Erotic Classics I

by Various Authors

  “You’re ugly when you’re dead,” she said in deliberate tones.

  And she pressed her cheeks, enlarging her eyes and pushing down her jaw, in order to see how she would look. Thus disfigured, she turned toward the count.

  “Do look! My head will be quite small, it will!”

  At this he grew vexed.

  “You’re mad; come to bed!”

  He fancied he saw her in a grave, emaciated by a century of sleep, and he joined his hands and stammered a prayer. It was some time ago that the religious sense had reconquered him, and now his daily access of faith had again assumed the apoplectic intensity which was wont to leave him well-nigh stunned. The joints of his fingers used to crack, and he would repeat without cease these words only: “My God, my God, my God!” It was the cry of his impotence, the cry of that sin against which, though his damnation was certain, he felt powerless to strive. When Nana returned she found him hidden beneath the bedclothes; he was haggard; he had dug his nails into his bosom, and his eyes stared upward as though in search of heaven. And with that she started to weep again. Then they both embraced, and their teeth chattered they knew not why, as the same imbecile obsession over-mastered them. They had already passed a similar night, but on this occasion the thing was utterly idiotic, as Nana declared when she ceased to be frightened. She suspected something, and this caused her to question the count in a prudent sort of way. It might be that Rose Mignon had sent the famous letter! But that was not the case; it was sheer fright, nothing more, for he was still ignorant whether he was a cuckold or no.

  Two days later, after a fresh disappearance, Muffat presented himself in the morning, a time of day at which he never came. He was livid; his eyes were red and his whole man still shaken by a great internal struggle. But Zoé, being scared herself, did not notice his troubled state. She had run to meet him and now began crying:

  “Oh, monsieur, do come in! Madame nearly died yesterday evening!”

  And when he asked for particulars:

  “Something it’s impossible to believe has happened—a miscarriage, monsieur.”

  Nana had been in the family way for the past three months. For long she had simply thought herself out of sorts, and Dr Boutarel had himself been in doubt. But when afterward he made her a decisive announcement, she felt so bored thereby that she did all she possibly could to disguise her condition. Her nervous terrors, her dark humors, sprang to some extent from this unfortunate state of things, the secret of which she kept very shamefacedly, as became a courtesan mother who is obliged to conceal her plight. The thing struck her as a ridiculous accident, which made her appear small in her own eyes and would, had it been known, have led people to chaff her.

  “A poor joke, eh?” she said. “Bad luck, too, certainly.”

  She was necessarily very sharp set when she thought her last hour had come. There was no end to her surprise, too; her sexual economy seemed to her to have got out of order; it produced children then even when one did not want them and when one employed it for quite other purposes! Nature drove her to exasperation; this appearance of serious motherhood in a career of pleasure, this gift of life amid all the deaths she was spreading around, exasperated her. Why could one not dispose of oneself as fancy dictated, without all this fuss? And whence had this brat come? She could not even suggest a father. Ah, dear heaven, the man who made him would have a splendid notion had he kept him in his own hands, for nobody asked for him; he was in everybody’s way, and he would certainly not have much happiness in life!

  Meanwhile Zoé described the catastrophe.

  “Madame was seized with colic toward four o’clock. When she didn’t come back out of the dressing room I went in and found her lying stretched on the floor in a faint. Yes, monsieur, on the floor in a pool of blood, as though she had been murdered. Then I understood, you see. I was furious; Madame might quite well have confided her trouble to me. As it happened, Monsieur Georges was there, and he helped me to lift her up, and directly a miscarriage was mentioned he felt ill in his turn! Oh, it’s true I’ve had the hump since yesterday!”

  In fact, the house seemed utterly upset. All the servants were galloping upstairs, downstairs and through the rooms. Georges had passed the night on an armchair in the drawing room. It was he who had announced the news to Madame’s friends at that hour of the evening when Madame was in the habit of receiving. He had still been very pale, and he had told his story very feelingly, and as though stupefied. Steiner, La Faloise, Philippe and others, besides, had presented themselves, and at the end of the lad’s first phrase they burst into exclamations. The thing was impossible! It must be a farce! After which they grew serious and gazed with an embarrassed expression at her bedroom door. They shook their heads; it was no laughing matter.

  Until midnight a dozen gentlemen had stood talking in low voices in front of the fireplace. All were friends; all were deeply exercised by the same idea of paternity. They seemed to be mutually excusing themselves, and they looked as confused as if they had done something clumsy. Eventually, however, they put a bold face on the matter. It had nothing to do with them: the fault was hers! What a stunner that Nana was, eh? One would never have believed her capable of such a fake! And with that they departed one by one, walking on tiptoe, as though in a chamber of death where you cannot laugh.

  “Come up all the same, monsieur,” said Zoé to Muffat. “Madame is much better and will see you. We are expecting the doctor, who promised to come back this morning.”

