“Go,” said she simply.
He walked off, making toward the door. But as he passed out she took him in her arms again, became meek and coaxing, lifted her face to his and rubbed her cheek against his waistcoat, much as a cat might have done.
“Where’s the fine house?” she whispered in laughing embarrassment, like a little girl who returns to the pleasant things she has previously refused.
“In the Avenue de Villiers.”
“And there are carriages there?”
“Yes.”
“Lace? Diamonds?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, how good you are, my old pet! You know it was all jealousy just now! And this time I solemnly promise you it won’t be like the first, for now you understand what’s due to a woman. You give all, don’t you? Well then, I don’t want anybody but you! Why, look here, there’s some more for you! There and there and there!”
When she had pushed him from the room after firing his blood with a rain of kisses on hands and on face, she panted awhile. Good heavens, what an unpleasant smell there was in that slut Mathilde’s dressing room! It was warm, if you will, with the tranquil warmth peculiar to rooms in the south when the winter sun shines into them, but really, it smelled far too strong of stale lavender water, not to mention other less cleanly things! She opened the window and, again leaning on the window sill, began watching the glass roof of the passage below in order to kill time.
Muffat went staggering downstairs. His head was swimming. What should he say? How should he broach the matter which, moreover, did not concern him? He heard sounds of quarreling as he reached the stage. The second act was being finished, and Prullière was beside himself with wrath, owing to an attempt on Fauchery’s part to cut short one of his speeches.
“Cut it all out then,” he was shouting. “I should prefer that! Just fancy, I haven’t two hundred lines, and they’re still cutting me down. No, by Jove, I’ve had enough of it; I give the part up.”
He took a little crumpled manuscript book out of his pocket and fingered its leaves feverishly, as though he were just about to throw it on Cossard’s lap. His pale face was convulsed by outraged vanity; his lips were drawn and thin, his eyes flamed; he was quite unable to conceal the struggle that was going on inside him. To think that he, Prullière, the idol of the public, should play a part of only two hundred lines!
“Why not make me bring in letters on a tray?” he continued bitterly.
“Come, come, Prullière, behave decently,” said Bordenave, who was anxious to treat him tenderly because of his influence over the boxes. “Don’t begin making a fuss. We’ll find some points. Eh, Fauchery, you’ll add some points? In the third act it would even be possible to lengthen a scene out.”
“Well then, I want the last speech of all,” the comedian declared. “I certainly deserve to have it.”
Fauchery’s silence seemed to give consent, and Prullière, still greatly agitated and discontented despite everything, put his part back into his pocket. Bosc and Fontan had appeared profoundly indifferent during the course of this explanation. Let each man fight for his own hand, they reflected; the present dispute had nothing to do with them; they had no interest therein! All the actors clustered round Fauchery and began questioning him and fishing for praise, while Mignon listened to the last of Prullière’s complaints without, however, losing sight of Count Muffat, whose return he had been on the watch for.
Entering in the half-light, the count had paused at the back of the stage, for he hesitated to interrupt the quarrel. But Bordenave caught sight of him and ran forward.
“Aren’t they a pretty lot?” he muttered. “You can have no idea what I’ve got to undergo with that lot, Monsieur le Comte. Each man’s vainer than his neighbor, and they’re wretched players all the same, a scabby lot, always mixed up in some dirty business or other! Oh, they’d be delighted if I were to come to smash. But I beg pardon—I’m getting beside myself.”
He ceased speaking, and silence reigned while Muffat sought how to broach his announcement gently. But he failed and, in order to get out of his difficulty the more quickly, ended by an abrupt announcement:
“Nana wants the duchess’s part.”
Bordenave gave a start and shouted:
“Come now, it’s sheer madness!”
Then looking at the count and finding him so pale and so shaken, he was calm at once.
“Devil take it!” he said simply.
And with that there ensued a fresh silence. At bottom he didn’t care a pin about it. That great thing Nana playing the duchess might possibly prove amusing! Besides, now that this had happened he had Muffat well in his grasp. Accordingly he was not long in coming to a decision, and so he turned round and called out:
“Fauchery!”
The count had been on the point of stopping him. But Fauchery did not hear him, for he had been pinned against the curtain by Fontan and was being compelled to listen patiently to the comedian’s reading of the part of Tardiveau. Fontan imagined Tardiveau to be a native of Marseilles with a dialect, and he imitated the dialect. He was repeating whole speeches. Was that right? Was this the thing? Apparently he was only submitting ideas to Fauchery of which he was himself uncertain, but as the author seemed cold and raised various objections, he grew angry at once.
Oh, very well, the moment the spirit of the part escaped him it would be better for all concerned that he shouldn’t act it at all!
“Fauchery!” shouted Bordenave once more.
Thereupon the young man ran off, delighted to escape from the actor, who was wounded not a little by his prompt retreat.
“Don’t let’s stay here,” continued Bordenave. “Come this way, gentlemen.”
