by Emile Zola
“I don’t feel at all sleepy!” said Nana, “Do let us do something.
She looked at the sky through the window panes—a sky of a livid colour, and over which floated sooty black clouds. It was six o’clock. Facing her, on the other side of the Boulevard Haussman, the houses were still hushed in sleep, their damp roofs standing out in the dim light; while a party of scavengers were passing along the deserted pavement, on which their wooden shoes resounded. In the presence of this mournful awakening of a gay city, Nana was seized with the emotion of a young girl, with an intense longing for the country, for an idyllic existence, for something pure and peaceful.
“Oh! I’ll tell you what,” said she, going up to Steiner, “you must take me to the Bois de Boulogne, and we will have some milk. ”
She clapped her hands with a childish joy, and ran to throw a pelisse over her shoulders, without waiting for any answer from the banker, who naturally consented, though inwardly annoyed, and dreaming of something very different. The only persons left in the drawing-room were the young men who had come in a body; but, having drained everything, even the glasses, into the piano, they were talking of leaving, when one of them triumphantly appeared, holding in his hand a last bottle, which he had discovered in the kitchen.
“Wait! wait!” cried he, “a bottle of chartreuse! There now, he wanted some chartreuse, that will bring him to again. And now, boys, let’s be off. We’re a set of idiots.”
Nana had to wake up Zoé, who had fallen asleep on a chair in the dressing-room. The gas was still burning. Zoé shivered as she helped her mistress to don her hat and pelisse.
“Well, it’s all over; I’ve done as you wished,” said Nana, in a most familiar manner, relieved at having at length made up her mind. “You were right, it may as well be the banker as another.”
The maid was sullen and still drowsy. She grunted that madame should have come to that decision on the first night. Then, as she followed her into the bedroom, she asked what she was to do with the two who were there. Bordenave had not left off snoring. George, who had slyly come and buried his head in a pillow, had ended by falling asleep, breathing as gently as a cherub. Nana told the girl to let them sleep. But all her tenderness returned on seeing Daguenet enter the room; he had been waiting for her in the kitchen—he looked very sad.
“Come now, my Mimi, be reasonable,” said she, taking him in her arms, and hugging him with all manner of fondling ways. “Nothing is altered, you know it is my Mimi alone whom I adore—don’t you now? I was obliged to do it. I swear to you, we shall be all the happier. Come to-morrow, we will settle the hours for seeing each other. Now, quick, kiss me as much as you love me—oh! more, more than that!”
And, tearing herself away from him, she rejoined Steiner, thoroughly happy and full of her fad of going to drink some new milk. In the room, now almost deserted, Count de Vandeuvres remained with the distinguished-looking gentleman who had recited “Abraham’s Sacrifice”; they were both seated at the card-table, no longer knowing what they were doing, and not noticing that it was broad daylight; whilst Blanche had curled herself up on the sofa, and tried to sleep.
“Ah! Blanche shall go too!” cried Nana. “We are going to drink some milk, my dear. Come quick, you can return here for Vandeuvres.”
Blanche lazily roused herself. This time the banker’s bloated face turned pale with annoyance at the idea of being accompanied by that fat girl, who would be in his way. But the two women were already leading him off, and repeating:
“You know, we must see the cows milked.”
CHAPTER V
The “Blonde Venus” was being performed for the thirty-fourth time at the Variety Theatre. The first act had just ended. Simone, got up as a washerwoman, was in the green-room, standing before a mirror placed between the two doors that opened on to the passage leading to the dressing-rooms. She was all alone, and, lighted by the naked flames of the gas-jets on either side, was occupied in improving her make-up by passing a finger under her eyes.
“Do you know if he’s arrived yet?” asked Prullière, who entered in his costume of a Swiss admiral, with his long sword, his high boots, and his immense plume.
“Whom do you mean?” said Simone, without disturbing herself, and laughing at the glass so as to see her lips.
“The prince.”
