Nana: By Emile Zola - Illustrated

by Emile Zola

  Fauchery had elected himself Countess Sabine’s cavalier in waiting, whilst the count disappeared regularly every afternoon. Whenever they went about the grounds he carried her parasol and her campstool. Besides, he amused her with his journalistic gossip, and soon established between them one of those sudden intimacies which country life countenances. She appeared to surrender at once, awakened to a second youth in the society of this young man, whose noisy, scoffing ways seemed incapable of compromising her. And sometimes, when they found themselves alone for a second behind some hedge, their eyes would seek each other’s; they would stop in the midst of a laugh, abruptly serious, with a languishing look as though they had divined and understood each other.

  On the Friday it had been necessary to lay another place at lunch. M. Théophile Venot, whom Madame Hugon recollected having invited at the Muffats’ the previous winter, had just arrived. He put on his most agreeable look, and affected the indifferent air of an insignificant person without appearing to notice the uneasy deference with which he was treated. When he had succeeded in making himself forgotten, and while crunching some little pieces of sugar during dessert, he watched Daguenet, who was handing some strawberries to Estelle, and listened to Fauchery, one of whose anecdotes seemed to amuse the countess very much. The moment anyone looked at him he smiled in his quiet way.

  On leaving the table, M. Venot took the count’s arm and led him into the grounds. It was known that he exercised a great influence over the count, ever since his mother’s death. Most singular stories were current as to the ex-attorney’s domination over the household. Fauchery, whose plans were no doubt considerably interfered with by his arrival, related to George and Daguenet the origin of his fortune—a big lawsuit with which the Jesuits had once intrusted him; and, according to him, this little old fellow, who was a terrible man in spite of his pleasant looks, had now a finger in every clerical pie. The two young fellows began to laugh, for they thought the old man looked a bit of an idiot. The idea of an unknown Venot, of a gigantic Venot, acting for the clergy, seemed to them most comical. But they ceased talking as Count Muffat, still with the old gentleman at his side, returned looking very pale, and with his eyes red as though he had been weeping.

  “They have, for certain, been talking of hell,” murmured Fauchery jeeringly.

  Countess Sabine, who had overheard him, slowly turned her head, and their eyes met, with one of those prolonged looks with which they prudently sounded each other, before running any risk.

  Usually, after luncheon, every one adjourned to the end of the flower garden, to a terrace which overlooked the plain. The Sunday afternoon was deliciously mild. Towards ten o’clock in the morning it looked like rain; but the sky, without becoming perfectly clear, had so to say blended into a milky kind of mist, and a sort of luminous dust, all golden with sunshine. Then Madame Hugon suggested that they should go out by the little door of the terrace, and take a stroll in the direction of Gumières, as far as the Choue; she liked walking, being still very active in spite of her sixty years. Every one, moreover, stated that they would rather not have the carriage. They arrived thus, rather disbanded, at the wooden bridge thrown across the stream. Fauchery and Daguenet were in front with the Muffat ladies; the count and the marquis came next, on either side of Madame Hugon; whilst Vandeuvres, looking very stylish, and dreadfully bored at wandering along that high road, brought up the rear, smoking a cigar. M. Venot, slackening or hastening his footsteps, went smilingly from one group to another, as though to hear everything.

  “And poor George is at Orleans!” Madame Hugon was saying. “He wished to consult old Doctor Tavernier, who no longer goes out, about his headaches. Yes, you were none of you up; he started before seven this morning. It will be a slight diversion for him, anyhow.” But she interrupted herself to remark, “Dear me! why are they waiting on the bridge?”

  Truly enough the ladies, and Daguenet and Fauchery, were standing at the foot of the bridge, with hesitating looks, as though some obstacle caused them uneasiness. The way seemed free, however.

  “Straight on!” cried the count.

  They did not move, but remained watching something that was coming and which the others could not see. There was a turn in the road which was bordered on either side by poplars. However, a rumbling noise, gradually increasing, now reached the entire party; there was a sound of wheels, mixed with laughter, and the cracking of whips, and suddenly five carriages appeared, following one after the other, almost crowded enough to break the axle-trees, and enlivened with a mixture of light blue and rose colour dresses.