In order to escape from curious listeners he led them into the property room behind the scenes, while Mignon watched their disappearance in some surprise. They went down a few steps and entered a square room, whose two windows opened upon the courtyard. A faint light stole through the dirty panes and hung wanly under the low ceiling. In pigeonholes and shelves, which filled the whole place up, lay a collection of the most varied kind of bric-a-brac. Indeed, it suggested an old-clothes shop in the Rue de Lappe in process of selling off, so indescribable was the hotchpotch of plates, gilt pasteboard cups, old red umbrellas, Italian jars, clocks in all styles, platters and inkpots, firearms and squirts, which lay chipped and broken and in unrecognizable heaps under a layer of dust an inch deep. An unendurable odor of old iron, rags and damp cardboard emanated from the various piles, where the debris of forgotten dramas had been collecting for half a century.
“Come in,” Bordenave repeated. “We shall be alone, at any rate.”
The count was extremely embarrassed, and he contrived to let the manager risk his proposal for him. Fauchery was astonished.
“Eh? What?” he asked.
“Just this,” said Bordenave finally. “An idea has occurred to us. Now whatever you do, don’t jump! It’s most serious. What do you think of Nana for the duchess’s part?”
The author was bewildered; then he burst out with:
“Ah no, no! You’re joking, aren’t you? People would laugh far too much.”
“Well, and it’s a point gained already if they do laugh! Just reflect, my dear boy. The idea pleases Monsieur le Comte very much.”
In order to keep himself in countenance Muffat had just picked out of the dust on a neighboring shelf an object which he did not seem to recognize. It was an eggcup, and its stem had been mended with plaster. He kept hold of it unconsciously and came forward, muttering:
“Yes, yes, it would be capital.”
Fauchery turned toward him with a brisk, impatient gesture. The count had nothing to do with his piece, and he said decisively:
“Never! Let Nana play the courtesan as much as she likes, but a lady—No, by Jove!
”
“You are mistaken, I assure you,” rejoined the count, growing bolder. “This very minute she has been playing the part of a pure woman for my benefit.”
“Where?” queried Fauchery with growing surprise.
“Upstairs in a dressing room. Yes, she has, indeed, and with such distinction! She’s got a way of glancing at you as she goes by you—something like this, you know!”
And eggcup in hand, he endeavored to imitate Nana, quite forgetting his dignity in his frantic desire to convince the others. Fauchery gazed at him in a state of stupefaction. He understood it all now, and his anger had ceased. The count felt that he was looking at him mockingly and pityingly, and he paused with a slight blush on his face.
“Egad, it’s quite possible!” muttered the author complaisantly. “Perhaps she would do very well, only the part’s been assigned. We can’t take it away from Rose.”
“Oh, if that’s all the trouble,” said Bordenave, “I’ll undertake to arrange matters.”
But presently, seeing them both against him and guessing that Bordenave had some secret interest at stake, the young man thought to avoid acquiescence by redoubling the violence of his refusal. The consultation was on the verge of being broken up.
“Oh, dear! No, no! Even if the part were unassigned I should never give it her! There, is that plain? Do let me alone; I have no wish to ruin my play!”
He lapsed into silent embarrassment. Bordenave, deeming himself de trop, went away, but the count remained with bowed head. He raised it with an effort and said in a breaking voice:
“Supposing, my dear fellow, I were to ask this of you as a favor?”
“I cannot, I cannot,” Fauchery kept repeating as he writhed to get free.
Muffat’s voice became harder.
“I pray and beseech you for it! I want it!”
And with that he fixed his eyes on him. The young man read menaces in that darkling gaze and suddenly gave way with a splutter of confused phrases:
“Do what you like—I don’t care a pin about it. Yes, yes, you’re abusing your power, but you’ll see, you’ll see!”
At this the embarrassment of both increased. Fauchery was leaning up against a set of shelves and was tapping nervously on the ground with his foot. Muffat seemed busy examining the eggcup, which he was still turning round and about.
“It’s an eggcup,” Bordenave obligingly came and remarked.
“Yes, to be sure! It’s an eggcup,” the count repeated.
“Excuse me, you’re covered with dust,” continued the manager, putting the thing back on a shelf. “If one had to dust every day there’d be no end to it, you understand. But it’s hardly clean here—a filthy mess, eh? Yet you may believe me or not when I tell you there’s money in it. Now look, just look at all that!”
He walked Muffat round in front of the pigeonholes and shelves and in the greenish light which filtered through the courtyard, told him the names of different properties, for he was anxious to interest him in his marine-stores inventory, as he jocosely termed it.
Presently, when they had returned into Fauchery’s neighborhood, he said carelessly enough:
“Listen, since we’re all of one mind, we’ll finish the matter at once. Here’s Mignon, just when he’s wanted.”