“I don’t know, I’m going down. Ah! so he’s coming. He comes, then, every day! ”
Prullière walked up to the fire-place, which faced the mirror, and in which a coke fire was burning; two gas-jets were flaring away on either side. He raised his eyes and looked at the clock and the barometer, placed to the right and the left, and accompanied by gilded sphinxes in the style of the Empire. Then he buried himself in a vast high-backed arm-chair, the green velvet of which, worn and soiled by four generations of actors, had here and there turned to a yellowish hue, and he remained there immovable, his eyes vaguely gazing into space, in the weary and resigned attitude of actors accustomed to the “waits” between their cues. Old Bosc had just made his appearance, coughing and shuffling his feet, and wrapped in an old yellow box-coat, which had slipped off one shoulder and displayed King Dagobert’s laminated golden cassock. For an instant, after having placed his crown on the piano, without saying a word, he angrily stamped his feet, looking all the while, however, a thoroughly good-natured fellow, with his hands slightly shaking from an over-abuse of alcohol, whilst a long white beard gave a venerable appearance to his inflamed tippling-looking face. Then, as the silence was broken by a shower of rain and hail striking against the panes of the large square window which looked on to the court-yard, he made a gesture of disgust.
“What beastly weather! ” he grunted.
Neither Simone nor Prullière moved. On the walls four or five pictures, landscapes, and a portrait of Vernet the actor, were gradually turning yellow through the beat of the gas. On the shaft of a column a bust of Potier, one of the old glories of the Variety Theatre, looked on with its empty eyes. But there suddenly arose the sounds of a voice. It was Fontan, in his second act dress, that of a stylish young man, clothed all in yellow, and with yellow gloves on his hands.
“I say!” he cried, gesticulating, “don’t you know?—it’s my saint’s-day to-day.”
“Is it now, really?” asked Simone, going up to him with a smile, as though attracted by his long nose and his big comical mouth. “Were you, then, christened Achilles?”
“Exactly! And I’m going to tell Madame Bron to bring up some champagne, after the second act.”
For a moment past a bell had been heard tingling in the distance. The prolonged sound died away and then returned; and, when the bell finally left off ringing, a cry resounded which went up and down the staircase and was lost in the passages : “The overture’s on for the second act! The overture’s on for the second act!” This cry at length approached the green-room, and a pale little man passed before the doors shouting at the top of his shrill voice: “The overture’s on for the second act! ”
“The deuce! champagne!” said Prullière, without seeming to have noticed the row. “You are going it fine.”
“Were I you, I’d have it sent in from the café,” slowly observed old Bosc, who had seated himself on a bench covered with green velvet, his head resting against the wall.
But Simone said they ought not to forget Madame Bron’s little profit. She clapped her hands, delighted, devouring Fontan with her eyes, whilst his goat-like face kept moving with a continual play of the eyes, nose, and mouth. “Oh! that Fontan!” she murmured; “there is nobody like him, there is nobody like him!”
The two doors were wide open, showing the passage leading to the dressing-rooms; and along the yellow wall, vividly lighted up by an unseen gas-lamp, shadows were rapidly passing of men in various costumes, women, half-naked, wrapped in shawls, all the chorus of the second act, with the masqueraders of the “Boule Noire”; and from the end of the passage one could hear the sound of their feet stamping on the five wooden steps which
led on to the stage. As tall Clarisse rapidly passed by, Simone called to her; but she answered that she would be back in a minute. And, in fact, she returned shortly afterwards, shivering in the thin tunic and sash which formed Iris’s costume.
“By Jove!” said she, “it isn’t very warm; and I’ve been and left my fur-cloak in my dressing-room!” Then, standing before the fire, warming her legs, the tights covering which showed the colour of the flesh beneath, she continued, “The prince has arrived.”
“Ah!” exclaimed the others inquisitively.
“Yes; I went to ascertain; I wanted to see. He is in the first stage-box on the right, the same as on Thursday. Well! it’s the third time he’s been in a week. Isn’t she lucky, Nana? I had bet that he wouldn’t come again.”
