Erotic Classics I

by Various Authors

When the young woman re-entered the little room, where Zoé was awaiting her with letters and visiting cards, she cried out, laughing more heartily than ever:

  “There are a pair of beggars for you! Why, they’ve got away with my fifty francs!”

  She wasn’t vexed. It struck her as a joke that men should have got money out of her. All the same, they were swine, for she hadn’t a sou left. But at sight of the cards and the letters her bad temper returned. As to the letters, why, she said “pass” to them. They were from fellows who, after applauding her last night, were now making their declarations. And as to the callers, they might go about their business!

  Zoé had stowed them all over the place, and she called attention to the great capabilities of the flat, every room in which opened on the corridor. That wasn’t the case at Mme Blanche’s, where people had all to go through the drawing room. Oh yes, Mme Blanche had had plenty of bothers over it!

  “You will send them all away,” continued Nana in pursuance of her idea. “Begin with the nigger.”

  “Oh, as to him, madame, I gave him his marching orders a while ago,” said Zoé with a grin. “He only wanted to tell Madame that he couldn’t come tonight.”

  There was vast joy at this announcement, and Nana clapped her hands. He wasn’t coming, what good luck! She would be free then! And she emitted sighs of relief, as though she had been let off the most abominable of tortures. Her first thought was for Daguenet. Poor duck, why, she had just written to tell him to wait till Thursday! Quick, quick, Mme Maloir should write a second letter! But Zoé announced that Mme Maloir had slipped away unnoticed, according to her wont. Whereupon Nana, after talking of sending someone to him, began to hesitate. She was very tired. A long night’s sleep—oh, it would be so jolly! The thought of such a treat overcame her at last. For once in a way she could allow herself that!

  “I shall go to bed when I come back from the theater,” she murmured greedily, “and you won’t wake me before noon.”

  Then raising her voice:

  “Now then, gee up! Shove the others downstairs!”

  Zoé did not move. She would never have dreamed of giving her mistress overt advice, only now she made shift to give Madame the benefit of her experience when Madame seemed to be running her hot head against a wall.

  “Monsieur Steiner as well?” she queried curtly.

  “Why, certainly!” replied Nana. “Before all the rest.”

  The maid still waited, in order to give her mistress time for reflection. Would not Madame be proud to get such a rich gentleman away from her rival Rose Mignon—a man, moreover, who was known in all the theaters?

  “Now make haste, my dear,” rejoined Nana, who perfectly understood the situation, “and tell him he pesters me.”

  But suddenly there was a reversion of feeling. Tomorrow she might want him. Whereupon she laughed, winked once or twice and with a naughty little gesture cried out:

  “After all’s said and done, if I want him the best way even now is to kick him out of doors.”

  Zoé seemed much impressed. Struck with a sudden admiration, she gazed at her mistress and then went and chucked Steiner out of doors without further deliberation.

  Meanwhile Nana waited patiently for a second or two in order to give her time to sweep the place out, as she phrased it. No one would ever have expected such a siege! She craned her head into the drawing room and found it empty. The dining room was empty too. But as she continued her visitation in a calmer frame of mind, feeling certain that nobody remained behind, she opened the door of a closet and came suddenly upon a very young man. He was sitting on the top of a trunk, holding a huge bouquet on his knees and looking exceedingly quiet and extremely well behaved.

  “Goodness gracious me!” she cried. “There’s one of ’em in there even now!” The very young man had jumped down at sight of her and was blushing as red as a poppy. He did not know what to do with his bouquet, which he kept shifting from one hand to the other, while his looks betrayed the extreme of emotion. His youth, his embarrassment and the funny figure he cut in his struggles with his flowers melted Nana’s heart, and she burst into a pretty peal of laughter. Well, now, the very children were coming, were they? Men were arriving in long clothes. So she gave up all airs and graces, became familiar and maternal, tapped her leg and asked for fun:

  “You want me to wipe your nose; do you, baby?”

  “Yes,” replied the lad in a low, supplicating tone.

  This answer made her merrier than ever. He was seventeen years old, he said. His name was Georges Hugon. He was at the Variétés last night and now he had come to see her.

  “These flowers are for me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then give ’em to me, booby!”

  But as she took the bouquet from him he sprang upon her hands and kissed them with all the gluttonous eagerness peculiar to his charming time of life. She had to beat him to make him let go. There was a dreadful little dribbling customer for you! But as she scolded him she flushed rosy-red and began smiling. And with that she sent him about his business, telling him that he might call again. He staggered away; he could not find the doors.

  Nana went back into her dressing room, where Francis made his appearance almost simultaneously in order to dress her hair for the evening. Seated in front of her mirror and bending her head beneath the hairdresser’s nimble hands, she stayed silently meditative. Presently, however, Zoé entered, remarking:

  “There’s one of them, madame, who refuses to go.”

  “Very well, he must be left alone,” she answered quietly.

