by Emile Zola
“Well! exclaimed a woman’s hoarse voice, ”I thought they were going to keep us to-night! They’re always having calls!”
It was the end; the curtain had just gone down. There was a rush up the staircase, which resounded with exclamations of all kinds; everyone was in a violent hurry to get dressed and go home. As Count Muffat reached the foot of the stairs he saw Nana and the prince walking slowly along the passage. Stopping suddenly, the young woman smiled and said in a low tone of voice:
“Very well, then; in a few minutes.”
The prince returned to the stage, where Bordenave awaited him. Then, finding himself alone with Nana, Muffat gave way to an impulse of rage and desire and hastened after her, and, just as she reached her dressing-room, he kissed her roughly on the back of the neck, where the little golden curls hung between her shoulders. It was as though he was returning the kiss he had received upstairs. Nana, in a fury, raised her arm, but, when she recognised the count, she smiled.
“Oh! you frightened me,” was all she said.
And her smile was adorable, confused and submissive, as if she had despaired of that kiss and was happy at having received it. But she could not respond to it, neither then nor on the morrow. They must wait. Even if she had not been obliged to do so, she would have made him wait. Her look said all these things. At length she resumed:
“You know, I am a landowner now. Yes, I have purchased a small estate near Orleans, in a part of the country where you go sometimes. Baby told me so—little George Hugon; you know him, do you not? Come and see me there.”
The timid count, frightened at his own rude outburst, ashamed of what he had done, bowed ceremoniously and promised to avail himself of her invitation. Then he went off to rejoin the prince, walking as though in a dream, and as he passed the green-room he heard Satin exclaim:
“You are a dirty old beast! Leave me alone!”
It was the Marquis de Chouard, who, for want of some one better had pitched upon Satin. The latter thought she had decidedly had enough of those fashionable people. Nana had, it is true, presented her to Bordenave; but it had bored her too much to remain all the while with her mouth shut, for fear of saying something stupid, and she wanted to make up for the waste of time, the more especially as she had run against an old flame of hers in the wings, the super who personated Pluto, a pastry-cook who had already given her a whole week of love and blows. She was waiting for him, and felt greatly annoyed with the marquis for addressing her as though she was one of the women of the theatre. So she ended by saying in a very dignified tone of voice:
“My husband will be here directly, and then you will see!”
The actors, with their overcoats on, and looking very fatigued, now began to leave one by one. Groups of men and women went down the little winding staircase, casting shadows of old knocked-about hats and ragged shawls on the wall, with the ghastliness of strollers who have wiped off their rouge. On the stage, where all the gas-jets were being turned out, the prince was listening to an anecdote of Bordenave’s. He was waiting for Nana. When she at length appeared, the stage was in darkness, and the fireman was going round with a lantern giving a last look to everything. To save His Highness from having to go through the Passage des Panoramas, Bordenave had the doors opened of the corridor leading from near the doorkeeper’s room to the vestibule of the theatre, and several of the women scurried along there, delighted at escaping from the men who were waiting for them outside the stage-door. They pushed against each other, squeezing their way through, glancing back every instant, and holding their breath until they found themselves outside; whilst Fontan, Bosc, and Prulliere moved slowly off home, joking amongst themselves about the ladies’ protectors—solemn-looking gentlemen, who were walking up and down the Galerie des Variétés near the stage-door, at the same time that the damsels themselves were hastening along the Boulevards in the company of the chosen ones of their hearts. But Clarisse was especially cunning. She determined to beware of La Faloise. And, in fact, he was still in the doorkeeper’s room with the other gentlemen who obstinately stuck to Madame Bron’s chairs. They were all watching and listening intently; so, keeping close to a friend, she passed rapidly before them. The gentlemen blinked their eyes, bewildered by the rapid succession of skirts whirling round at the foot of the narrow stair-case, and quite despondent, after having waited so long for the ladies, at seeing them all disappear like that without being able to recognise a single one. The litter of black kittens were asleep on the oil-cloth, cuddled up against their mother, who, with a look of intense happiness, had separated her legs to receive them; whilst the big tortoise-shell cat, seated at the other end of the table with its tail stretched out, watched with its yellow eyes the women hurrying away.