Simone opened her mouth, but her words were drowned by a fresh cry, which burst out close to the green-room. The shrill voice of the old call-boy shouted along the passage, “The curtain is going up!”
“Three times! Well, it’s becoming something surprising,” said Simone, as soon as she could be heard. “You know, he won’t go to her place; he takes her to his. And it seems it costs him a pretty penny.”
“Why, of course! one must pay for one’s enjoyments!” maliciously observed Prullière, rising to glance into the glass at his well-formed figure, which created such havoc among the occupants of the boxes.
“The curtain’s rising! the curtain’s rising!” repeated the old call-boy in the distance, as he hurried along the different passages.
Then Fontan, who knew what had taken place the first time between the prince and Nana, related the story to the two women who were squeezing up against him, and laughed very loud each time he stooped to give them certain details. Old Bosc, full of indifference, hadn’t moved. Such tales as that didn’t interest him. He was stroking a big tortoise-shell cat curled up asleep on the bench; and he ended by taking it in his arms with the tender simplicity of a crazy king. The cat arched its back; then, after sniffing a considerable while at his long white beard, disgusted, apparently, by the smell of the gum, it returned to the bench, where, curling itself up, it soon fell asleep. Bosc remained solemn and thoughtful.
“All the same, if I were you, I would have the champagne from the café; it will be much better,” said he suddenly to Fontan, as the latter finished his story.
“The curtain’s up!” drawlingly exclaimed the old call-boy in a cracked tone of voice. “The curtain’s up! the curtain’s up!”
The cry lasted for an instant, and then died away. There was a sound of scurrying footsteps; then the sudden opening of the door at the end of the passage admitted a blast of music, a distant hubbub, and the door closed again with a dull thud. Once more a heavy quiet reigned in the green-room, as though it were a hundred miles away from the crowded audience that was applauding vociferously. Simone and Clarisse were still talking of Nana. She never hurried herself!—only the night before she missed her entrance cue. But they stopped speaking as a tall girl thrust her head in at the door, then, seeing she had made a mistake, hurried off to the end of the passage. It was Satin, wearing a bonnet and veil, and looking like a lady out visiting. “A pretty piece of goods!” murmured Prullière, who had constantly been in the habit of seeing her for a year past at the Café des Variétés. And Simone related how Nana, having come across Satin, an old school-fellow of hers, had taken a great fancy to her, and was bothering Bordenave to bring her out.
“Hallo! good evening,” said Fontan, shaking hands with Fauchery and Mignon who just then entered.
Even old Bosc held out a finger, whilst the two women embraced Mignon.
“Is there a good house to-night?” inquired Fauchery.
“Oh! superb!” answered Prullière. “You should see how they’re all taking it in!”
“I say, my children,” remarked Mignon, “it’s time for you to go on, isn’t it?”
“Yes, shortly.” They did not appear till the fourth scene. Bosc alone rose, with the instinct of an old veteran of the boards who scents his cue from afar. And at that moment the old call-boy appeared at the door. “Monsieur Bosc! Mademoiselle Simone!” he cried.
Simone quickly threw a fur cloak over her shoulders, and hastened out. Bosc, without hurrying himself, fetched his crown and banged it on his head. Then, dragging his mantle after him, he went off, unsteady on his legs, grunting, and with the annoyed look of a man who has been disturbed.
“You said some very kind things in your last article,” remarked Fontan to Fauchery. “Only why did you state that comedians are vain?”
“Yes, young ’un, why did you say that?” exclaimed Mignon, bringing his enormous hands down on the journalist’s slender shoulders so roughly that the latter sank beneath the shock.
