The abominable events attendant on their last interview were gradually effacing themselves. He no longer saw Fontan; he no longer heard the stinging taunt about his wife’s adultery with which Nana cast him out of doors. These things were as words whose memory vanished. Yet deep down in his heart there was a poignant smart which wrung him with such increasing pain that it nigh choked him. Childish ideas would occur to him; he imagined that she would never have betrayed him if he had really loved her, and he blamed himself for this. His anguish was becoming unbearable; he was really very wretched. His was the pain of an old wound rather than the blind, present desire which puts up with everything for the sake of immediate possession. He felt a jealous passion for the woman and was haunted by longings for her and her alone, her hair, her mouth, her body. When he remembered the sound of her voice a shiver ran through him; he longed for her as a miser might have done, with refinements of desire beggaring description. He was, in fact, so dolorously possessed by his passion that when Labordette had begun to broach the subject of an assignation he had thrown himself into his arms in obedience to irresistible impulse. Directly afterward he had, of course, been ashamed of an act of self-abandonment which could not but seem very ridiculous in a man of his position; but Labordette was one who knew when to see and when not to see things, and he gave a further proof of his tact when he left the count at the foot of the stairs and without effort let slip only these simple words:
“The right-hand passage on the second floor. The door’s not shut.”
Muffat was alone in that silent corner of the house. As he passed before the players’ waiting room, he had peeped through the open doors and noticed the utter dilapidation of the vast chamber, which looked shamefully stained and worn in broad daylight. But what surprised him most as he emerged from the darkness and confusion of the stage was the pure, clear light and deep quiet at present pervading the lofty staircase, which one evening when he had seen it before had been bathed in gas fumes and loud with the footsteps of women scampering over the different floors. He felt that the dressing rooms were empty, the corridors deserted; not a soul was there; not a sound broke the stillness, while through the square windows on the level of the stairs the pale November sunlight filtered and cast yellow patches of light, full of dancing dust, amid the dead, peaceful air which seemed to descend from the regions above.
He was glad of this calm and the silence, and he went slowly up, trying to regain breath as he went, for his heart was thumping, and he was afraid lest he might behave childishly and give way to sighs and tears. Accordingly on the first-floor landing he leaned up against a wall—for he was sure of not being observed—and pressed his handkerchief to his mouth and gazed at the warped steps, the iron balustrade bright with the friction of many hands, the scraped paint on the walls—all the squalor, in fact, which that house of tolerance so crudely displayed at the pale afternoon hour when courtesans are asleep. When he reached the second floor he had to step over a big yellow cat which was lying curled up on a step. With half-closed eyes this cat was keeping solitary watch over the house, where the close and now frozen odors which the women nightly left behind them had rendered him exhausted.
In the right-hand corridor the door of the dressing room had, indeed, not been closed entirely. Nana was waiting. That little Mathilde, a drab of a young girl, kept her dressing room in a filthy state. Chipped jugs stood about anyhow; the dressing table was greasy, and there was a chair covered with red stains, which looked as if someone had bled over the straw. The paper pasted on walls and ceiling was splashed from top to bottom with spots of soapy water and this smelled so disagreeably of lavender scent turned sour that Nana opened the window and for some moments stayed leaning on the sill, breathing the fresh air and craning forward to catch sight of Mme Bron underneath. She could hear her broom wildly at work on the mildewed pantiles of the narrow court which was buried in shadow. A canary, whose cage hung on a shutter, was trilling away piercingly. The sound of carriages in the boulevard and neighboring streets was no longer audible, and the quiet and the wide expanse of sleeping sunlight suggested the country. Looking farther afield, her eye fell on the small buildings and glass roofs of the galleries in the passage and, beyond these, on the tall houses in the Rue Vivienne, the backs of which rose silent and apparently deserted over against her. There was a succession of terrace roofs close by, and on one of these a photographer had perched a big cage-like construction of blue glass. It was all very gay, and Nana was becoming absorbed in contemplation, when it struck her someone had knocked at the door.
She turned round and shouted:
“Come in!”
At sight of the count she shut the window, for it was not warm, and there was no need for the eavesdropping Mme Bron to listen. The pair gazed at one another gravely. Then as the count still kept standing stiffly in front of her, looking ready to choke with emotion, she burst out laughing and said:
“Well! So you’re here again, you silly big beast!”
The tumult going on within him was so great that he seemed a man frozen to ice. He addressed Nana as “madame” and esteemed himself happy to see her again. Thereupon she became more familiar than ever in order to bounce matters through.
“Don’t do it in the dignified way! You wanted to see me, didn’t you? But you didn’t intend us to stand looking at one another like a couple of chinaware dogs. We’ve both been in the wrong—Oh, I certainly forgive you!”
