by Emile Zola
“Oh! I’m sore all over. Help me to raise myself a little. I keep slipping down, my head is too low.”
When he had assisted her, she sighed and felt better, and she returned to the grand sight of a trial for judicial separation. Could he not conceive the countess’s counsel amusing all Paris in talking of Nana? Everything would be related—her fiasco at the Variety Theatre, her mansion, her life. Ah, no! she did not care for such an advertisement. Some dirty women might have urged him to be so foolish, so as to gain notoriety at his expense; but she desired his happiness before everything. She had drawn him towards her. She held him now, with his head on the pillow beside her own, and her arm round his neck, and she whispered gently,
“Listen, ducky; you must make it up with your wife.”
He was indignant. Never! His heart was breaking; the shame was too great. She, however, tenderly insisted.
“You must make it up with your wife. Come, you don’t want to hear everyone say that I estranged you from your family? It would give me too bad a reputation. What would everyone think of me? Only swear that you’ll always love me; for, now that you’re going to be another’s—”
Her sobs were choking her. He interrupted her with kisses, saying,
“You are mad—it is impossible!”
“Yes, yes,” resumed she; “you must do it. It’s only right; and, after all, she’s your wife. It’s not as though you were unfaithful to me with the first woman you came across.”
And she continued thus, giving him the best advice. She even talked of God. He seemed to be listening to M. Venot, when the old man used to sermonize him, to save him from sin. She, however, did not talk of breaking off. She preached complaisancy—the sharing of him by his wife and his mistress, a quiet life, without any bother for any one, something like a happy dozing through the inevitable nastinesses of life. It would change nothing in their existence. He would still be her best-loved ducky, only he would not come quite so frequently, and would devote to the countess the days he did not spend with her. Her strength was failing her; she concluded in a whisper,
“That way, I shall know that I have performed a good action. You will love me all the more.”
Then there was silence. She closed her eyes, looking paler still on the pillow. He had listened to her, under the pretext of not wishing to tire her. At the end of a few minutes, she reopened her eyes, and murmured,
“And money, too? Where will you get money if you quarrel? Labordette came yesterday about the bill. I’m in want of everything; I’ve not a thing left to put on.”
Then, closing her eyes again, she appeared as though dead. A shade of intense anguish overspread Muffat’s face. In the blow that had come upon him, he had forgotten, ever since the night before, the monetary difficulties from which he no longer knew how to extricate himself. In spite of the most distinct promises, his note for a hundred thousand francs, already renewed once, had been put into circulation; and Labordette, affecting to be greatly vexed, made out it was all Francis’s fault, and said that he would never again compromise himself in an affair with an uneducated man. It would have to be paid, the count would never let his note be protested. Then, besides Nana’s innumerable claims, there was a most wasteful expenditure going on in his own home. On their return from Les Fondettes, the countess had suddenly developed a taste for luxury, an appetite for worldly enjoyments, which were rapidly devouring their fortune. People were beginning to talk of her ruinous caprices, a complete change of her household, five hundred thousand francs frittered away in transforming the old house in the Rue Miromesnil, and extravagant costumes, and large sums of money that had disappeared, melted, or been given away perhaps, without her troubling herself to render the least account. Twice Muffat had ventured to make some observations, being desirous of knowing; but she had looked at him so peculiarly, smiling the while, that he did not dare to ask any questions for fear of receiving too plain an answer. If he accepted Daguenet as a son-in-law from Nana, it was especially with the idea of being able to reduce Estelle’s dowry to two hundred thousand francs, and of making arrangements respecting the balance with the young man, who would be only too delighted at such an unexpectedly good marriage.