  The lady’s maid had persuaded Georges to go back home to sleep, and upstairs in the drawing room only Satin remained. She lay stretched on a divan, smoking a cigarette and scanning the ceiling. Amid the household scare which had followed the accident she had been white with rage, had shrugged her shoulders violently and had made ferocious remarks. Accordingly, when Zoé was passing in front of her and telling Monsieur that poor, dear Madame had suffered a great deal:

  “That’s right; it’ll teach him!” said Satin curtly.

  They turned round in surprise, but she had not moved a muscle; her eyes were still turned toward the ceiling, and her cigarette was still wedged tightly between her lips.

  “Dear me, you’re charming, you are!” said Zoé.

  But Satin sat up, looked savagely at the count and once more hurled her remark at him.

  “That’s right; it’ll teach him!”

  And she lay down again and blew forth a thin jet of smoke, as though she had no interest in present events and were resolved not to meddle in any of them. No, it was all too silly!

  Zoé, however, introduced Muffat into the bedroom, where a scent of ether lingered amid warm, heavy silence, scarce broken by the dull roll of occasional carriages in the Avenue de Villiers. Nana, looking very white on her pillow, was lying awake with wide-open, meditative eyes. She smiled when she saw the count but did not move.

  “Ah, dear pet!” she slowly murmured. “I really thought I should never see you again.”

  Then as he leaned forward to kiss her on the hair, she grew tender toward him and spoke frankly about the child, as though he were its father.

  “I never dared tell you; I felt so happy about it! Oh, I used to dream about it; I should have liked to be worthy of you! And now there’s nothing left. Ah well, perhaps that’s best. I don’t want to bring a stumbling block into your life.”

  Astounded by this story of paternity, he began stammering vague phrases. He had taken a chair and had sat down by the bed, leaning one arm on the coverlet. Then the young woman noticed his wild expression, the blood reddening his eyes, the fever that set his lips aquiver.

  “What’s the matter then?” she asked. “You’re ill too.”

  “No,” he answered with extreme difficulty.

  She gazed at him with a profound expression. Then she signed to Zoé to retire, for the latter was lingering round arranging the medicine
bottles. And when they were alone she drew him down to her and again asked:

  “What’s the matter with you, darling? The tears are ready to burst from your eyes—I can see that quite well. Well now, speak out; you’ve come to tell me something.”

  “No, no, I swear I haven’t,” he blurted out. But he was choking with suffering, and this sickroom, into which he had suddenly entered unawares, so worked on his feelings that he burst out sobbing and buried his face in the bedclothes to smother the violence of his grief. Nana understood. Rose Mignon had most assuredly decided to send the letter. She let him weep for some moments, and he was shaken by convulsions so fierce that the bed trembled under her. At length in accents of motherly compassion she queried:

  “You’ve had bothers at your home?”

  He nodded affirmatively. She paused anew, and then very low:

  “Then you know all?”

  He nodded assent. And a heavy silence fell over the chamber of suffering. The night before, on his return from a party given by the empress, he had received the letter Sabine had written her lover. After an atrocious night passed in the meditation of vengeance he had gone out in the morning in order to resist a longing which prompted him to kill his wife. Outside, under a sudden, sweet influence of a fine June morning, he had lost the thread of his thoughts and had come to Nana’s, as he always came at terrible moments in his life. There only he gave way to his misery, for he felt a cowardly joy at the thought that she would console him.

  “Now look here, be calm!” the young woman continued, becoming at the same time extremely kind. “I’ve known it a long time, but it was certainly not I that would have opened your eyes. You remember you had your doubts last year, but then things arranged themselves, owing to my prudence. In fact, you wanted proofs. The deuce, you’ve got one today, and I know it’s hard lines. Nevertheless, you must look at the matter quietly: you’re not dishonored because it’s happened.”

  He had left off weeping. A sense of shame restrained him from saying what he wanted to, although he had long ago slipped into the most intimate confessions about his household. She had to encourage him. Dear me, she was a woman; she could understand everything. When in a dull voice he exclaimed:

  “You’re ill. What’s the good of tiring you? It was stupid of me to have come. I’m going—”

  “No,” she answered briskly enough. “Stay! Perhaps I shall be able to give you some good advice. Only don’t make me talk too much; the medical man’s forbidden it.”

  He had ended by rising, and he was now walking up and down the room. Then she questioned him:

  “Now what are you going to do?

  “I’m going to box the man’s ears—by heavens, yes!”

  She pursed up her lips disapprovingly.

  “That’s not very wise. And about your wife?”

  “I shall go to law; I’ve proofs.”

  “Not at all wise, my dear boy. It’s stupid even. You know I shall never let you do that!”

  And in her feeble voice she showed him decisively how useless and scandalous a duel and a trial would be. He would be a nine days’ newspaper sensation; his whole existence would be at stake, his peace of mind, his high situation at court, the honor of his name, and all for what? That he might have the laughers against him.