  “Whatever is all this?” asked Madame Hugon in surprise. Then she guessed, she seemed to divine; and indignant at such an invasion crossing her path, she murmured, “Oh, that woman! Walk on, do walk on. Pretend not to—”

  But it was too late. The five carriages, which were taking Nana and her guests to the ruins at Chamont, were already close to the little wooden bridge. Fauchery, Daguenet, and the Muffat ladies had to step back, whilst Madame Hugon and the others stopped also, at various distances along the road. It was a superb procession. The laughing in the carriages had ceased; some faces turned round with curiosity. Each party looked at the other, amidst a silence that was only broken by the regular trot of the horses. In the first carriage, Maria Blond and Tatan Néné, reclining like duchesses, their skirts blown out over the wheels, looked disdainfully at the respectable ladies on foot. In the next was Gaga, who almost occupied an entire seat to herself, quite burying La Faloise, of whom only the anxious nose could be seen. Then came Caroline Héquet with Labordette, Lucy Stewart with Mignon and his sons, and at the end of all, accompanied by Steiner, was Nana, who had on the little seat in front of her that poor love of a Zizi, with his knees touching hers.

  “It is the last one, is it not?” quietly inquired the countess of Fauchery, affecting not to recognise Nana.

  The wheels of Nana’s carriage almost grazed her, but she did not move back an inch. The two women had exchanged a searching look—one of those scrutinising glances lasting but a second, yet complete and definite. As for the men, they behaved admirably. Fauchery and Daguenet, perfectly impassive, recognised no one. The marquis, anxious, and afraid of some practical joke on the part of the girls, had plucked a blade of grass, which he was twirling between his fingers. Vandeuvres alone, being at some little distance from the others, just moved his eyelids by way of recognising Lucy, who smiled at him as she passed.

  “Take care!” murmured M. Venot, standing behind Count Muffat.

  The latter, greatly agitated, followed with his eyes, that vision of Nana, flying away from him. His wife had turned slowly round and was examining him. Then he looked on the ground, as though to lose sight of the galloping horses, who were carrying off his flesh and his heart. His agony almost made him cry aloud. He had understood all on seeing George lost amongst Nana’s skirts. A child! It broke his heart to think that she should have preferred a child to himself! He did not mind about Steiner, but a child!

  Madame Hugon, however, had not recognised George at first. On passing over the bridge he would have jumped into the stream, had not Nana’s knees held him. So, white as snow and cold as ice, he sat immovable, looking at no one. Perhaps they would not see him.

  “Ah! good heavens!” suddenly exclaimed the old lady, “it is George who is with her.”

  The carriages had passed in the midst of that uneasiness felt by persons who knew each other, and who yet did not bow. This delicate encounter, so rapid in reality, had seemed to last an eternity. And, now, the wheels were gaily carrying away into the sunny country those vehicles full of girls, with the wind blowing in their faces. Ribbons were flying about, the laughter commenced again, and jokes passed from one to another; whilst some stood up and gazed back at those highly respectable people, who had remained stationary at the side of the road, looking very much put out. Nana, as she glanced round, could see them hesitate, then retrace their steps without crossing the bridge at all. Madame Hugon
was leaning on Count Muffat’s arm, silent, and so sad that no one dared console her.

  “I say,” cried Nana to Lucy, who was leaning out of the carriage in front of hers, “did you notice Fauchery, my dear? Didn’t he look a dirty rip? He shall smart for it. And Paul, a chap to whom I have been so kind—not the least sign. Really, they are polite!”

  Then she had a frightful quarrel with Steiner, who considered that the gentlemen had behaved admirably. So they were not even worth the raising of a hat? The first blackguard they met might insult them? Thanks, he also was a nice fellow, he was; it only wanted that. One should always bow to a woman.

  “Who was the tall one?” called out Lucy, in the midst of the noise caused by the wheels.