However, during the last week, in view of the necessity of immediately finding the hundred thousand francs for the bill, Muffat had only been able to think of one expedient, from which he recoiled. It was to sell a magnificent estate called Les Bordes, estimated at half-a-million, and which the countess had recently inherited from an uncle. Only, he needed her assent, and she also, by her marriage contract, could not dispose of it without his. The night before he had made up his mind to ask his wife for her consent. But now his plans were all upset, he could never accept such a compromise knowing what he did. This thought made the blow he had received all the harder. He understood what it was that Nana wished; for, in the increasing constraint that prompted him to confide in her regarding everything, he had complained about the difficulty he was in, he had told her how anxious he was to get the countess’s consent.
However, Nana did not appear to insist. She did not re-open her eyes. Seeing her so pale, he was frightened, and induced her to take a little ether. Then she sighed, and questioned him, but without naming Daguenet.
“When is the marriage coming off?”
“The contract is to be signed on Tuesday, in five days from now,” he replied.
Then, with her eyes still closed, as though she was speaking in the night of her thoughts, she added, “Well, ducky, think what you had better do. For myself, I want everyone to be pleased.”
He pacified her by taking her hand. Yes, he would think about it, the main thing was for her to rest. And his indignation left him; that sick-room, so warm and so still, smelling strongly of ether, had ended by lulling him in a blessed peacefulness. All his manliness, aroused by the injury, had disappeared on his contact with the warmth of that bed, beside that suffering woman, whom he nursed, under the excitement of his fever, and with the recollection of their voluptuous pleasures. He leant over her, he held her in his embrace; though her face did not move, on her lips hovered the keen smile of victory. At that moment Dr. Boutarel entered the room.
“Well! and how is this dear child?” said he familiarly to Muffat, whom he treated as the husband. “The deuce! she has been talking!”
The doctor was a handsome man, still young, and had a superb connection in the world of gallantry. Very gay, always laughing like a comrade with the ladies, but never departing from his professional position, he charged monstrous fees, which invariably had to be paid with great punctuality. He would trouble himself to call for the least thing. Nana often sent for him two or three times a week, always trembling at the thought of death, and anxiously telling him of every little ache and pain, which he cured whilst amusing her with gossip and funny stories. All the women adored him. But this time the complaint was serious.
Muffat withdrew, deeply affected. He had no other feeling but that of compassion, at seeing his poor Nana so weak. As he was leaving the room, she beckoned him back, and offered her forehead to be kissed; then, in a low voice, with a playfully menacing air, she whispered:
“You know what I told you you might do. Make it up with your wife, or I shall be angry!”
Countess Sabine had wished her daughter’s marriage contract to be signed on a Tuesday, to inaugurate the restoration of her town-house, the paintings of which were scarcely dry, by a grand party. Five hundred invitations had been sent out, a few in all the different sets. On the morning itself, the upholsterers were still putting up some of the hangings; and, at the time of lighting the chandeliers, towards nine o’clock, the architect, accompanied by the countess who was enraptured, was giving his final instructions.
It was one of those charming spring parties. The warm June evening had enabled the two doors of the drawing-room to be thrown wide open, and the ball to be carried even on the gravel paths of the garden. When the first guests arrived they were fairly dazzled, as the coun
t and countess greeted them at the door. It was difficult to recall the room of bygone days in which lingered the icy recollection of old Countess Muffat—that antique apartment, full of devout severity, with its solid mahogany furniture in the style of the Empire, its yellow velvet hangings, its greenish ceiling saturated with dampness. Now, in the entrance vestibule, mosaics set off with gold shone beneath the tall candelabra; whilst the marble staircase unrolled its finely-chiselled balustrade. Then the drawing-room was resplendent with Genoa velvet hangings, and a ceiling embellished with a vast painting by Boucher,bc which the architect had purchased for one hundred thousand francs at the sale of the château of Dampierre. The crystal chandeliers and candelabra illuminated a profusion of mirrors and costly furniture. One could have said that Sabine’s easy-chair—that solitary seat covered with crimson silk, and the softness of which used to seem so much out of place—had extended and multiplied until it filled the entire house with a voluptous indolence, a keen enjoyment, which burned with all the intensity of latent fires.