“If His Highness will pass through here,” said Bordenave, at the foot of the stairs, as he pointed to the corridor.
A few women were still there pushing past each other. The prince followed Nana, and Muffat and the marquis came after them. It was a long passage situated between the theatre and the next house, in fact, a sort of narrow alley covered with a sloping roof, in which were two or three sky-lights. A dampness hung about the walls, and the footsteps resounded over the pavement the same as in a tunnel. It was full of the disorder of a garret. There was a carpenter’s bench, on which the doorkeeper’s husband occasionally planed a piece of scenery, and quite a collection of wooden barriers used of an evening to regulate the pressure of the crowd. Nana was obliged to hold up her skirts as she passed a water-tap which, not being properly turned off, was inundating the place. On reaching the vestibule everyone bowed. And when Bordenave was left alone, he summed up his opinion of the prince with a shrug of the shoulders, full of a disdainful philosophy.
“He’s a bit of a muff, all the same,” said he, without explaining himself further to Fauchery, whom Rose Mignon was taking home with her husband with the intention of making them good friends again.
Muffat found himself alone on the footpath outside. His Highness had quietly placed Nana in his carriage and driven off. The marquis, in a very excited state, had followed Satin and her super, contenting himself with keeping close to those two embodiments of vice, with the vague hope of their taking compassion on him. Then Muffat, his head as hot as a furnace, decided to go home on foot. All combat within him had ceased. A new era of life had drowned all his ideas and his beliefs of forty years’ standing. As he walked along the Boulevards the noise caused by the belated vehicles seemed to deafen him with the sound of Nana’s name, whilst in the gas-lamps a naked vision, Nana’s supple arms and her white shoulders, appeared to dance before his eyes, and he felt that he was wholly hers; he would have abjured all, have sold everything he possessed, to have had her with him but for one short hour that very night. It was his youth that was at length awakening within him, the gluttonous puberty of an adolescent that had suddenly become inflamed in the midst of his jesuitical coldness and his dignity of mature age.
CHAPTER VI
Count Muffat, accompanied by his wife and daughter, had arrived the previous evening at Les Fondettes, where Madame Hugon, who was alone with her son George, had invited them to come and spend a week. The house, built towards the end of the seventeenth century, was erected in the middle of an immense square enclosure, without a single ornament; but the garden contained some magnificent trees, and a series of playing fountains, supplied by neighbouring springs. On the road from Orleans to Paris it appeared like a flood of verdure, a bouquet of trees, breaking the monotony of that flat country, where cultivated fields could be seen as far as the horizon.
At eleven o’clock, when the second sounding of the bell had gathered every one round the luncheon table, Madame Hugon, with her kind, maternal smile, kissed Sabine on both cheeks, saying:
“You know that when in the country I always do so. Having you here makes me feel twenty years younger. Did you sleep well in your old room?” Then, without waiting for an answer, she turned toward Estelle, adding, “And this little one no
doubt slept soundly all night? Come and kiss me, my child.”
They had sat down in the vast dining-room, the windows of which looked on to the ornamental garden; but they only occupied one end of the big table, so as to be more together. Sabine was very merry, recalling the events of her childhood which this visit had awakened: months passed at Les Fondettes, long walks, a fall into one of the fountains one summer’s evening, an old romance of chivalry discovered on the top of some cupboard and read in winter, seated before a blazing fire of vine-cuttings; and George, who had not seen the countess for some months past, noticed a peculiar look about her, with something changed in the expression of her face; whilst that stick, Estelle, on the contrary, seemed more a nonentity than ever, still more awkward and dumb. As they were eating some boiled eggs and some cutlets done very plainly, Madame Hugon began to complain, as only the mistress of a household can, of the outrageous prices the butchers were charging for their meat. She had to have everything from Orleans, and they never sent her the pieces she ordered. Besides, if her guests fared badly it was their own fault; they came too late in the season.
