by Emile Zola
“I had a capital place,” said Léonide. “I thought it all very curious. ”
Madame Hugon, however, pitied the poor mother. What anguish to lose her daughter! “I have been accused of being a devotee,” said she, with simple frankness. “That does not prevent me thinking children who persist in such a suicide very cruel. ”
“Yes, it is a terrible thing,” murmured the countess, with a slight shiver, as she cuddled closer into her chair before the fire.
Then the ladies entered into a long discussion on the subject. But their voices were subdued, and only occasionally did a faint laugh interrupt the solemnity of the conversation. The two lamps on the mantlepiece, covered with rose-coloured shades, shed but a feeble light over them; and there being only three other lamps, which were placed at a distance on different pieces of furniture, the vast room was in a pleasant shadow. Steiner began to feel bored. He related to Fauchery an adventure of that little Madame de Chezelles, whom he familiarly called Léonide. A regular hussy, said he, as he lowered his voice behind the ladies’ chairs. Fauchery watched her in her dress of pale blue satin, as she sat on a corner of her chair, looking as slim and as impudent as a boy, and he ended by feeling surprised at seeing her there. They knew better how to behave themselves at Caroline Héquet’s, whose establishment had just been placed on a substantial footing by her mother. It was quite a subject for an article. What an extraordinary world was the Parisian one! The strictest drawing-rooms were becoming invaded. That silent Théophile Venot, who contented himself with smiling and showing his bad teeth, was evidently a bequest of the defunct countess, just the same as the elderly ladies, Madame Chantereau, Madame du Joncquoy, and four or five old gentlemen who remained immovable in their corners. Count Muffat brought some government officials, who affected that correctness of bearing which was the fashion of the Tuileries.ab Amongst others, the head of the department remained seated by himself in the middle of the room, with his clean shaven face and dull-looking eyes, and so tightly buttoned up in his coat that he seemed as though he dare not move. Nearly all the young men, and some persons of lofty style, had been introduced by the Marquis de Chouard, who had kept up his connection with the legitimists, after having joined the Empire and become a member of the Council of State. There remained Léonide de Chezelles, Steiner, a most ambiguous lot, which was relieved by Madame Hugon with the serenity of an amiable old woman; and Fauchery, who still had his article in his mind, called them Countess Sabine’s set.
“On another occasion,” continued Steiner, speaking very low, “Léonide made her tenor come to Montauban. She was living at the Château de Beaurecueil, two leagues from there, and every day she came in a carriage and pair to see him at the Hotel du Lion-d’Or, where he was staying. The carriage waited at the door, and Léonide remained in the hotel for hours, whilst a crowd assembled and admired the horses.”
The conversation ceased, and a rather solemn interval succeeded. Two young men were whispering, but they soon left off, and nothing was heard but Count Muffat’s faint footsteps as he walked across the room. The lamps seemed to be burning low, the fire was going out, and a deep shadow almost hid from sight the old friends of the family, as they sat in the chairs they had occupied there for forty years past. It was as though, between a couple of sentences, the guests had felt the count’s mother return with her grand, icy cold look. Countess Sabine, however, soon resumed:
“At any rate there was a report to that effect. The young man, it seems, died, and that will explain why the poor child took the veil. It is said, also, that M. de Fougeray would never have given his consent to the marriage.”
“There are a great many other things said, too,” giddily exclaimed Léonide.
She laughed, at the same time refusing to explain herself. Sabine, affected by this gaiety, carried her handkerchief to her mouth. And this laughter, in the solemnity of the vast apartment, had a ring which struck Fauchery; it sounded like the breaking of glass. Without a doubt something was cracked there. Then the ladies all started off talking at once. Madame du Joncquoy protested; Madame Chantereau knew that a marriage had been contemplated, but that nothing further had taken place. Even the gentlemen ventured to give their views. For some minutes there was quite a confusion of opinions, in which the different elements of the room—the Bonapartists and the legitimists, mixed with the worldly sceptics—elbowed each other, and spoke at the same time. Estelle had rung for more wood for the fire, and the footman had wound up the lamps; it was quite like an awaking. Fauchery was smiling, as though perfectly at his ease.
