Then he turned to Clarisse and again referred to what Rose had been telling them:
“D’you believe in the offers of the Folies people, eh? Three hundred francs an evening for a hundred nights! Why not a country house into the bargain? If his wife were to be given three hundred francs Mignon would chuck my friend Bordenave and do it jolly sharp too!”
Clarisse was a believer in the three hundred francs. That man Fontan was always picking holes in his friends’ successes! Just then Simonne interrupted her. She was shivering with cold. Indeed, they were all buttoned up to the ears and had comforters on, and they looked up at the ray of sunlight which shone brightly above them but did not penetrate the cold gloom of the theater. In the streets outside there was a frost under a November sky.
“And there’s no fire in the greenroom!” said Simonne. “It’s disgusting; he is just becoming a skinflint! I want to be off; I don’t want to get seedy.”
“Silence, I say!” Bordenave once more thundered.
Then for a minute or so a confused murmur alone was audible as the actors went on repeating their parts. There was scarcely any appropriate action, and they spoke in even tones so as not to tire themselves. Nevertheless, when they did emphasize a particular shade of meaning they cast a glance at the house, which lay before them like a yawning gulf. It was suffused with vague, ambient shadow, which resembled the fine dust floating pent in some high, windowless loft. The deserted house, whose sole illumination was the twilight radiance of the stage, seemed to slumber in melancholy and mysterious effacement. Near the ceiling dense night smothered the frescoes, while from the several tiers of stage boxes on either hand huge widths of gray canvas stretched down to protect the neighboring hangings. In fact, there was no end to these coverings; bands of canvas had been thrown over the velvet-covered ledges in front of the various galleries which they shrouded thickly. Their pale hue stained the surrounding shadows, and of the general decorations of the house only the dark recesses of the boxes were distinguishable. These served to outline the framework of the several stories, where the seats were so many stains of red velvet turned black. The chandelier had been let down as far as it would go, and it so filled the region of the stalls with its pendants as to suggest a flitting and to set one thinking that the public had started on a journey from which they would never return.
Just about then Rose, as the little duchess who has been misled into the society of a courtesan, came to the footlights, lifted up her hands and pouted adorably at the dark and empty theater, which was as sad as a house of mourning.
“Good heavens, what queer people!” she said, emphasizing the phrase and confident that it would have its effect.
Far back in the corner box in which she was hiding Nana sat enveloped in a great shawl. She was listening to the play and devouring Rose with her eyes. Turning toward Labordette, she asked him in a low tone:
“You are sure he’ll come?”
“Quite sure. Without doubt he’ll come with Mignon, so as to have an excuse for coming. As soon as he makes his appearance you’ll go up into Mathilde’s dressing room, and I’ll bring him to you there.”
They were talking of Count Muffat. Labordette had arranged this interview with him on neutral ground. He had had a serious talk with Bordenave, whose affairs had been gravely damaged by two successive failures. Accordingly Bordenave had hastened to lend him his theater and to offer Nana a part, for he was anxious to win the count’s favor and hoped to be able to borrow from him.
“And this part of Géraldine, what d’you thing of it?” continued Labordette.
But Nana sat motionless and vouchsafed no reply. After the first act, in which the author showed how the Duc de Beaurivage played his wife false with the blonde Géraldine, a comic-opera celebrity, the second act witnessed the Duchess Hélène’s arrival at the house of the actress on the occasion of a masked ball being given by the latter. The duchess has come to find out by what magical process ladies of that sort conquer and retain their husbands’ affections. A cousin, the handsome Oscar de Saint-Firmin, introduces her and hopes to be able to debauch her. And her first lesson causes her great surprise, for she hears Géraldine swearing like a hodman at the duke, who suffers with most ecstatic submissiveness. The episode causes her to cry out, “Dear me, if that’s the way one ought to talk to the men!” Géraldine had scarce any other scene in the act save this one. As to the duchess, she is very soon punished for her curiosity, for an old buck, the Baron de Tardiveau, takes her for a courtesan and becomes very gallant, while on her other side Beaurivage sits on a lounging chair and makes his peace with Géraldine by dint of kisses and caresses. As this last lady’s part had not yet been assigned to anyone, Father Cossard had got up to read it, and he was now figuring away in Bosc’s arms and emphasizing it despite himself. At this point, while the rehearsal was dragging monotonously on, Fauchery suddenly jumped from his chair. He had restrained himself up to that moment, but now his nerves got the better of him.