Prullière and Clarisse with difficulty refrained from laughing. For some time past the members of the company had been highly amused by a comedy that was being performed behind the scenes. Mignon, rendered furious by his wife’s infatuation, disgusted at seeing that Fauchery never contributed towards their expenses anything more than a questionable publicity, had conceived the brilliant idea of avenging himself by overwhelming the journalist with various proofs of his friendship. Every evening, when he met him behind the scenes, he quite belaboured him with blows, as though carried away by an excess of affection; and Fauchery, looking most puny beside this colossus, was obliged to submit, smiling the while in a constrained manner, so as not to quarrel with Rose’s husband.
“Ah! my fine fellow, so you insult Fontan!” resumed Mignon, continuing the farce. “Attention! One, two, and full in the chest!”
He had struck out and hit the young man so severe a blow that the latter remained for an instant very pale and quite speechless. But, with a wink of her eye, Clarisse drew the others’ attention to Rose Mignon, who was standing in the doorway. Rose had seen all that had passed. She went straight up to the journalist, as though unaware of her husband’s presence, and standing on tiptoe, her arms bare, and in her baby costume, she offered her forehead to him with a childish pout.
“Good evening, baby,” said Fauchery, familiarly kissing her.
That was his reward. Mignon pretended not to notice the embrace; every one kissed his wife at the theatre. But he laughed as he cast a rapid glance at the journalist. The latter would certainly pay dearly for Rose’s temerity. The door of the passage opened and shut, admitting the sound of tempestuous applause into the green-room. Simone had returned after going through her scene.
“Oh! old Bosc made such a hit!” cried she. “The prince was wriggling with laughter, and he applauded just like the others as though he had been paid to do so. I say, do you know the tall gentleman who is sitting beside the prince, in the stage-box? A handsome man, looking most dignified, and he’s got such lovely whiskers.”
“It’s Count Muffat,” replied Fauchery. “I know that the day before yesterday, at the Empress’s, the prince invited him to dinner for this evening. He probably prevailed upon him to come here afterwards.”
“Count Muffat! why we know his father-in-law, don’t we, Augustus?” asked Rose of Mignon. “You know the Marquis de Chouard, at whose house I went to sing? He is also here to-night. I noticed him at the back of a box. He’s an old—”
Prullière, who had just placed the hat with the enormous plume on his head, turned round and called to her, “Hi! Rose, look sharp!”
She hurried after him, without finishing her sentence. At this moment the doorkeeper of the theatre, Madame Bron, passed by, carrying an enormous bouquet. Simone jokingly asked if it was for her; but the old woman, without answering, indicated with her chin the door of Nana’s dressing-room at the end of the passage. That Nana! how they covered her with flowers. Then, as she returned, Madame Bron handed a letter to Clarisse, who muttered an oath beneath her breath. Again that confounded La Faloise! there was a fellow who wouldn’t leave her alone! And when she heard that the gentleman was waiting in the doorkeeper’s room, she exclaimed, “Tell him I’ll come down whe
n the act is over. I mean to smack his face.”
Fontan rushed forward, shouting, “Madame Bron, listen—now listen, Madame Bron. After the act bring up six bottles of champagne.”
But the old call-boy reappeared, quite out of breath, repeating in a singsong voice, “Every one on the stage! every one on the stage! Be quick, M. Fontan! Be quick! be quick!”
“Yes, yes, I’m going, old Barillot,” replied Fontan, quite bewildered; and, running after Madame Bron, he continued, “Now you understand? Six bottles of champagne, in the green-room, after the act. It’s my saint’s-day; I’m going to stand treat.”
Simone and Clarisse had gone off, making a great noise with their skirts. When they had all left, and the door at the end of the passage was once more closed, one could hear in the silence of the green-room the sound of a fresh shower striking against the window panes. Barillot, a little pale old man, who had been call-boy at the theatre for thirty years past, went familiarly up to Mignon and offered him his snuff-box. This pinch of snuff offered and accepted procured him a minute’s rest in his continual running up and down the stairs and passages. There was still, to be sure, Madame Nana, as he called her; but she only did as she chose, and never cared a fig for the fines. When she chose to miss her cue, she missed it. He stopped suddenly, murmuring in astonishment:
