Nana, Émile Zola [reading list txt] 📗

a burst of merry, chattering voices, which sounded as

if a runaway convent were on the premises. And Labordette appeared,

towing five women in his rear, his boarding school, as Lucy Stewart

cruelly phrased it. There was Gaga, majestic in a blue velvet dress

which was too tight for her, and Caroline Hequet, clad as usual in

ribbed black silk, trimmed with Chantilly lace. Lea de Horn came

next, terribly dressed up, as her wont was, and after her the big

Tatan Nene, a good-humored fair girl with the bosom of a wet nurse,

at which people laughed, and finally little Maria Blond, a young

damsel of fifteen, as thin and vicious as a street child, yet on the

high road to success, owing to her recent first appearance at the

Folies. Labordette had brought the whole collection in a single

fly, and they were stlll laughing at the way they had been squeezed

with Maria Blond on her knees. But on entering the room they pursed

up their lips, and all grew very conventional as they shook hands

and exchanged salutations. Gaga even affected the infantile and

lisped through excess of genteel deportment. Tatan Nene alone

transgressed. They had been telling her as they came along that six

absolutely naked Negroes would serve up Nana’s supper, and she now

grew anxious about them and asked to see them. Labordette called

her a goose and besought her to be silent.

 

“And Bordenave?” asked Fauchery.

 

“Oh, you may imagine how miserable I am,” cried Nana; “he won’t be

able to join us.”

 

“Yes,” said Rose Mignon, “his foot caught in a trap door, and he’s

got a fearful sprain. If only you could hear him swearing, with his

leg tied up and laid out on a chair!”

 

Thereupon everybody mourned over Bordenave’s absence. No one ever

gave a good supper without Bordenave. Ah well, they would try and

do without him, and they were already talking about other matters

when a burly voice was heard:

 

“What, eh, what? Is that the way they’re going to write my obituary

notice?”

 

There was a shout, and all heads were turned round, for it was

indeed Bordenave. Huge and fiery-faced, he was standing with his

stiff leg in the doorway, leaning for support on Simonne Cabiroche’s

shoulder. Simonne was for the time being his mistress. This little

creature had had a certain amount of education and could play the

piano and talk English. She was a blonde on a tiny, pretty scale

and so delicately formed that she seemed to bend under Bordenave’s

rude weight. Yet she was smilingly submissive withal. He postured

there for some moments, for he felt that together they formed a

tableau.

 

“One can’t help liking ye, eh?” he continued. “Zounds, I was afraid

I should get bored, and I said to myself, ‘Here goes.’”

 

But he interrupted himself with an oath.

 

“Oh, damn!”

 

Simonne had taken a step too quickly forward, and his foot had just

felt his full weight. He gave her a rough push, but she, still

smiling away and ducking her pretty head as some animal might that

is afraid of a beating, held him up with all the strength a little

plump blonde can command. Amid all these exclamations there was a

rush to his assistance. Nana and Rose Mignon rolled up an armchair,

into which Bordenave let himself sink, while the other women slid a

second one under his leg. And with that all the actresses present

kissed him as a matter of course. He kept grumbling and gasping.

 

“Oh, damn! Oh, damn! Ah well, the stomach’s unhurt, you’ll see.”

 

Other guests had arrived by this time, and motion became impossible

in the room. The noise of clinking plates and silver had ceased,

and now a dispute was heard going on in the big drawing room, where

the voice of the manager grumbled angrily. Nana was growing

impatient, for she expected no more invited guests and wondered why

they did not bring in supper. She had just sent Georges to find out

what was going on when, to her great surprise, she noticed the

arrival of more guests, both male and female. She did not know them

in the least. Whereupon with some embarrassment she questioned

Bordenave, Mignon and Labordette about them. They did not know them

any more than she did, but when she turned to the Count de

Vandeuvres he seemed suddenly to recollect himself. They were the

young men he had pressed into her service at Count Muffat’s. Nana

thanked him. That was capital, capital! Only they would all be

terribly crowded, and she begged Labordette to go and have seven

more covers set. Scarcely had he left the room than the footman

ushered in three newcomers. Nay, this time the thing was becoming

ridiculous; one certainly could never take them all in. Nana was

beginning to grow angry and in her haughtiest manner announced that

such conduct was scarcely in good taste. But seeing two more

arrive, she began laughing; it was really too funny. So much the

worse. People would have to fit in anyhow! The company were all on

their feet save Gaga and Rose and Bordenave, who alone took up two

armchairs. There was a buzz of voices, people talking in low tones

and stifling slight yawns the while.

 

“Now what d’you say, my lass,” asked Bordenave, “to our sitting down

at table as if nothing had happened? We are all here, don’t you

think?”

 

“Oh yes, we’re all here, I promise you!” she answered laughingly.

