Nana: By Emile Zola - Illustrated

by Emile Zola

  The mansion, however, was scarcely furnished, when Nana, one night that she had been most energetically swearing everlasting fidelity to Muffat, retained Count Xavier de Vandeuvres, who, for a fortnight past, had been paying court to her most assiduously, by means of visits and flowers. She gave way not through any infatuation, but rather to prove to herself that she was at liberty to do as she pleased. The interested motive came afterwards, when Vandeuvres, on the morrow, helped her to settle an account, that she would rather not mention to the other one. She would be able to get out of him about eight or ten thousand francs a month, which would be very useful by way of pocket money. He was just then finishing up his fortune in a violent fit of fever. His horses and Lucy had cost him three farms, and Nana was about to devour his last château, near Amiens, in a single mouthful. He seemed in a hurry to sweep off everything—even to the remains of the old castle, built by a Vandeuvres in the reign of Philip Augustusav—with a maddening appetite for ruins, and thinking it a fine thing to leave the last gold bezantsaw of his coat-of-arms in the hands of that girl whom all Paris desired. He also accepted Nana’s conditions—entire liberty and love at fixed times—without even being so passionately simple as to exact oaths. Muffat suspected nothing. As for Vandeuvres, he knew perfectly all that was going on; but he never made the slightest allusion. He affected ignorance, with the cunning smile of a sceptical man about town who does not expect impossibilities, so long as he has his own particular time, and that Paris knows it.

  Then Nana’s establishment was indeed complete. Nothing was wanting, either in the stables, the kitchen, or the bedroom. Zoé, who had the general management, found means of escape out of the most difficult entanglements. There was a kind of machinery in everything, as at a theatre. All was regulated as in a government office, and it worked with such precision, that for some months there was no hitch—nothing got out of gear. Only madame gave Zoé an immense deal of trouble, through her imprudence, her fads, and her foolish bravados. So the maid ended by being less careful, seeing that she made a far larger profit when anything had gone wrong—whenever madame had committed some new piece of stupidity that needed being set right. Then it rained presents, and she hooked louis in the troubled waters.

  One morning, when Muffat was still in the bed-room, Zoé ushered a gentleman, all in a tremble, into the dressing-room, where Nana was changing her under-garments.

  “Why! Zizi! said the young woman, in amazement.

  It was indeed George. But seeing her in her chemise, with her golden hair hanging over her naked shoulders, he seized hold of her, put his arms round her neck, and smothered her with kisses. She struggled, greatly frightened, saying, in a suppressed voice,

  “Leave off—do, he’s in there! It’s stupid of you! And you, Zoé, are you mad? Take him away! Keep him downstairs; I’ll try and come there.”

  Zoé had to push him before her. Downstairs in the dining-room, when Nana was able to rejoin them, she scolded them both. Zoé bit her lips, and went off looking very vexed, saying that she thought to have gratified madame in doing as she did. George looked at Nana with so much pleasure at seeing her again, that his beautiful eyes filled with tears. Now the evil days had gone by, his mother thought he had got over his infatuation, and had allowed him to leave Les Fondettes; but on reaching the Paris terminus, he had hastened in a cab to kiss his darling sweetheart as quickly as possible. He talked of living by her side for the future, the same as in the country, when he used to wait with bare feet in the bed-room at La Mignotte; and, as he told his story, he thrust out his fingers, through a longing to touch her after that year of cruel separation. He seized hold of her hands, felt up the wide sleeves of her dressing-gown, even as high as her shoulders.

  “You still love your baby?” he asked, in his child-like voice.

  “Of course I do!” replied Nana, who abruptly disengaged herself; “but you arrive here without a word of warning. You know, my little boy, I’m not free. You must be good.”

  George, who alighted from his cab dazzled by a long desire on the point of being satisfied, had not bestowed a glance on the place he entered. But now he was conscious of a great change around him. He examined the rich dining-room, with its lofty gilded ceiling, its Gobelin tapestry, and its sideboard shining with silver plate.

  “Ah, yes!” said he sadly.