“That’s not it!” he cried.
The actors paused awkwardly enough while Fontan sneered and asked in his most contemptuous voice:
“Eh? What’s not it? Who’s not doing it right?”
“Nobody is! You’re quite wrong, quite wrong!” continued Fauchery, and, gesticulating wildly, he came striding over the stage and began himself to act the scene.
“Now look here, you Fontan, do please comprehend the way Tardiveau gets packed off. You must lean forward like this in order to catch hold of the duchess. And then you, Rose, must change your position like that but not too soon—only when you hear the kiss.”
He broke off and in the heat of explanation shouted to Cossard:
“Géraldine, give the kiss! Loudly, so that it may be heard!”
Father Cossard turned toward Bosc and smacked his lips vigorously.
“Good! That’s the kiss,” said Fauchery triumphantly. “Once more; let’s have it once more. Now you see, Rose, I’ve had time to move, and then I give a little cry—so: ‘Oh, she’s given him a kiss.’ But before I do that, Tardiveau must go up the stage. D’you hear, Fontan? You go up. Come, let’s try it again, all together.”
The actors continued the scene again, but Fontan played his part with such an ill grace that they made no sort of progress. Twice Fauchery had to repeat his explanation, each time acting it out with more warmth than before. The actors listened to him with melancholy faces, gazed momentarily at one another, as though he had asked them to walk on their heads, and then awkwardly essayed the passage, only to pull up short directly afterward, looking as stiff as puppets whose strings have just been snapped.
“No, it beats me; I can’t understand it,” said Fontan at length, speaking in the insolent manner peculiar to him.
Bordenave had never once opened his lips. He had slipped quite down in his armchair, so that only the top of his hat was now visible in the doubtful flicker of the gaslight on the stand. His cane had fallen from his grasp and lay slantwise across his waistcoat. Indeed, he seemed to be asleep. But suddenly he sat bolt upright.
“It’s idiotic, my boy,” he announced quietly to Fauchery.
“What d’you mean, idiotic?” cried the author, growing very pale. “It’s you that are the idiot, my dear boy!”
Bordenave began to get angry at once. He repeated the word “idiotic” and, seeking a more forcible expression, hit upon “imbecile” and “damned foolish.” The public would hiss, and the act would never be finished! And when Fauchery, without, indeed, being very deeply wounded by these big phrases, which always recurred when a new piece was being put on, grew savage and called the other a brute, Bordenave went beyond all bounds, brandished his cane in the air, snorted like a bull and shouted:
“Good God! Why the hell can’t you shut up? We’ve lost a quarter of an hour over this folly. Yes, folly! There’s no sense in it. And it’s so simple, after all�
��s said and done! You, Fontan, mustn’t move. You, Rose, must make your little movement, just that, no more; d’ye see? And then you come down. Now then, let’s get it done this journey. Give the kiss, Cossard.”
Then ensued confusion. The scene went no better than before. Bordenave, in his turn, showed them how to act it about as gracefully as an elephant might have done, while Fauchery sneered and shrugged pityingly. After that Fontan put his word in, and even Bosc made so bold as to give advice. Rose, thoroughly tired out, had ended by sitting down on the chair which indicated the door. No one knew where they had got to, and by way of finish to it all Simonne made a premature entry, under the impression that her cue had been given her, and arrived amid the confusion. This so enraged Bordenave that he whirled his stick round in a terrific manner and caught her a sounding thwack to the rearward. At rehearsal he used frequently to drub his former mistress. Simonne ran away, and this furious outcry followed her:
“Take that, and, by God, if I’m annoyed again I shut the whole shop up at once!”