  “Countess Muffat,” answered Steiner.

  “There now! I thought as much!” exclaimed Nana. “Well, my boy, in spite of her being a countess, I can tell you she’s not worth much. Yes, yes, not worth much. You know I’ve an eye for that sort of thing, I have. Now, I know her as if I had made her, your countess. Will you bet that that viper Fauchery isn’t her lover? I tell you that he is her lover! One can easily see that, between women.”

  Steiner shrugged his shoulders. Ever since the previous evening his bad temper had been on the increase. He had received some letters which would oblige him to leave on the following morning. Then, too, it wasn’t very amusing to come to the country just to sleep on the drawing-room sofa.

  “And this poor baby!” resumed Nana, suddenly become tender-hearted, as she caught sight of George, who was sitting pale and erect, and scarce able to breathe.

  “Do you think that mamma recognised me?” he at length stammered forth.

  “Oh! most decidedly. She cried out. But it’s all my fault. He didn’t want to come, and I made him. Listen to me, Zizi; shall I write to your mamma? She looks a very kind woman. I will tell her that I never saw you before, and that it was Steiner who brought you to me to-day for the first time.”

  “No, no, don’t write,” said George, anxiously. “I will arrange all myself. And, if they make a fuss, I’ll come away and never go back again.”

  But he continued very dejected and absorbed in reflection, trying to invent some lies for the evening. The five vehicles continued along the straight and interminable level road, bordered on either side by some very fine trees. The country around was enveloped in a kind of silvery grey vapour. The ladies continued to pass remarks from one carriage to another, from behind the backs of the coachmen, who laughed to themselves at the strange company they were driving; now and again one of the women would stand up to obtain a better view, and, becoming interested, would remain in that position, leaning against her neighbour’s shoulder, until a sudden jerk of the vehicle brought her to her seat again. Caroline Héquet was having some very important conversation with Labordette; they both came to the conclusion that Nana would be wanting to part with her country house in less than three months, and Caroline instructed Labordette to acquire it for her, under the rose, for a very moderate sum. In the carriage preceding them, La Faloise, very spooney, and unable to reach Gaga’s apoplectic neck, was depositing kisses on that part of her dress which, almost bursting with the tightness of the fit, covered her backbone; whilst Amélie, sitting bolt upright on the little seat in front, sick of being there with empty arms watching her mother being kissed, kept telling them to leave off. In the next carriage, Mignon, with the view of surprising Lucy, made his sons recite one of La Fontaine’s fables—Henri especially was prodigious, he could say it right off without a single mistake. But Maria Blond, at the head of the procession, was beginning to feel awfully bored, tired of poking fun at that fool of a Tatan Néné, who believed her when she said that the Paris dairymen made their eggs out of gum and saffron. It was too far, would they never arrive? And the question, passed from carriage to carriage, at length reached Nana, who, after consulting her coachman, stood up and called to the others:

  “In about a quarter of an hour. You see that church over there, behind the trees—” Then, after a slight pause, she resumed: “You don’t know, it seems that the owner of the Château de Chamont is an old flame of the time of the first Napoleon. And oh! such a fast one, so Joseph told me, and he heard it when he was at the bishop’s. She used to lead a life such as one couldn’t lead now. However, she has become awfully religious.”

  “What’s her name?” asked Lucy.

  “Madame d’Anglars.”

  “Irma d’Anglars!—I knew her!” cried Gaga.

  From each vehicle there issued a string of exclamations, which were lost in the more rapid trot of the horses. Heads were stretched out to catch a glimpse of Gaga. Maria Blond and Tatan Néné turned round and knelt on the seat, holding on to the closed hood at the back of the carriage, and questions were asked, and malicious observations, tempered with a secret admiration, were made. Gaga had known her, that filled them all with respect for this far away past.