  And she gave him to understand that he must never call in the morning. The afternoon, if he liked, between four and six o’clock, which was the time when she received company. Then, as he gazed at her with a supplicating look of interrogation, but without asking for anything, she kissed him on the forehead, in a very kind good-natured way.

  “Be very good, and I will do my best,” she murmured.

  But the truth was she no longer felt as she did in regard to him. She thought George very nice, she would have liked to have had him for a companion, but nothing more. However, when he came every day at four o’clock, he seemed so sad, that she often again yielded, permitted him to hide in her cupboards, and continually to pick up the crumbs of her beauty. In time, he scarcely ever left the house, where he was as much at home as the little dog Bijou, both of them among the mistress’s skirts, having a little of her, even when she was with another, and catching windfalls of sugar and caresses, in the hours of weary solitude.

  No doubt Madame Hugon heard of her boy’s new fall into the power of that bad woman, for she hurried to Paris and sought the assistance of her other son, Lieutenant Philippe, who was then in garrison at Vincennes. George, who had been hiding from the elder brother, was seized with despair, fearing the employment of force; and as he could keep nothing to himself, in the nervous expansion of his tender-heartedness, he soon talked to Nana, continually, of his big brother—a strong fellow who would dare anything.

  “You see,” he explained, “mamma will not come here herself, but she can very well send my brother. I’m sure she will send Philippe to fetch me.”

  The first time he mentioned this, Nana was greatly offended. She said sharply,

  “I should just like to see him do it! In spite of his being a lieutenant, François will very quickly send him to the right about! ”

  Then, the youngster constantly alluding to his brother, she ended by thinking a little of Philippe. When a week had gone by, she knew him from the hair of his head to the tips of his toes—very tall, very strong, lively and rather rough; and with all that, some more minute details, certain hairs on his arm, a mole on his shoulder. So that one day, full of the image of this man, whom she was to send off a little quicker than he came, she exclaimed,

  “I say, Zizi, it doesn’t seem as if your brother was coming. He must be a coward!”

  On the morrow, as George was alone with Nana, François came and asked if madame would receive Lieutenant Philippe Hugon. The youngster turned quite pale, and murmured,

  “I was expecting it; mamma spoke to me this morning.”

  And he implored the young woman to send word that she was engaged. But she had already risen and said, greatly incensed,

  “Why, pray? he’ll think I’m afraid. Ah, well! we’ll have a good laugh. François, let the gentleman wait a quarter of an hour in the drawing-room, and then bring him to me.”

  She did not sit down again but walked feverishly about, going from the looking-glass over the mantlepiece to a Venetian mirror hanging above a little Italian casket, and each time she gave a glance or essayed a smile, whilst George, lying on a sofa without an atom of strength left in him, trembled at the idea of the scene which was preparing. As she walked about she kept uttering short phrases:

  “It will calm the fellow to keep him waiting a quarter of an hour. And then, if he thinks he’s come to a nobody’s, the drawing-room will astonish him. Yes, yes, take a good look at everything, my friend; it’s all genuine. It’ll teach you to respect the mistress. It’s the only thing men can understand—respect. Is the quarter of an hour gone yet? No, scarcely ten minutes. Oh! we’ve plenty of time.”

  She coul
d not keep still. When the quarter was up she sent George away, after making him swear not to listen at the doors, for it would look very bad if the servants were to see him. As he went into the bed-room, Zizi ventured to say in a choking voice,

  “You know, it’s my brother—”

  “Don’t be afraid,” said she with dignity; “if he’s polite, I’ll be polite.”