  “If that comes to that they still keep arriving.”

  “Bah! Tell ’em to wait. When they begin to feel too hungry they’ll be off.” Her humor had changed, and she was now delighted to make people wait about for nothing. A happy thought struck her as very amusing; she escaped from beneath Francis’ hands and ran and bolted the doors. They might now crowd in there as much as they liked; they would probably refrain from making a hole through the wall. Zoé could come in and out through the little doorway leading to the kitchen. However, the electric bell rang more lustily than ever. Every five minutes a clear, lively little ting-ting recurred as regularly as if it had been produced by some well-adjusted piece of mechanism. And Nana counted these rings to while the time away withal. But suddenly she remembered something.

  “I say, where are my burnt almonds?”

  Francis, too, was forgetting about the burnt almonds. But now he drew a paper bag from one of the pockets of his frock coat and presented it to her with the discreet gesture of a man who is offering a lady a present. Nevertheless, whenever his accounts came to be settled, he always put the burnt almonds down on his bill. Nana put the bag between her knees and set to work munching her sweetmeats, turning her head from time to time under the hairdresser’s gently compelling touch.

  “The deuce,” she murmured after a silence, “there’s a troop for you!”

  Thrice, in quick succession, the bell had sounded. Its summonses became fast and furious. There were modest tintinnabulations which seemed to stutter and tremble like a first avowal; there were bold rings which vibrated under some rough touch and hasty rings which sounded through the house with shivering rapidity. It was a regular peal, as Zoé said, a peal loud enough to upset the neighborhood, seeing that a whole mob of men were jabbing at the ivory button, one after the other. That old joker Bordenave had really been far too lavish with her address. Why, the whole of yesterday’s house was coming!

  “By the by, Francis, have you five louis?” said Nana.

  He drew back, looked carefully at her headdress and then quietly remarked:

  “Five louis, that depends!”

  “Ah, you know if you want securities . . .” she continued.

  And without finishing her sentence, she indicated the adjoining rooms
with a sweeping gesture. Francis lent the five louis. Zoé, during each momentary respite, kept coming in to get Madame’s things ready. Soon she came to dress her while the hairdresser lingered with the intention of giving some finishing touches to the headdress. But the bell kept continually disturbing the lady’s maid, who left Madame with her stays half laced and only one shoe on. Despite her long experience, the maid was losing her head. After bringing every nook and corner into requisition and putting men pretty well everywhere, she had been driven to stow them away in threes and fours, which was a course of procedure entirely opposed to her principles. So much the worse for them if they ate each other up! It would provide more room! And Nana, sheltering behind her carefully bolted door, began laughing at them, declaring that she could hear them pant. They ought to be looking lovely in there with their tongues hanging out like a lot of bowwows sitting round on their behinds. Yesterday’s success was not yet over, and this pack of men had followed up her scent.

  “Provided they don’t break anything,” she murmured.

  She began to feel some anxiety, for she fancied she felt their hot breath coming through chinks in the door. But Zoé ushered Labordette in, and the young woman gave a little shout of relief. He was anxious to tell her about an account he had settled for her at the justice of peace’s court. But she did not attend and said:

  “I’ll take you along with me. We’ll have dinner together, and afterward you shall escort me to the Variétés. I don’t go on before half-past nine.”

  Good old Labordette, how lucky it was he had come! He was a fellow who never asked for any favors. He was only the friend of the women, whose little bits of business he arranged for them. Thus on his way in he had dismissed the creditors in the anteroom. Indeed, those good folks really didn’t want to be paid. On the contrary, if they had been pressing for payment it was only for the sake of complimenting Madame and of personally renewing their offers of service after her grand success of yesterday.

  “Let’s be off, let’s be off,” said Nana, who was dressed by now.

  But at that moment Zoé came in again, shouting:

  “I refuse to open the door any more. They’re waiting in a crowd all down the stairs.”

  A crowd all down the stairs! Francis himself, despite the English stolidity of manner which he was wont to affect, began laughing as he put up his combs. Nana, who had already taken Labordette’s arm, pushed him into the kitchen and effected her escape. At last she was delivered from the men and felt happily conscious that she might now enjoy his society anywhere without fear of stupid interruptions.

  “You shall see me back to my door,” she said as they went down the kitchen stairs. “I shall feel safe, in that case. Just fancy, I want to sleep a whole night quite by myself—yes, a whole night! It’s sort of infatuation, dear boy!”

  Chapter III

  The countess Sabine, as it had become customary to call Mme Muffat de Beuville in order to distinguish her from the count’s mother, who had died the year before, was wont to receive every Tuesday in her house in the Rue Miromesnil at the corner of the Rue de Penthièvre. It was a great square building, and the Muffats had lived in it for a hundred years or more. On the side of the street its frontage seemed to slumber, so lofty was it and dark, so sad and convent-like, with its great outer shutters, which were nearly always closed. And at the back in a little dark garden some trees had grown up and were straining toward the sunlight with such long slender branches that their tips were visible above the roof.