“It is most foolish,” said she. “I have been expecting you ever since last June, and now we are in the middle of September. As you see, it is no longer so nice out of doors.”
With a gesture, she indicated the trees on the lawn, the leaves of which were commencing to turn yellow. It was a cloudy day, a kind of bluey mist obscured the horizon in a melancholy peacefulness.
“Oh! I am expecting some people,” continued she; “it will be more lively. First, there are two gentlemen whom George has invited, M. Fauchery and M. Daguenet. You know them, do you not? Then M. de Vandeuvres, who has promised to come these five years past. This year, perhaps, he will really do so.”
“Ah, well!” said the countess, laughing, “we have not much to expect if we have only M. de Vandeuvres to look forward to! He is too busy.”
“And Philippe!” queried Muffat.
“Philippe has asked for leave,” replied the old lady, “but you will probably have left Les Fondettes before he arrives.”
The coffee had just been served, and the conversation had turned to Paris, when Steiner was mentioned. On hearing the name, Madame Hugon uttered a faint cry.
“By the way,” said she, “M. Steiner is that stout gentleman I met at your house one evening, is he not? a banker, I think. He is a terrible man. He has bought an actress a small estate about a league from here, on the other side of the Choue, near Gumières! Every one in the neighbourhood is scandalized. Did you know of it, my friend?”
“Not at all,” replied Muffat. “Ah! so Steiner has bought an estate near here?”
On hearing his mother approach this subject, George buried his nose in his cup; but, surprised at the count’s answer, he raised his head again, and looked Muffat full in the face. Why had he lied so deliberately? The count having, on his side, noticed the young man’s movement, glanced at him with suspicion. Madame Hugon gave some further particulars. The estate was called La Mignotte. To reach it you had to follow the course of the Choue as far as Gumières, where there was a bridge, and that made the road a good two miles longer; otherwise you had to wade across the stream, and risk falling in.
“And what is the actress’s name?” asked the countess.
“Ah! I had heard it mentioned,” murmured the old lady. “George, you were there this morning, when the gardener was talking—”
George made a pretence of trying to recollect. Muffat waited, turning a teaspoon between his fingers meanwhile. Then the countess, addressing him, said, “Is not M. Steiner living with that singer of the Variety Theatre, that Nana?”
“Nana; yes, that is the name. A most abandoned woman!” exclaimed Madame Hugon, who was losing her temper. “And they are expecting her at La Mignotte. I have heard all about it from the gardener. George, did not the gardener say they expected her this evening?”
The count started slightly with surprise. But George hastily replied, “Oh, mamma! the gardener spoke without knowing. Only a little while ago the coachman was saying something quite different. No one is expected at La Mignotte until the day after to-morrow.”
He tried to talk in a natural manner, and watched the count from out of the corner of his eye, to see the effect of his words. Muffat, with a reassured look, was again turning the spoon between his fingers. The countess, gazing vaguely on the bluey horizon, seemed to be miles away from the conversation, as she followed, with the shadow of a smile, a secret thought suddenly awakened within her; whilst Estelle, erect on her chair, had listened to all that had been said about Nana without a change on her pale virgin face.
“Well! really now,” murmured Madame Hugon, after a pause, her good nature triumphing, “it is wrong of me to feel angry. Every one must live. If we should ever meet this person in our walks, the only thing to do is not to take any notice of her.”
And, as they rose from the table, she again scolded Countess Sabine for having been so long in coming to see her; but the countess excused herself, saying the delay was all her husband’s fault. Twice when they had been ready to start, with their trunks all packed, he had put off their departure, saying that some very important matters required his presence in Paris; then he had suddenly given orders for starting, just as the journey seemed definitely abandoned. Then the old lady related that George had in the same way announced to her his coming on two separate occasions, but had not made his appearance at either time, and that he had suddenly arrived at Les Fondettes two days before when she was no longer expecting him. They had now entered the garden. The two men, looking very important, were walking on either side of the ladies, and listening to them in silence.