  François ushered in Philippe Hugon, who was attired in an overcoat. At first George moved across the bed-room on the tips of his toes, so as not to listen, as the young woman had told him; but, hearing the voices, he stopped, hesitating, and so full of anguish that his legs yielded beneath him. He was fancying all manner of things—catastrophes, slaps, something abominable that would sever him for ever from Nana; so much so that he could not resist retracing his footsteps and putting his ear to the key-hole. He heard very indistinctly, as the thickness of the hangings deadened the sound. Yet he was able to catch a few words uttered by Philippe, harsh phrases in which occurred such expressions as “child, family, honour.” In his anxiety to hear what his darling would reply, his heart beat wildly, almost stunning him with its confused hum. No doubt she would retaliate with a “stupid fool!” or a “go to the deuce, I’m in my own house!” But nothing came from her, not even the sound of breathing ; it seemed as though Nana was dead in there. Soon, too, his brother’s voice became softer. He could no longer understand anything, when suddenly a strange noise completed his amazement. It was Nana sobbing. For an instant contrary feelings struggled within him. He felt impelled to run away—to rush in at Philippe. But just at that moment Zoé entered the bed-room, and he withdrew from the door, ashamed at having been caught.

  She quietly put some linen away in a cupboard, whilst he, dumb and immovable, and a prey to uncertainty, pressed his forehead against a window-pane. After a short silence, she asked:

  “Is it your brother who’s with madame?”

  “Yes,” replied he, in a choking voice.

  “And are you uneasy about it, Monsieur George?” she inquired after another silence.

  “Yes,” he repeated with the same painful difficulty.

  Zoé did not hurry herself. She folded up some lace, and then said slowly,

  “You should not be. Madame will settle everything all right.”

  And that was all. They did not speak again; but she did not leave the room. For another quarter of an hour she moved about, without noticing the exasperation of the youth, who grew pale with constraint and doubt. He gave side glances in the direction of the drawing-room. What could they be doing all that while? Perhaps Nana was still crying. The ruffian must have slapped her. So when Zoé at length went off, he ran back to the door, and again held his ear to the key-hole; and he was quite bewildered, his brain in a whirl, for he heard a sudden burst of gaiety, tender voices whispering, and the smothered laughter of a woman being tickled. But almost immediately Nana conducted Philippe to the staircase, with an interchange of cordial and familiar expressions. When George at length ventured into the parlour, the young woman was standing in front of the mirror, looking at herself.

  “Well?” he asked, scarcely able to say a word.

  “Well, what?” said she, without turning round. Then she negligently added, “What were you saying? He’s a very nice fellow, your brother!”

  “Then it’s all settled?”

  “Of course, it’s settled. Really! what’s the matter with you? Did you think we were going to fight?”

  But still George did not understand. “I thought I heard—” he stammered out. “Have you not been crying?”

  “Crying? I?” she exclaimed, looking him straight in the face. “You were dreaming! Whatever did you think I had to cry about?”

  And the youngster got still more confused when she scolded him for having been disobedient and listened at the key-hole, spying upon her. As she continued cross with him, he resumed, very submissively and coaxingly, wishing to know,

  “Then my brother?”

  “Your brother saw at once where he was. You see I might have been some low common girl, and then he would have been right to interfere, on account of your age and the family honour. Oh! I understand those feelings. But a glance was sufficient for him; he behaved like a man of the world. So don’t be uneasy—it’s all over; he will ease your mother’s mind.” And she continued with a laugh, “Besides, you’ll see your brother here. I’ve invited him, and he’ll come.”

  “Ah! he’s coming again,” said the youngster, turning pale.

  He said nothing more, and they no longer talked of Philippe. She was dressing to go out, and he watched her with his big sad eyes. No doubt he was pleased that matter had been arranged, for he would have preferred death to not seeing Nana again; but in his heart there was a silent anguish, a deep pain, which he had never felt before, and which he did not dare to mention. He never knew how Philippe had quieted their mother’s anxiety. Three days later she returned to Les Fondettes, seeming quite satisfied. That same night, at Nana’s, he started when François announced the lieutenant. The latter gaily chaffed him, treated him as a boy whose escapade he had winked at, as it was of no consequence. George, feeling sick at heart, not daring to move, blushed like a girl at the least word. He had lived but little with Philippe, who was ten years older than he. He feared him as a father, from whom one hides one’s little adventures with women; and he felt an uneasy shame on seeing him so free with Nana, laughing very loud, full of health, and thoroughly enjoying himself. However, as his brother soon called every day, George began to get used to his presence. Nana was radiant with joy. It was a last change of residence in the full fling of a courtesan’s life—a house-warming insolently given in a mansion overflowing with men and furniture.