Fauchery pushed his hat down over his forehead and pretended to be going to leave the theater. But he stopped at the top of the stage and came down again when he saw Bordenave, sweating, returning his seat. Then he, too, took up his old position in the other armchair. For some seconds they sat motionless side by side while oppressive silence reigned in the shadowy house. The actors waited for nearly two minutes. They were all heavy with exhaustion and felt as though they had performed an overwhelming task.
“Well, let’s go on,” said Bordenave at last. He spoke in his usual voice and was perfectly calm.
“Yes, let’s go on,” Fauchery repeated. “We’ll arrange the scene tomorrow.”
And with that they dragged on again and rehearsed their parts with as much listlessness and as fine an indifference as ever. During the dispute between manager and author Fontan and the rest had been taking things very comfortably on the rustic bench and seats at the back of the stage, where they had been chuckling, grumbling and saying fiercely cutting things. But when Simonne came back, still smarting from her blow and choking with sobs, they grew melodramatic and declared that had they been in her place they would have strangled the swine. She began wiping her eyes and nodding approval. It was all over between them, she said. She was leaving him, especially as Steiner had offered to give her a grand start in life only the day before. Clarisse was much astonished at this, for the banker was quite ruined, but Prullière began laughing and reminded them of the neat manner in which that confounded Israelite had puffed himself alongside of Rose in order to get his Landes salt works afloat on the stock exchange. Just at that time he was airing a new project, namely, a tunnel under the Bosporus. Simonne listened with the greatest interest to this fresh piece of information.
As to Clarisse, she had been raging for a week past. Just fancy, that beast La Faloise, whom she had succeeded in chucking into Gaga’s venerable embrace, was coming into the fortune of a very rich uncle! It was just her luck; she had always been destined to make things cozy for other people. Then, too, that pig Bordenave had once more given her a mere scrap of a part, a paltry fifty lines, just as if she could not have played Géraldine! She was yearning for that role and hoping that Nana would refuse it.
“Well, and what about me?” said Prullière with much bitterness. “I haven’t got more than two hundred lines. I wanted to give the part up. It’s too bad to make me play that fellow Saint-Firmin; why, it’s a regular failure! And then what a style it’s written in, my dears! It’ll fall dead flat, you may be sure.”
But just then Simonne, who had been chatting with Father Barillot, came back breathless and announced:
“By the by, talking of Nana, she’s in the house.”
“Where, where?” asked Clarisse briskly, getting up to look for her.
The news spread at once, and everyone craned forward. The rehearsal was, as it were, momentarily interrupted. But Bordenave emerged from his quiescent condition, shouting:
“What’s up, eh? Finish the act, I say. And be quiet out there; it’s unbearable!”
Nana was still following the piece from the corner box. Twice Labordette showed an inclination to chat, but she grew impatient and nudged him to make him keep silent. The second act was drawing to a close, when two shadows loomed at the back of the theater. They were creeping softly down, avoiding all noise, and Nana recognized Mignon and Count Muffat. They came forward and silently shook hands with Bordenave.
“Ah, there they are,” she murmured with a sigh of relief.
Rose Mignon delivered the last sentences of the act. Thereupon Bordenave said that it was necessary to go through the second again before beginning the third. With that he left off attending to the rehearsal and greeted the count with looks of exaggerated politeness, while Fauchery pretended to be entirely engrossed with his actors, who now grouped themselves round him. Mignon stood whistling carelessly, with his hands behind his back and his eyes fixed complacently on his wife, who seemed rather nervous.
“Well, shall we go upstairs?” Labordette asked Nana. “I’ll install you in the dressing room and come down again and fetch him.”