  This particular Tuesday, toward ten o’clock in the evening, there were scarcely a dozen people in the drawing room. When she was only expecting intimate friends the countess opened neither the little drawing room nor the dining room. One felt more at home on such occasions and chatted round the fire. The drawing room was very large and very lofty; its four windows looked out upon the garden, from which, on this rainy evening of the close of April, issued a sensation of damp despite the great logs burning on the hearth. The sun never shone down into the room; in the daytime it was dimly lit up by a faint greenish light, but at night, when the lamps and the chandelier were burning, it looked merely a serious old chamber with its massive mahogany First Empire furniture, its hangings and chair coverings of yellow velvet, stamped with a large design. Entering it, one was in an atmosphere of cold dignity, of ancient manners, of a vanished age, the air of which seemed devotional.

  Opposite the armchair, however, in which the count’s mother had died—a square armchair of formal design and inhospitable padding, which stood by the hearthside—the Countess Sabine was seated in a deep and cozy lounge, the red silk upholsteries of which were soft as eider down. It was the only piece of modern furniture there, a fanciful item introduced amid the prevailing severity and clashing with it.

  “So we shall have the shah of Persia,” the young woman was saying.

  They were talking of the crowned heads who were coming to Paris for the exhibition. Several ladies had formed a circle round the hearth, and Mme du Joncquoy, whose brother, a diplomat, had just fulfilled a mission in the East, was giving some details about the court of Nazar Eddin.

  “Are you out of sorts, my dear?” asked Mme Chantereau, the wife of an ironmaster, seeing the countess shivering slightly and growing pale as she did so.

  “Oh no, not at all,” replied the latter, smiling. “I felt a little cold. This drawing room takes so long to warm.”

  And with that she raised her melancholy eyes and scanned the walls from floor to ceiling. Her daughter Estelle, a slight, insignificant-looking girl of sixteen, the thankless period of life, quitted the large footstool on which she was sitting and silently came and propped up one of the logs which had rolled from its place. But Mme de Chezelles, a convent friend of Sabine’s and her junior by five years, exclaimed:

  “Dear me, I would gladly be possessed of a drawing room such as yours! At any rate, you are able to receive visitors. They only build boxes nowadays. Oh, if I were in your place!”

  She ran giddily on and with lively gestures explained how she would alter the hangings, the seats—everything, in fact. Then she would give balls to which all Paris should run. Behind her seat her husband, a magistrate, stood listening with serious air. It was rumored that she deceived him quite openly, but people pardoned her offense and received her just the same, because, they said, “she’s not answerable for her actions.”

  “Oh that Léonide!” the Countess Sabine contented herself by murmuring, smiling her faint smile the while.

  With a languid movement she eked out the thought that was in her. After having lived there seventeen years she certainly would not alter her drawing room now. It would henceforth remain just such as her mother-in-law had wished to preserve it during her lifetime. Then returning to the subject of conversation:

  “I have been assured,” she said, “that we shall also have the king of Prussia and the emperor of Russia.”

  “Yes, some very fine fetes are promised,” said Mme du Joncquoy.

  The banker Steiner, not long since introduced into this circle by Léonide de Chezelles, who was acquainted with the whole of Parisian society, was sitting chatting on a sofa between two of the windows. He was questioning a deputy, from whom he was endeavoring with much adroitness to elicit news about a movement on the stock exchange of which he had his suspicions, while the Count Muffat, standing in front of them, was silently listening to their talk, looking, as he did so, even grayer than was his wont.

  Four or five young men formed another group near the door round the Count Xavier de Vandeuvres, who in a low tone was telling them an anecdote. It was doubtless a very risky one, for they were choking with laughter. Companionless in the center of the room, a stout man, a chief clerk at the Ministry of the Interior, sat heavily in an armchair, dozing with his eyes open. But when one of the young men appeared to doubt the truth of the anecdote Vandeuvres raised his voice.

&n
bsp; “You are too much of a skeptic, Foucarmont; you’ll spoil all your pleasures that way.”

  And he returned to the ladies with a laugh. Last scion of a great family, of feminine manners and witty tongue, he was at that time running through a fortune with a rage of life and appetite which nothing could appease. His racing stable, which was one of the best known in Paris, cost him a fabulous amount of money; his betting losses at the Imperial Club amounted monthly to an alarming number of pounds, while taking one year with another, his mistresses would be always devouring now a farm, now some acres of arable land or forest, which amounted, in fact, to quite a respectable slice of his vast estates in Picardy.

  “I advise you to call other people skeptics! Why, you don’t believe a thing yourself,” said Léonide, making shift to find him a little space in which to sit down at her side.

  “It’s you who spoil your own pleasures.”

  “Exactly,” he replied. “I wish to make others benefit by my experience.”