“Why, of course! they espouse God, when they cannot marry their cousin,” said Vandeuvres between his teeth, thoroughly bored with the subject, as he went and joined Fauchery. “My boy, have you ever seen a woman beloved become a nun?” He did not wait for a reply, he had had enough of it; and in a low voice he added, “I say, how many shall we be to-morrow? There will be the Mignons, Steiner, you, Blanche, and myself. Who else?”
“Caroline, I think, Simone, Gaga for certain. One never knows exactly, you know. On such occasions, one expects about twenty and thirty turn up.”
Vandeuvres, who was looking at the ladies, turned to another subject. “She must have been very good looking, Madame du Joncquoy, fifteen years ago. That poor Estelle seems to have grown longer than ever. What a plank she’ll be to put in a bed!” But he interrupted himself, and returned to the question of the supper. “The nuisance in that sort of things is that one always meets the same women. We ought to have some new ones. Try and discover one. Wait! I have an idea! I’ll go and ask that stout man to bring the girl he was lugging about at the Variety Theatre the other evening.”
He was speaking of the head of the department, who was dozing in the middle of the room. Fauchery amused himself by watching the delicate negotiation from a distance. Vandeuvres seated himself beside the stout man, who continued to look very dignified. For a short time they both seemed to discuss, with all the seriousness it merited, the weighty question of the moment, which was what real reason a young girl could have for becoming a nun. Then the count returned, saying,
“It isn’t possible. He swears that she is virtuous. She would be sure to refuse. Yet, I would have bet that I had seen her at Laure’s.”
“What! you go to Laure’s!” murmured Fauchery with a laugh. “You venture to risk your person in such places! I thought it was only we poor devils who did that! ”
“Oh! dear boy, one must see everything.” Then they both chuckled, and their eyes sparkled as they gave each other different details about the dining place in the Rue des Martyrs, where fat Laure Piédefer, for three francs a head, provided dinner for ladies who were down in their luck. It was a dirty hole! All the little women kissed Laure on the mouth. Then, as the countess looked in their direction, having overheard a word or two, they moved away together, both very lively and highly amused. They had not noticed George Hugon standing near them, listening, and blushing so hard that from his neck to his ears he became quite red. The baby was full of a mixture of shame and rapture. Since his mother had left him alone in the drawing-room, he had hovered round about Madame de Chezelles, the only woman whom he thought at all up to anything, and yet Nana could give her a lot!
“Last night,” Madame Hugon was saying, “George took me to the theatre. Yes, to the Variety, where I had certainly not been for ten years or more. The child adores music. As for myself, it did not amuse me much, but he seemed so happy! They bring out most peculiar pieces now-a-days. I must admit, however, that I have no great taste for music.”
“What! madame, you do not care for music!” exclaimed Madame du Joncquoy, raising her eyes to heaven. “Is it possible that everybody does not like music?”
The exclamation was general. No one offered a remark in reference to the piece produced at the Variety Theatre, and of which the worthy Madame Hugon had not understood anything ; the other ladies knew about it, but would say nothing. They at once went in for sentiment, and a refined and ecstatic ad
miration of the great masters. Madame du Joncquoy only cared for Weber, Madame Chantereau preferred the Italians. The sound of the ladies’ voices became soft and languid; one might have thought the group gathered round the fire to be a party at church, discreetly and faintly intoning a canticle in some little chapel.
“Let’s see,” murmured Vandeuvres, leading Fauchery into the middle of the room, “we must, somehow or other, discover a new woman for to-morrow. Suppose we ask Steiner?”
“Oh! Steiner,” said the journalist, “never gets hold of a woman until all Paris has had enough of her.”
Vandeuvres, however, looked about him. “Wait,” he resumed, “I met Foucarmont with some fair charmer the other day. I will go and ask him to bring her.”