Nana forthwith left the corner box. She had to grope her way along the passage outside the stalls, but Bordenave guessed where she was as she passed along in the dark and caught her up at the end of the corridor passing behind the scenes, a narrow tunnel where the gas burned day and night. Here, in order to bluff her into a bargain, he plunged into a discussion of the courtesan’s part.
“What a part it is, eh? What a wicked little part! It’s made for you. Come and rehearse tomorrow.”
Nana was frigid. She wanted to know what the third act was like.
“Oh, it’s superb, the third act is! The duchess plays the courtesan in her own house and this disgusts Beaurivage and makes him amend his way. Then there’s an awfully funny quid pro quo, when Tardiveau arrives and is under the impression that he’s at an opera dancer’s house.”
“And what does Géraldine do in it all?” interrupted Nana.
“Géraldine?” repeated Bordenave in some embarrassment. “She has a scene—not a very long one, but a great success. It’s made for you, I assure you! Will you sign?”
She looked steadily at him and at length made answer:
“We’ll see about that all in good time.”
And she rejoined Labordette, who was waiting for her on the stairs. Everybody in the theater had recognized her, and there was now much whispering, especially between Prullière, who was scandalized at her return, and Clarisse who was very desirous of the part. As to Fontan, he looked coldly on, pretending unconcern, for he did not think it becoming to round on a woman he had loved. Deep down in his heart, though, his old love had turned to hate, and he nursed the fiercest rancor against her in return for the constant devotion, the personal beauty, the life in common, of which his perverse and monstrous tastes had made him tire.
In the meantime, when Labordette reappeared and went up to the count, Rose Mignon, whose suspicions Nana’s presence had excited, understood it all forthwith. Muffat was bothering her to death, but she was beside herself at the thought of being left like this. She broke the silence which she usually maintained on such subjects in her husband’s society and said bluntly:
“You see what’s going on? My word, if she tries the Steiner trick on again I’ll tear her eyes out!”
Tranquilly and haughtily Mignon shrugged his shoulders, as became a man from whom nothing could be hidden.
“Do be quiet,” he muttered. “Do me the favor of being quiet, won’t you?”
He knew what to rely on now. He had drained his Muffat dry, and he knew that at a sign from Nana he was ready to lie down and be a carpet under her feet. There is no fighting against passions such as that. Accordingly, as he knew what men were, he thought of nothing but how to turn the situation to the best possible
account.
It would be necessary to wait on the course of events. And he waited on them.
“Rose, it’s your turn!” shouted Bordenave. “The second act’s being begun again.”
“Off with you then,” continued Mignon, “and let me arrange matters.”
Then he began bantering, despite all his troubles, and was pleased to congratulate Fauchery on his piece. A very strong piece! Only why was his great lady so chaste? It wasn’t natural! With that he sneered and asked who had sat for the portrait of the Duke of Beaurivage, Géraldine’s worn-out roué. Fauchery smiled; he was far from annoyed. But Bordenave glanced in Muffat’s direction and looked vexed, and Mignon was struck at this and became serious again.
“Let’s begin, for God’s sake!” yelled the manager. “Now then, Barillot! Eh? What? Isn’t Bosc there? Is he bloody well making game of me now?”
Bosc, however, made his appearance quietly enough, and the rehearsal began again just as Labordette was taking the count away with him. The latter was tremulous at the thought of seeing Nana once more. After the rupture had taken place between them there had been a great void in his life. He was idle and fancied himself about to suffer through the sudden change his habits had undergone, and accordingly he had let them take him to see Rose. Besides, his brain had been in such a whirl that he had striven to forget everything and had strenuously kept from seeking out Nana while avoiding an explanation with the countess. He thought, indeed, that he owed his dignity such a measure of forgetfulness. But mysterious forces were at work within, and Nana began slowly to re-conquer him. First came thoughts of her, then fleshly cravings and finally a new set of exclusive, tender, well-nigh paternal feelings.
Erotic Classics I Page 155