And herewith they agreed not to talk of that affair again, Muffat nodding his assent as Nana spoke. He was calmer now but as yet could find nothing to say, though a thousand things rose tumultuously to his lips. Surprised at his apparent coldness, she began acting a part with much vigor.
“Come,” she continued with a faint smile, “you’re a sensible man! Now that we’ve made our peace let’s shake hands and be good friends in future.”
“What? Good friends?” he murmured in sudden anxiety.
“Yes; it’s idiotic, perhaps, but I should like you to think well of me. We’ve had our little explanation out, and if we meet again we shan’t, at any rate look silly.”
He tried to interrupt her with a movement of the hand.
“Let me finish! There’s not a man, you understand, able to accuse me of doing him a blackguardly turn; well, and it struck me as horrid to begin in your case. We all have our sense of honor, dear boy.”
“But that’s not my meaning!” he shouted violently. “Sit down—listen to me!” And as though he were afraid of seeing her take her departure, he pushed her down on the solitary chair in the room. Then he paced about in growing agitation. The little dressing room was airless and full of sunlight, and no sound from the outside world disturbed its pleasant, peaceful, dampish atmosphere. In the pauses of conversation the tweets of the canary were alone audible and suggested the distant piping of a flute.
“Listen,” he said, planting himself in front of her, “I’ve come to possess myself of you again. Yes, I want to begin again. You know that well; then why do you talk to me as you do? Answer me; tell me you consent.”
Her head was bent, and she was scratching the blood-red straw of the seat underneath her. Seeing him so anxious, she did not hurry to answer. But at last she lifted up her face. It had assumed a grave expression, and into the beautiful eyes she had succeeded in infusing a look of sadness.
“Oh, it’s impossible, little man. Never, never, will I live with you again.”
“Why?” he stuttered, and his face seemed contracted in unspeakable suffering.
“Why? Hang it all, because—It’s impossible; that’s about it. I don’t want to.”
He looked ardently at her for some seconds longer. Then his legs curved under him and he fell on the floor. In a bored voice she added this simple advice:
“Ah, don’t be a baby!”
But he was one already. Dropping at her feet, he had put his arms round her wa
ist and was hugging her closely, pressing his face hard against her knees. When he felt her thus—when he once more divined the presence of her velvety limbs beneath the thin fabric of her dress—he was suddenly convulsed and trembled, as it were, with fever, while madly, savagely, he pressed his face against her knees as though he had been anxious to force through her flesh. The old chair creaked, and beneath the low ceiling, where the air was pungent with stale perfumes, smothered sobs of desire were audible.
“Well, and after?” Nana began saying, letting him do as he would. “All this doesn’t help you a bit, seeing that the thing’s impossible. Good God, what a child you are!”
His energy subsided, but he still stayed on the floor, nor did he relax his hold of her as he said in a broken voice:
“Do at least listen to what I came to offer you. I’ve already seen a town house close to the Parc Monceau—I would gladly realize your smallest wish. In order to have you all to myself, I would give my whole fortune. Yes, that would be my only condition, that I should have you all to myself! Do you understand? And if you were to consent to be mine only, oh, then I should want you to be the loveliest, the richest, woman on earth. I should give you carriages and diamonds and dresses!”
At each successive offer Nana shook her head proudly. Then seeing that he still continued them, that he even spoke of settling money on her—for he was at loss what to lay at her feet—she apparently lost patience.
“Come, come, have you done bargaining with me? I’m a good sort, and I don’t mind giving in to you for a minute or two, as your feelings are making you so ill, but I’ve had enough of it now, haven’t I? So let me get up. You’re tiring me.”
She extricated herself from his clasp, and once on her feet:
“No, no, no!” she said. “I don’t want to!”
With that he gathered himself up painfully and feebly dropped into a chair, in which he leaned back with his face in his hands. Nana began pacing up and down in her turn. For a second or two she looked at the stained wallpaper, the greasy toilet table, the whole dirty little room as it basked in the pale sunlight. Then she paused in front of the count and spoke with quiet directness.
“It’s strange how rich men fancy they can have everything for their money. Well, and if I don’t want to consent—what then? I don’t care a pin for your presents! You might give me Paris, and yet I should say no! Always no! Look here, it’s scarcely clean in this room, yet I should think it very nice if I wanted to live in it with you. But one’s fit to kick the bucket in your palaces if one isn’t in love. Ah, as to money, my poor pet, I can lay my hands on that if I want to, but I tell you, I trample on it; I spit on it!”
And with that she assumed a disgusted expression. Then she became sentimental and added in a melancholy tone:
“I know of something worth more than money. Oh, if only someone were to give me what I long for!”
He slowly lifted his head, and there was a gleam of hope in his eyes.