And he beckoned to Foucarmont. They rapidly exchanged a few words; but there seemed to be some difficulty, for they both cautiously picked their way over the ladies’ skirts and joined another young man, with whom they continued their conference in the recess of a window. Fauchery, left alone, decided to join the group by the fire just as Madame du Joncquoy was stating that she could never hear Weber’s music without at once seeming to see lakes, forests, and the sun rising over landscapes bathed in dew; but a hand touched his shoulder, whilst a voice said behind him,
“It’s not at all kind of you.”
“What isn’t?” he asked, turning round and recognising La Faloise.
“That supper, to-morrow night—you might at least have got me invited.”
Fauchery was just about to reply, when Vandeuvres returned and said to him, “It seems the girl has nothing to do with Foucarmont, she belongs to that other gentleman over there. She won’t be able to come. What a bore! But, all the same, I’ve hooked Foucarmont. He will try and bring Louise of the Palais-Royal Theatre.”
“M. de Vandeuvres,” asked Madame Chantereau, raising her voice, “is it not true that Wagner’s music was hissed on Sunday?”
“Oh! atrociously, madame,” he replied, advancing with his exquisite politeness. Then, as the ladies did not detain him, he moved away and continued in an undertone in the journalist’s ear, “I shall go and hook some more. All these young fellows must know some little women.”
Then he was seen, pleasantly smiling the while, to go up to the different men and talk with them in all parts of the room. He mingled with the various groups, dropped a few words here and there, and then withdrew, winking his eyes and making other signs. It was as though he was, in his easy way, giving out a watchword. His words were passed from one to another, and appointments were made; whilst the ladies’ sentimental dissertations on music drowned the agitated buzz caused by all these alluring attempts.
“No, don’t mention your Germans,” repeated Madame Chantereau. “Song is gaiety, is light. Have you heard Pattiac in ’ll Barbiere’?”ad
“Delicious!” murmured Léonide, who could only strum opera-bouffe airs on her piano.
Countess Sabine now rang for tea, which was served in the drawing-room when the visitors on a Tuesday were not numerous. Whilst having a small table cleared by a footman, the countess followed Count de Vandeuvres with her eyes. She preserved that vague smile which showed a little the whiteness of her teeth; and, as the count passed near her, she questioned him.
“Whatever are you plotting, M. de Vandeuvres?”
“I, madame?” he calmly replied, “I am not plotting anything.”
“Ah! You seemed to be so very busy. See, you must make yourself useful.”
She placed an album in his hands and asked him to put it on the piano. But he found means of informing Fauchery on the quiet that Tatan Néné, who had the best neck and shoulders of the season, would be there, and also Maria Blond, who had just made her first appearance at the Folies-Dramatiques Theatre. La Faloise, however, kept stopping him at almost every step, expecting an invitation. He ended by offering himself. Vandeuvres engaged him at once; only, he made him promise to bring Clarisse, and as La Faloise affected to be scrupulous, he quieted him by saying, “But I invite you! That is quite sufficient.”
Nevertheless La Faloise would very much have liked to have known the name of the woman at whose house the supper was to take place, but the countess had recalled Vandeuvres, and was questioning him as to the way tea was made in England. He was often there, attending the races in which his horses ran. According to him, only the Russians knew how to make tea; and he mentioned their recipe. Then, as though he had been thinking very much whilst speaking, he interrupted himself to ask, “By the way, and the marquis? Were we not to have seen him?”
“Why, yes; my father certainly promised,” replied the countess. “I am beginning to feel uneasy. His work must have detained him.”
Vandeuvres smiled discreetly He also seemed to have a doubt as to the nature of the work on which the Marquis de Chouard was engaged. He had thought of a charming person whom the marquis sometimes took into the country. Perhaps they might be able to get her for the supper. However, Fauchery thought the time had come for acquainting Count Muffat with the invitation he had for him. It was getting late.
“Do you seriously mean it?” asked Vandeuvres, who thought it was a joke.
“Most seriously. If I don’t ask him, she will scratch my eyes out. It’s a whim of hers, you know.”