  “I was very young, then,” resumed Gaga. “All the same, I recollect I used to see her pass. It was said that she was something disgusting at home, but in her carriage she was magnificent! And the most incredible stories circulated—such filthy goings-on that it’s a marvel she ever lived through them. It doesn’t surprise me that she has a château. She could clear a man out as easy as breathe on him. Ah! Irma d’Anglars is still among the living! Well, my little friends, she must be about ninety now.”

  On hearing this, the ladies all became very serious. Ninety years old! There wasn’t one of them, as Lucy said, who had a chance of living to that age. They were all roarers. Nana, too, declared that she didn’t want to make old bones; it was funnier not to. They had now almost reached their destination, and their conversation was interrupted by the drivers cracking their whips as they urged on the tired horses. Yet, in the midst of the noise, Lucy, jumping to another subject, continued talking, and pressed Nana to leave with the others on the morrow. The Exhibition was about to close, and the ladies were anxious to get back to Paris, where the season so far had surpassed their wildest hopes. But Nana was obstinate. She detested Paris, she wouldn’t go back there for a long time to come.

  “Eh, ducky! we’ll stay where we are?” said she, squeezing George’s knees, notwithstanding Steiner’s presence.

  The carriages suddenly stopped, and the party, very much surprised, alighted in a desert-looking place at the foot of a hill. One of the drivers had to point out to them with his whip the ruins of the ancient abbey of Chamont, almost hidden by the trees. It was a great deception. The ladies were disgusted. All they could see were a few heaps of rubbish, over-grown with brambles, and a half tumble-down tower. Really it was ridiculous to come two leagues to see that. The driver then pointed out to them the chateau, the park belonging to which was close to the abbey, and he told them they could reach it by following a little path that skirted the walls. They could take a look round whilst the carriages waited for them in the village. It was a most delightful walk. The party agreed to try it.

  “The deuce! Irma must be very well off!” said Gaga, stopping in front of some iron railings at one of the corners of the park.

  They all gazed in silence at the handsome trees and shrubs on the other side of the railings. Then they continued along the narrow path, following the walls of the park, every now and then raising their eyes to admire the trees, the branches of which spread out overhead in an impenetrable green canopy. After three minutes’ walk they came to some more iron railings, which enabled them to see an extensive lawn, over which two venerable oak trees cast a welcome shade; and three minutes’ further walking brought them to some more railings, which exhibited to them an immense avenue, a passage of darkness, at the end of which the sun looked like a bright star. An admiration, at first silent, gradually burst forth into exclamations. They had, at the outset, indulged themselves in chaff, feeling rather envious, however, all the time; but this, decidedly, was too much for them. What a wonder she was, that Irma! Such things as this gave one a grand idea of woman! The
trees still continued as plentiful as ever, and at every few steps there were patches of ivy trailing over the wall, with the tops of summer-houses just visible, and screens of poplars succeeding to compact groups of elms and aspens. Would it never come to an end! The ladies, tired of continually following this wall, without catching a glimpse, at every opening, of anything except masses of foliage, were anxious to see the château. They clutched the railings with both hands, pressing their faces against the iron. A feeling of respect took possession of them, while thus kept at a distance, and dreaming of the château hidden in this immensity of trees. After walking quickly for some time, they began to feel really fatigued. Yet there were no signs of the wall coming to an end. At every turn of the path ladies, despairing of ever reaching the end, talked of going back; but the more the length of the walk tired them, the more respectful they became, impressed as they were at every step by the calm and regal majesty of the domain.

  “It’s positively sickening!” muttered Caroline Héquet between her teeth.

  Nana checked her with a shrug of the shoulders. For some little while she had not said a word, but walked along, looking slightly pale and very serious. Suddenly, at another turn, they found themselves close to the village; the wall abruptly terminated, and the château appeared at the end of a spacious courtyard. They all stopped, lost in admiration of the lofty grandeur of the broad entrance-steps, of the twenty windows that studded the facade, of the extent of the three wings, the brick walls of which were framed with stone-work. Henri IV. had inhabited that historic building, in which his bedroom still existed, with its enormous bed hung with Genoa velvet. Nana, deeply affected, sighed like a child.