  One afternoon, when the two Hugons were there, Count Muffat called outside his regular hours; but Zoé having told him that madame was with some friends, he went away again, without seeing her, in the discreet style of a gallant gentleman. When he came back in the evening, Nana received him in the cold, angry way of an insulted woman.

  “Sir,” said she, “I have given you no reason for insulting me. Understand that when I am at home you are to enter like every one else!”

  The count stood with his mouth wide open. “But, my dear—” he attempted to explain.

  “Because I had visitors perhaps! Yes, there were some men here. And what, pray, do you think I do with them? It causes a woman to be talked about, affecting those airs of a discreet lover, and I do not wish to be talked about!”

  He had great difficulty in obtaining forgiveness. At heart he was delighted. It was by similar scenes to this that she kept him obedient and convinced of her fidelity. For some time past she had made him submit to George’s presence—a youngster who amused her, so she said. She got him to dine with Philippe, and the count was very amiable. On leaving the table, he took the young man on one side, and asked him for news of his mother. From that time the Hugons, Vandeuvres, and Muffat, openly belonged to the establishment, where they met together as intimate friends. It was more convenient. Muffat alone still discreetly timed his visits so as not to call too often, and invariably affected the ceremonious air of a stranger. At night-time, when Nana, seated on the floor on her bear-skins, pulled off her stockings, he talked in a friendly way of the other gentlemen, of Philippe especially, who was loyalty itself.

  “That’s true, they’re all very nice,” said Nana, still seated on the ground and changing her chemise. “Only, you know, they see who I am. Should they for a moment forget themselves, I would have them turned out of the house at once!”

  Yet, in the midst of her luxury, in the midst of that court, Nana was bored to death. She had men with her every minute of the night, and money everywhere, even in the drawers of her dressing-table amongst her combs and brushes; but that no longer satisfied her, she felt a void somewhere, a vacancy that made her yawn. Her life rolled on unoccupied, bringing each day the same monotonous hours. The morrow did not exist for her. She lived like a bird
, sure of eating, ready to sleep on the first branch she came across. This certainty of being fed left her stretched out the whole day, without an effort, asleep in the midst of that idleness and that convent-like submission, as though quite hemmed in in her profession of courtesan. Going out only in a carriage, she began to lose the use of her legs. She returned to the amusements of her childhood, kissing Bijou from morning to night, killing time with the silliest pleasures in her unique expectation of the man whom she put up with in a complaisant and weary sort of way; and, in the midst of this abandonment of herself, the only anxiety she had was for her beauty. She was continually examining, washing, and perfuming herself all over, with the pride of being able to appear naked before anyone and at any moment, without feeling ashamed.

  Nana rose every morning at ten o‘clock. Bijou, the Scotch terrier, woke her by licking her face; and then she would play with him for five minutes, as he jumped about over her arms and legs, and even onto the count. Bijou was the first of whom he was jealous. It was not proper that an animal should thrust his nose under the bed-clothes in that way. Towards eleven o’clock, Francis came to do up her hair, preparatory to the complicated head-dress of the evening. At lunch, as she detested eating alone, she generally had Madame Maloir, who arrived in the morning from no one knew where, with her extraordinary bonnets, and returned at night to the mystery of her life without anybody troubling themselves about it. But the worst time was the two or three hours between luncheon and the evening toilet. Ordinarily she proposed a game at bezique to her old friend; sometimes she read the “Figaro,” the theatrical and fashionable news in which interested her; she even occasionally opened a book, for she prided herself on her taste for literature. Her toilet occupied her until nearly five o’clock. Then only she seemed to awake from her long somnolence, going out in her carriage or receiving a host of men at home, often dining-out, going to bed very late, and rising the next morning with the same fatigue, and beginning a fresh day to pass it in a similar manner.