“Oh, you can’t give it me,” she continued; “it doesn’t depend on you, and that’s the reason I’m talking to you about it. Yes, we’re having a chat, so I may as well mention to you that I should like to play the part of the respectable woman in that show of theirs.”
“What respectable woman?” he muttered in astonishment.
“Why, their Duchess Hélène! If they think I’m going to play Géraldine, a part with nothing in it, a scene and nothing besides—if they think that! Besides, that isn’t the reason. The fact is I’ve had enough of courtesans. Why, there’s no end to ’em! They’ll be fancying I’ve got ’em on the brain; to be sure they will! Besides, when all’s said and done, it’s annoying, for I can quite see they seem to think me uneducated. Well, my boy, they’re jolly well in the dark about it, I can tell you! When I want to be a perfect lady, why then I am a swell, and no mistake! Just look at this.”
And she withdrew as far as the window and then came swelling back with the mincing gait and circumspect air of a portly hen that fears to dirty her claws. As to Muffat, he followed her movements with eyes still wet with tears. He was stupefied by this sudden transition from anguish to comedy. She walked about for a moment or two in order the more thoroughly to show off her paces, and as she walked she smiled subtlety, closed her eyes demurely and managed her skirts with great dexterity. Then she posted herself in front of him again.
“I guess I’ve hit it, eh?”
“Oh, thoroughly,” he stammered with a broken voice and a troubled expression.
“I tell you I’ve got hold of the honest woman! I’ve tried at my own place. Nobody’s got my little knack of looking like a duchess who don’t care a damn for the men. Did you notice it when I passed in front of you? Why, the thing’s in my blood! Besides, I want to play the part of an honest woman. I dream about it day and night—I’m miserable about it. I must have the part, d’you hear?”
And with that she grew serious, speaking in a hard voice and looking deeply moved, for she was really tortured by her stupid, tiresome wish. Muffat, still smarting from her late refusals, sat on without appearing to grasp her meaning. There was a silence during which the very flies abstained from buzzing through the quiet, empty place.
“Now, look here,” she resumed bluntly, “you’re to get them to give me the part.”
He was dumfounded, and with a despairing gesture:
“Oh, it’s impossible! You yourself were saying just now that it didn’t depend on me.”
She interrupted him with a shrug of the shoulders.
“You’ll just go down, and you’ll tell Bordenave you want the part. Now don’t be such a silly! Bordenave wants money—well, you’ll lend him some, since you can afford to make ducks and drakes of it.”
And as he still struggled to refuse her, she grew angry.
“Very well, I understand; you’re afraid of making Rose angry. I didn’t mention the woman when you were crying down on the floor—I should have had too much to say about it all. Yes, to be sure, when one has sworn to love a woman forever one doesn’t usually take up with the first creature that comes by directly after. Oh, that’s where the shoe pinches, I remember! Well, dear boy, there’s nothing very savory in the Mignon’s leavings! Oughtn’t you to have broken it off with that dirty lot before coming and squirming on my knees?”
He protested vaguely and at last was able to get out a phrase.
“Oh, I don’t care a jot for Rose; I’ll give her up at once.”
Nana seemed satisfied on this point. She continued:
“Well then, what’s bothering you? Bordenave’s master here. You’ll tell me there’s Fauchery after Bordenave—”
She had sunk her voice, for she was coming to the delicate part of the matter. Muffat sat silent, his eyes fixed on the ground. He had remained voluntarily ignorant of Fauchery’s assiduous attentions to the countess, and time had lulled his suspicions and set him hoping that he had been deceiving himself during that fearful night passed in a doorway of the Rue Taitbout. But he still felt a dull, angry repugnance to the man.
“Well, what then? Fauchery isn’t the devil!” Nana repeated, feeling her way cautiously and trying to find out how matters stood between husband and lover. “One can get over his soft side. I promise you, he’s a good sort at bottom! So it’s a bargain, eh? You’ll tell him that it’s for my sake?”
The idea of taking such a step disgusted the count.
“No, no! Never!” he cried.
She paused, and this sentence was on the verge of utterance:
“Fauchery can refuse you nothing.”
But she felt that by way of argument it was rather too much of a good thing. So she only smiled a queer smile which spoke as plainly as words. Muffat had raised his eyes to her and now once more lowered them, looking pale and full of embarrassment.
“Ah, you’re not good natured,” she muttered
at last.
“I cannot,” he said with a voice and a look of the utmost anguish. “I’ll do whatever you like, but not that, dear love! Oh, I beg you not to insist on that!”
Thereupon she wasted no more time in discussion but took his head between her small hands, pushed it back a little, bent down and glued her mouth to his in a long, long kiss. He shivered violently; he trembled beneath her touch; his eyes were closed, and he was beside himself. She lifted him to his feet.
Erotic Classics I Page 156