The dancing had commenced. The orchestra, placed in the garden in front of one of the open windows, was playing a waltz, the sprightly rhythm of which arrived softened and subdued from the open air. And the garden spread itself out in a transparent shadow, lighted up by Venetian lanterns, with a purple tent for refreshments erected at the edge of the lawn. This waltz—the saucy waltz of the “Blonde Venus,” which resembled the laugh raised by some over-free piece of buffoonery—penetrated the old house with a sonorous swell, warming the walls with its tremor. It seemed like some breath of the flesh coming from the street, sweeping before it the whole of a defunct age in the haughty abode, carrying away the past of the Muffats, centuries of honour and of faith slumbering beneath the ceilings.
Close to the fire-place, however, the old friends of the count’s mother had taken refuge in their accustomed seats, feeling dazed and out of their element. They formed a little group in the midst of the gradually increasing crowd. Madame du Joncquoy, no longer recognising the place, had at first gone into the dining-room. Madame Chantereau looked with amazement at the garden, which seemed to her immense. Soon all sorts of bitter reflections were whispered in this corner.
“I say,” murmured Madame Chantereau; “supposing the old countess were only to return. Just fancy her look on beholding all these people, and all this gold, and this hubbub. It is scandalous! ”
“Sabine is mad,” replied Madame du Joncquoy. “Did you notice her at the door? Look, you can see her from here. She has all her diamonds on.”
They stood up for a moment to look at the count and countess in the distance. Sabine, in a white costume trimmed with some magnificent English lace, was triumphant with beauty—young, lively, and with a touch of intoxication in her continual smile. Muffat, beside her, looking aged and rather pale, smiled also in his calm, dignified manner.
“And to think that he was the master,” resumed Madame Chantereau, “that not the smallest seat would have been admitted here without his permission! Ah, well! she has changed all that, he obeys her now. Do you recollect the time when she would not alter a thing in the drawing-room? The whole house is altered now.”
But they ceased talking as Madame de Chezelles entered, followed by a troop of young men, all of them enraptured, and giving vent to their admiration in faint exclamations.
“Oh, delicious! exquisite! so full of taste!”
And she called back to them, “It’s just as I said! There’s nothing like these old buildings when one knows how to arrange them. They look so grand! Is it not quite worthy of Louis XIV.’s time. Now, at least, she can receive.”
The two old ladies had sat down again, and lowering their voices, they talked of the marriage, which surprised many people. Estelle had just passed, in a pink silk dress, still flat and thin, with her expressionless virgin face. She had accepted Daguenet quietly; she showed neither joy nor sadness, but remained as cold and pale as on those winter nights when she used to put the logs of wood on the fire. All this entertainment given for her, these illuminations, these flowers, this music, left her cold.
“An adventurer!” Madame du Joncquoy was saying. “I have never seen him.”
“Take care, here he comes,” murmured Madame Chantereau.
Daguenet, who had caught sight of Madame Hugon with her sons, had hastened to offer her his arm, and he laughed; he showed her an amount of affectionate attention, as though she had had something to do with his stroke of fortune.
“Thank you,” said she, seating herself by the fire-place. “This is my old corner.”
“Do you know him?” asked Madame du Joncquoy, when Daguenet had gone off.
“Certainly, he is a charming young man. George likes him immensely. Oh! he comes of a most honourable family.”
And the good lady defended him against a covert hostility which she felt existed. His father, who was greatly esteemed by Louis-Philippe, had occupied a prefect’s post until his death. The young man had perhaps been rather dissipated. It was said that he was ruined. At any rate, one of his uncles, a rich landed proprietor, was going to bequeath his fortune to him. But the other ladies shook their heads, whilst Madame Hugon, feeling rather embarrassed, kept laying great stress on the honourable position of the family. She felt very tired and complained of her legs. For a month past she had been stopping at her house in the Rue Richelieu, for a host of business matters, so she said. A shade of sadness veiled her maternal smile.
“All the same,” concluded Madame Chantereau, “Estelle might have made a far better match.”