For some little time past Mignon had been prowling in the adjoining passage, and the very moment Bordenave began talking of a modification of their agreement he burst into wrathful protest. It was infamous—they wanted to spoil his wife’s career—he’d go to law about it! Bordenave, meanwhile, was extremely calm and full of reasons. He did not think the part worthy of Rose, and he preferred to reserve her for an operetta, which was to be put on after The Petite Duchesse. But when her husband still continued shouting he suddenly offered to cancel their arrangement in view of the offers which the Folies-Dramatiques had been making the singer. At this Mignon was momentarily put out, so without denying the truth of these offers he loudly professed a vast disdain for money. His wife, he said, had been engaged to play the Duchess Hélène, and she would play the part even if he, Mignon, were to be ruined over it. His dignity, his honor, were at stake! Starting from this basis, the discussion grew interminable. The manager, however, always returned to the following argument: since the Folies had offered Rose three hundred francs a night during a hundred performances, and since she only made a hundred and fifty with him, she would be the gainer by fifteen thousand francs the moment he let her depart. The husband, on his part, did not desert the artist’s position. What would people say if they saw his wife deprived of her part? Why, that she was not equal to it; that it had been deemed necessary to find a substitute for her! And this would do great harm to Rose’s reputation as an artist; nay, it would diminish it. Oh no, no! Glory before gain! Then without a word of warning he pointed out a possible arrangement: Rose, according to the terms of her agreement, was pledged to pay a forfeit of ten thousand francs in case she gave up the part. Very well then, let them give her ten thousand francs, and she would go to the Folies-Dramatiques. Bordenave was utterly dumfounded while Mignon, who had never once taken his eyes off the count, tranquilly awaited results.
“Then everything can be settled,” murmured Muffat in tones of relief; “we can come to an understanding.”
“The deuce, no! That would be too stupid!” cried Bordenave, mastered by his commercial instincts. “Ten thousand francs to let Rose go! Why, people would make game of me!”
But the count, with a multiplicity of nods, bade him accept. He hesitated, and at last with much grumbling and infinite regret over the ten thousand francs which, by the by, were not destined to come out of his own pocket he bluntly continued:
“After all, I consent. At any rate, I shall have you off my hands.”
For a quarter of an hour past Fontan had been listening in the courtyard. Such had been his curiosity that he had come down and posted himself there, but the moment he understood the state of the case he went upstairs again and enjoyed the treat of telling Rose. Dear me! They were just haggling in her behalf! He dinned his words into her ears; she ran off to the property room. They were silent as she entered. She looked at the four men. Muffat hung his head; Fauchery answered her questioning glance with a despairing shrug of the shoulders; as to Mignon, he was busy discussing the terms of the agreement with Bordenave.
“What’s up?” she demanded curtly.
“Nothing,” said her husband. “Bordenave here is giving ten thousand francs in order to get you to give up your part.”
She grew tremulous with anger and very pale, and she clenched her little fists. For some moments she stared at him, her whole nature in revolt. Ordinarily in matters of business she was wont to trust everything obediently to her husband, leaving him to sign agreements with managers and lovers. Now she could but cry:
“Oh, come, you’re too base for anything!”
The words fell like a lash. Then she sped away, and Mignon, in utter astonishment, ran after her. What next? Was she going mad? He began explaining to her in low tones that ten thousand francs from one party and fifteen thousand from the other came to twenty-five thousand. A splendid deal! Muffat was getting rid of her in every sense of the word; it was a pretty trick to have plucked him of this last feather! But Rose in her anger vouchsafed no answer. Whereupon Mignon in disdain left her to her feminine spite and, turning to Bordenave, who was once more on the stage with Fauchery and Muffat, said:
“We’ll sign tomorrow morning. Have the money in readiness.”
At this moment Nana, to whom Labordette had brought the news, came down to the stage in triumph. She was quite the honest woman now and wore a most distinguished expression in order to overwhelm her friends and prove to the idiots that when she chose she could give them all points in the matter of smartness. But she nearly got into trouble, for at the sight of her Rose darted forward, choking wi
th rage and stuttering:
“Yes, you, I’ll pay you out! Things can’t go on like this; d’you understand?” Nana forgot herself in face of this brisk attack and was going to put her arms akimbo and give her what for. But she controlled herself and, looking like a marquise who is afraid of treading on an orange peel, fluted in still more silvery tones.
“Eh, what?” said she. “You’re mad, my dear!”
And with that she continued in her graceful affectation while Rose took her departure, followed by Mignon, who now refused to recognize her. Clarisse was enraptured, having just obtained the part of Géraldine from Bordenave. Fauchery, on the other hand, was gloomy; he shifted from one foot to the other; he could not decide whether to leave the theater or no. His piece was bedeviled, and he was seeking how best to save it. But Nana came up, took him by both hands and, drawing him toward her, asked whether he thought her so very atrocious after all. She wasn’t going to eat his play—not she! Then she made him laugh and gave him to understand that he would be foolish to be angry with her, in view of his relationship to the Muffats. If, she said, her memory failed her she would take her lines from the prompter. The house, too, would be packed in such a way as to ensure applause. Besides, he was mistaken about her, and he would soon see how she would rattle through her part. By and by it was arranged that the author should make a few changes in the role of the duchess so as to extend that of Prullière. The last-named personage was enraptured. Indeed, amid all the joy which Nana now quite naturally diffused, Fontan alone remained unmoved. In the middle of the yellow lamplight, against which the sharp outline of his goat-like profile shone out with great distinctness, he stood showing off his figure and affecting the pose of one who has been cruelly abandoned. Nana went quietly up and shook hands with him.
Erotic Classics I Page 157