  “What will it matter?” he cried. “I shall have had my revenge.”

  “My pet,” she said, “in a business of that kind one never has one’s revenge if one doesn’t take it directly.”

  He paused and stammered. He was certainly no poltroon, but he felt that she was right. An uneasy feeling was growing momentarily stronger within him, a poor, shameful feeling which softened his anger now that it was at its hottest. Moreover, in her frank desire to tell him everything, she dealt him a fresh blow.

  “And d’you want to know what’s annoying you, dearest? Why, that you are deceiving your wife yourself. You don’t sleep away from home for nothing, eh? Your wife must have her suspicions. Well then, how can you blame her? She’ll tell you that you’ve set her the example, and that’ll shut you up. There, now, that’s why you’re stamping about here instead of being at home murdering both of ’em.”

  Muffat had again sunk down on the chair; he was overwhelmed by these home thrusts. She broke off and took breath, and then in a low voice:

  “Oh, I’m a wreck! Do help me sit up a bit. I keep slipping down, and my head’s too low.”

  When he had helped her she sighed and felt more comfortable. And with that she harked back to the subject. What a pretty sight a divorce suit would be! Couldn’t he imagine the advocate of the countess amusing Paris with his remarks about Nana? Everything would have come out—her fiasco at the Variétés, her house, her manner of life. Oh dear, no! She had no wish for all that amount of advertising. Some dirty women might, perhaps, have driven him to it for the sake of getting a thundering big advertisement, but she—she desired his happiness before all else. She had drawn him down toward her and, after passing her arm around his neck, was nursing his head close to hers on the edge of the pillow. And with that she whispered softly:

  “Listen, my pet, you shall make it up with your wife.”

  But he rebelled at this. It could never be! His heart was nigh breaking at the thought; it was too shameful. Nevertheless, she kept tenderly insisting.

  “You shall make it up with your wife. Come, come, you don’t want to hear all the world saying that I’ve tempted you away from your home? I should have too vile a reputation! What would people think of me? Only swear that you’ll always love me, because the moment you go with another woman—”

  Tears choked her utterance, and he intervened with kisses and said:

  “You’re beside yourself; it’s impossible!”

  “Yes, yes,” she rejoined, “you must. But I’ll be reasonable. After all, she’s your wife, and it isn’t as if you were to play me false with the first-comer.”

  And she continued in this strain, giving him the most excellent advice. She even spoke of God, and the count thought he was listening to M. Venot, when that old gentleman endeavored to sermonize him out of the grasp of sin. Nana, however, did not speak of breaking it off entirely: she preached indulgent good nature and suggested that, as became a dear, nice old fellow, he should divide his attentions between his wife and his mistress, so that they would all enjoy a quiet life, devoid of any kind of annoyance, something, in fact, in the nature of a happy slumber amid the inevitable miseries of existence. Their life would be nowise changed: he would still be the little man of her heart. Only he would come to her a bit less often and would give the countess the nights not passed with her. She had got to the end of her strength and left off, speaking under her breath:

  “After that I shall feel I’ve done a good action, and you’ll love me all the more.”

  Silence reigned. She had closed her eyes and lay wan upon her pillow. The count was patiently listening to her, not wishing her to tire herself. A whole minute went by before she reopened her eyes and murmured:

  “Besides, how about the money? Where would you get the money from if you must grow angry and go to law? Labordette came for the bill yesterday. As for me, I’m out of everything; I have nothing to put on now.”

  Then she shut her eyes again and looked like one dead. A shadow of deep anguish had passed over Muffat’s brow. Under the present stroke he had since yesterday forgotten the money troubles from which he knew not how to escape. Despite formal promises to the contrary, the bill for a hundred thousand francs had been put in circulation after being once renewed, and Labordette, pretending to be very miserable about it, threw all the blame on Francis, declaring that he would never again mix himself up in such a matter with an uneducated man. It was necessary to pay, for the count would never have allowed his signature to be protested. Then in addition to Nana’s novel demands, his home expenses were extraordin
arily confused. On their return from Les Fondettes the countess had suddenly manifested a taste for luxury, a longing for worldly pleasures, which was devouring their fortune. Her ruinous caprices began to be talked about. Their whole household management was altered, and five hundred thousand francs were squandered in utterly transforming the old house in the Rue Miromesnil. Then there were extravagantly magnificent gowns and large sums disappeared, squandered or perhaps given away, without her ever dreaming of accounting for them. Twice Muffat ventured to mention this, for he was anxious to know how the money went, but on these occasions she had smiled and gazed at him with so singular an expression that he dared not interrogate her further for fear of a too-unmistakable answer. If he were taking Daguenet as son-in-law as a gift from Nana it was chiefly with the hope of being able to reduce Estelle’s dower to two hundred thousand francs and of then being free to make any arrangements he chose about the remainder with a young man who was still rejoicing in this unexpected match.