There was a flourish of music. It was the commencement of a quadrille. The crowd moved to the sides of the room to leave an open space. Light dresses passed, mixed with the dark dress suits; whilst the blaze of light shone on the sea of heads, illuminating the sparkling jewels, the waving white plumes, and the bloom of lilac and roses. It was already very warm. A penetrating perfume rose from the light tulles, the satins, and the silks, among which the bare shoulders paled, beneath the lively notes of the orchestra. Through the open doors one could see rows of women seated in the adjacent rooms, with a discreet brightness in their smile, a sparkle in their eyes, a pout on their lips, gently fanning themselves. And guests still continued to arrive. A footman announced their names, whilst amidst the various groups gentlemen slowly tried to find places for the ladies on their arms, standing on tiptoe in search of a vacant chair. But the house was filling, the skirts were packing closer together with a slight noise. There were places where a mass of lace, bows, and flounces barred the way, the wearers politely resigned, retaining all their grace, accustomed as they were to such brilliant crushes. However, out in the garden, in the roseate light of the Venetian lanterns, couples were wandering about, having escaped from the stifling atmosphere of the great drawing-room. The shadows of dresses passed over the lawn, as though keeping time to the music of the quadrille, which sounded softer in the distance behind the trees.
Steiner, who was there, had just come across Foucarmont and La Faloise partaking of champagne in the refreshment tent.
“It’s awfully swell,” La Faloise was saying, while examining the purple tent, and the gilded lances which supported it. “One could almost think oneself at the gingerbread fair. Yes, that’s it! the gingerbread fair!”
He now affected to continually poke fun at everything, posing as a young man who was sick of the world, and who could find nothing worthy of being looked at in a serious light.
“Wouldn’t poor Vandeuvres be surprised if he returned here?” murmured Foucarmont. “Don’t you recollect when he used to be bored to death over there, opposite the fire-place? By Jove! no one laughed then.”
“Vandeuvres! don’t mention him, he’s extinguished!” resumed La Faloise, disdainfully. “He was greatly mistaken if he thought he was going to astonish us with his roasting! Not a soul talks of it now. He’s out of it, done for, scratched. Vandeuvres! talk of another!” Then, as Steiner shook hands with them, he continued, “You know Na
na’s just arrived. Oh! such an entry, my boy! something prodigious! First of all, she embraced the countess; then, when the children drew near, she blessed them, saying to Daguenet, ‘Listen, Paul; if you deceive her you’ll have me after you.’ What! didn’t you see it? Oh! she was grand! such a success!”
The other two listened to him with their mouths open. At length they burst out laughing. He, delighted, thought himself very wonderful.
“Eh! you believed it all? Well, why not? It’s Nana who arranged the marriage. Besides, she’s one of the family.”
The two Hugons passed just then, and Philippe made him desist. Then, as men, they talked of the marriage. George became very incensed with La Faloise, who related the story of it. Nana had indeed saddled Muffat with one of her former lovers for a son-in-law, only it was untrue that she had had Daguenet to see her the night before. Foucarmont incredulously shrugged his shoulders. Did any one ever know whom Nana had to see her of a night? But George angrily replied with a “Sir, I know!” which made them all laugh. Anyhow, as Steiner said, it was a very peculiar state of affairs.
Little by little the refreshment tent was becoming crowded. They moved away from the bar, without separating. La Faloise stared impudently at the women, as though he thought himself at Mabille. At the end of a path they were greatly surprised on beholding M. Venot engaged in a long conversation with Daguenet; and some very poor jokes amused them immensely. He was confessing him; he was giving him some advice for the first night. Then they went and stood in front of one of the open doors of the drawing-room, where some couples dancing a polka were steering their way amidst the men who remained standing. The candles were guttering from the breeze coming from outside. When a couple passed, keeping time to the music, it refreshed the heated atmosphere like a gentle puff of wind.
“By Jove! they can’t be very cold in there!” murmured La Faloise.