“All the same,” said Madame Hugon, as she kissed her son’s fair hair, “it is very kind of Zizi to come and bury himself in the country with his old mother. Dear Zizi! he does not forget me!”
During the afternoon, she became very uneasy. George, who directly after lunch had complained of pains in the head, appeared to be gradually overcome by a most violent headache. Towards four o’clock he said he would go upstairs to bed, it was the best remedy; when he had had a good sleep till morning he would be all right again. His mother persisted in putting him to bed herself. But, as she left the room, he ran and locked the door after her, pretending that he did so that no one might come and disturb him; and he called out, “Good night, mother dear!” in a most loving tone of voice, and promised to sleep soundly through the night. He did not go back to bed, however, but with a bright complexion and sparkling eyes he noiselessly dressed himself again, then, seating himself in a chair, he patiently waited. When the dinner bell rang he watched for Count Muffat, whom he saw enter the drawing-room. Ten minutes later, certain of not being seen, he nimbly escaped from the house by the window of his room, and slid down a water pipe to the ground. He found himself in the midst of a shrubbery, and was soon outside the grounds; and, with an empty stomach, and a heart thumping with emotion, he ran across country in the direction of the Choue. Darkness was setting in, and a fine rain had commenced to fall.
It was indeed that evening that Nana was expected at La Mignotte. Ever since the month of May, when Steiner had bought her her country residence, she was every now and then seized with such a longing to go and inhabit it, that she would burst into tears; but each time Bordenave refused her the smallest holiday, putting her off until September, on the pretext that he could not possibly replace her by an under-study, even for one night, during the time of the Exhibition. Towards the end of August, he began to talk of October. Nana, furious, declared that she would be at La Mignotte by the 15th of September, and, to show that she meant what she said, she invited a number of people, in Bordenave’s presence, to go and stay there with her. One afternoon as Muffat, whose advances she artfully resisted, was passionately imploring her to be less cruel, she at length promised to be kind when she was in the country; and, to him also, she named the 15th as the date of her arrival there. Then, on the 12th, she
was seized with a desire to start off at once, alone with Zoé. Perhaps Bordenave, knowing that she wanted to go, would find some means of detaining her. It amused her to think of leaving him in the lurch by merely sending him a doctor’s certificate. When once the idea of being the first to arrive at La Mignotte, of living there two whole days without any one knowing of it, had seized hold of her, she made Zoé hurry the packing of the trunks and then pushed her into a cab, where, quite overcome, she kissed her and begged her pardon. It was only when she reached the railway station that she thought of sending a note to Steiner to inform him of her departure. She asked him to wait till the day after the morrow before joining her, if he wished to find her well and loving. Then, jumping to another idea, she wrote a second letter, in which she begged her aunt to bring little Louis to her at once. It would do baby so much good! and they would be so happy playing together under the trees! In the train, from Paris to Orleans, she could speak of nothing else, with her eyes full of tears, and mixing up together the flowers, the birds, and her child, in a sudden outburst of maternal affection.
La Mignotte was distant more than three leagues from Orleans. Nana lost an hour in securing a vehicle to take her there—an immense dilapidated open carriage, which rolled slowly along with a great jingling of old iron. She at once attacked the driver, a little taciturn old man, whom she belaboured with questions. Had he often passed by La Mignotte? So, it was behind that hill? There were probably plenty of trees there, were there not? And could the house be seen from a distance? The little old fellow only answered with grunts. Nana jumped about impatiently in the vehicle; whilst Zoé, annoyed at having had to leave Paris in such a hurry, remained stiff and sulky. The horse having suddenly stopped, the young woman thought they had arrived. She leant over towards the driver, asking:
“Is this the place?”
For all answer the coachman whipped up his horse, which painfully commenced ascending a hill. Nana was enchanted with the large expanse of country beneath the grey overcast sky.