“Then I’ll help you, my boy.”
The clock struck eleven. The countess and her daughter served the tea. As there were scarcely any but intimate friends, the cups and plates of biscuits and cake were familiarly handed round. The ladies remained in their chairs before the fire, sipping their tea, and crunching the biscuits which they held between the tips of their fingers. From music the conversation dwindled to tradesmen. There was no one like Boissier for sweets, and Catherine for ices; Madame Chantereau, however, preferred Latinville. The talk slackened, a weariness seemed to seize upon every one. Steiner had resumed his attack on the deputy, whom he blockaded in the corner of a sofa. M. Venot, whose teeth had probably been destroyed by sweetmeats, was rapidly devouring some hard cakes, making a little noise like a mouse; whilst the head of the department, his nose in his cup, never seemed to have had enough. And the countess, without the least hurry, moved from one to another, not pressing them, but standing a few seconds looking at the men in a sort of silent interrogative manner, then smiling and passing on. The heat of the fire had given quite a colour to her face, and she seemed to be the sister of her daughter, who looked so skinny and awkward beside her. As she drew near to Fauchery, who was conversing with her husband and Vandeuvres, she noticed that they left off talking. She did not stop, but, passing further on, offered George Hugon the cup of tea she was carrying.
“It is a lady who desires your company at supper,” gaily resumed the journalist, addressing Count Muffat.
The latter, whose countenance had retained its dark look all the evening, seemed greatly surprised. What lady could they mean?
“Why, Nana!” said Vandeuvres, so as to have it out at once.
The count became still more serious. He scarcely moved his eyelids, whilst a pain, like a twitch of neuralgia, passed over his face. “But I do not know the lady.” he murmured.
“Oh! come now! Why you went and called on her,” observed Vandeuvres.
“What! I called on her. Ah! yes, the other day, for the poor relief committee. I had forgotten all about it. All the same, I do not know her. I cannot accept.”
He assumed his most dignified air, to let them understand that he considered their joke in very bad taste. The place of a man of his rank was not at the table of such a woman. Vandeuvres protested: it was merely a supper given to some actresses ; talent excused everything. But without listening to him any more than to Fauchery, who began to tell him of a dinner at which a prince, the son of a queen, had sat next to a woman who used to sing at music-halls, the count gave a most decided refusal. He even, in spite of his great politeness, accompanied it with a gesture of annoyance.
George and La Faloise, standing up drinking their tea in front of each oth
er, had overheard the few words that had been exchanged so near them. “Halloo! so it’s to be at Nana’s,” murmured La Faloise. “I might have known it!”
George said nothing, but he became very red in the face, his fair hair was all ruffled, his blue eyes were shining like candles. The vice with which he had mixed during the last few days inflamed and excited him. At last then, he was about to meet with all that he had dreamed of. “The nuisance is, I don’t know the address,” resumed La Faloise.
“Boulevard Haussmann, between the Rue de l’Arcade and the Rue Pasquier, on the third floor,” said George, all in a breath; and as the other looked at him with astonishment, he added, becoming redder still in the face, and bursting with conceit and confusion, “I am going; she invited me this morning.”
Just at this moment there was a great commotion in the drawing-room. Vandeuvres and Fauchery were therefore unable to press the count any further. The Marquis de Chouard had arrived, and every one hastened to greet him. He seemed to move along very painfully, his legs almost giving way beneath him; and he at length stood still in the middle of the room, his face ashy pale, and his eyes blinking, as though he had just come out of some very dark place and was quite blinded by the light of the lamps.
“I had quite given up expecting to see you, father,” said the countess. “I should have been quite uneasy until I heard from you to-morrow.”
He looked at her without replying, like a man who does not understand. His nose, which appeared very big on his clean-shaven face, looked like an enormous gathering; whilst his under-lip drooped. Madame Hugon, full of kindliness, seeing him so depressed, pitied him.
“You work too much. You ought to rest. At our age we should leave work to the younger ones.”