. Tatan Néné alone ate greedily of everything. At that late hour of the night there were nothing but nervous appetites, the caprices of disordered stomachs. Seated beside Nana the old gentleman declined all the dishes offered him. He had merely taken a spoonful of soup; and he silently looked about him in front of his empty plate. There was a good deal of discreet yawning. Now and again some of the guests quite closed their eyes, whilst the faces of others became really cadaverous-looking. It was most awfully slow, as Vandeuvres said. Suppers of that sort, to be amusing, should not be too select. Otherwise, if all were on their good behaviour, and everything was highly respectable, one might just as well go and feed in good society, where one could n
ot be more bored. If it hadn’t been for Bordenave, who continued his shouting, every one would have gone to sleep. The lazy beast, his leg carefully stretched out, put on the airs of a sultan, as he allowed his neighbours, Lucy and Rose, to wait on him. They did nothing but look after him and pamper him, and see that his glass and his plate were constantly filled; but all that did not prevent him complaining.
“Who will cut up my meat for me? I can’t do it myself, the table is a mile away.”
Every moment Simone continued going and standing behind him, and cutting up his meat and his bread. All the women interested themselves in what he had to eat. They called back the waiters and had his plate filled again and again. Then Simone having wiped his mouth, whilst Rose and Lucy changed his plate and knife and fork, he thought it all very nice; and, deigning at last to show his pleasure, he said, “There! You are right, my girl. A woman is made for nothing else.”
Every one began to wake up a bit, and the conversation became more general. Some orange sherbet had just been served round. The hot roast was a truffled fillet of beef, and the cold roast a galantine of guinea-fowl with jelly. Nana, who was quite put out by the want of animation among her guests, now commenced to talk very loud.