 

She looked round her but grew suddenly serious, as though she were

surprised at not finding someone. Doubtless there was a guest

missing whom she did not mention. It was a case of waiting. But a

minute or two later the company noticed in their midst a tall

gentleman with a fine face and a beautiful white beard. The most

astonishing thing about it was that nobody had seen him come in;

indeed, he must have slipped into the little drawing room through

the bedroom door, which had remained ajar. Silence reigned, broken

only by a sound of whispering. The Count de Vandeuvres certainly

knew who the gentleman was, for they both exchanged a discreet

handgrip, but to the questions which the women asked him he replied

by a smile only. Thereupon Caroline Hequet wagered in a low voice

that it was an English lord who was on the eve of returning to

London to be married. She knew him quite well—she had had him.

And this account of the matter went the round of the ladies present,

Maria Blond alone asserting that, for her part, she recognized a

German ambassador. She could prove it, because he often passed the

night with one of her friends. Among the men his measure was taken

in a few rapid phrases. A real swell, to judge by his looks!

Perhaps he would pay for the supper! Most likely. It looked like

it. Bah! Provided only the supper was a good one! In the end the

company remained undecided. Nay, they were already beginning to

forget the old white-bearded gentleman when the manager opened the

door of the large drawing room.

 

“Supper is on the table, madame.”

 

Nana had already accepted Steiner’s proffered arm without noticing a

movement on the part of the old gentleman, who started to walk

behind her in solitary state. Thus the march past could not be

organized, and men and women entered anyhow, joking with homely good

humor over this absence of ceremony. A long table stretched from

one end to the other of the great room, which had been entirely

cleared of furniture, and this same table was not long enough, for

the plates thereon were touching one another. Four candelabra, with

ten candles apiece, lit up the supper, and of these one was gorgeous

in silver plate with sheaves of flowers to right and left of it.

Everything was luxurious after the restaurant fashion; the china was

ornamented with a gold line and lacked the customary monogram; the

silver had become worn and tarnished through dint of continual

washings; the glass was of the kind that you can complete an odd set

of in any cheap emporium.

 

The scene suggested a premature housewarming in an establishment

newly smiled on by fortune and as yet lacking the necessary

conveniences. There was no central luster, and the candelabra,

whose tall tapers had scarcely burned up properly, cast a pale

yellow light among the dishes and stands on which fruit, cakes and

preserves alternated symmetrically.

 

“You sit where you like, you know,” said Nana. “It’s more amusing

that way.”

 

She remained standing midway down the side of the table. The old

gentleman whom nobody knew had placed himself on her right, while

she kept Steiner on her left hand. Some guests were already sitting

down when the sound of oaths came from the little drawing room. It

was Bordenave. The company had forgotten him, and he was having all

the trouble in the world to raise himself out of his two armchairs,

for he was howling amain and calling for that cat of a Simonne, who

had slipped off with the rest. The women ran in to him, full of

pity for his woes, and Bordenave appeared, supported, nay, almost

carried, by Caroline, Clarisse, Tatan Nene and Maria Blond. And

there was much to-do over his installation at the table.

 

“In the middle, facing Nana!” was the cry. “Bordenave in the

middle! He’ll be our president!”

 

Thereupon the ladies seated him in the middle. But he needed a

second chair for his leg, and two girls lifted it up and stretched

it carefully out. It wouldn’t matter; he would eat sideways.

 

“God blast it all!” he grumbled. “We’re squashed all the same! Ah,

my kittens, Papa recommends himself to your tender care!”

 

He had Rose Mignon on his right and Lucy Stewart on his left hand,

and they promised to take good care of him. Everybody was now

getting settled. Count de Vandeuvres placed himself between Lucy

and Clarisse; Fauchery between Rose Mignon and Caroline Hequet. On

the other side of the table Hector de la Faloise had rushed to get

next Gaga, and that despite the calls of Clarisse opposite, while

Mignon, who never deserted Steiner, was only separated from him by

Blanche and had Tatan Nene on his left. Then came Labordette and,

finally, at the two ends of the table were irregular crowding groups

of young men and of women, such as Simonne, Lea de Horn and Maria

Blond. It was in this region that Daguenet and Georges forgathered

more warmly than ever while smilingly gazing at Nana.

 

Nevertheless, two people remained standing, and there was much

joking about it. The men offered seats on their knees. Clarisse,

who could not move her elbows, told Vandeuvres that she counted on

him to feed her. And then that Bordenave did just take up space

with his chairs! There was a final effort, and at last everybody

was seated, but, as Mignon loudly remarked, they were confoundedly

like herrings in a barrel.

 

“Thick asparagus soup a la comtesse, clear soup a la Deslignac,”

murmured the waiters, carrying about platefuls in rear of the

guests.

 

Bordenave was loudly recommending the thick soup when a shout arose,

followed by protests and indignant exclamations. The door had just

opened, and three late arrivals, a woman and two men, had just come

in. Oh dear, no! There was no space for them! Nana, however,

without leaving her chair, began screwing up her eyes in the effort

to find out whether she knew them. The woman was Louise Violaine,

but she had never seen the men before.

 

“This gentleman, my dear,” said Vandeuvres, “is a friend of