Nana, Émile Zola [reading list txt] 📗

flaring

rooms.

 

“It’s most tiresome that you’re going back the day after tomorrow,”

said Nana. “But never mind, we’ll get up an excursion all the

same!”

 

They decided to go on the morrow, Sunday, and visit the ruins of the

old Abbey of Chamont, which were some seven kilometers distant.

Five carriages would come out from Orleans, take up the company

after lunch and bring them back to dinner at La Mignotte at about

seven. It would be delightful.

 

That evening, as his wont was, Count Muffat mounted the hill to ring

at the outer gate. But the brightly lit windows and the shouts of

laughter astonished him. When, however, he recognized Mignon’s

voice, he understood it all and went off, raging at this new

obstacle, driven to extremities, bent on some violent act. Georges

passed through a little door of which he had the key, slipped along

the staircase walls and went quietly up into Nana’s room. Only he

had to wait for her till past midnight. She appeared at last in a

high state of intoxication and more maternal even than on the

previous nights. Whenever she had drunk anything she became so

amorous as to be absurd. Accordingly she now insisted on his

accompanying her to the Abbey of Chamont. But he stood out against

this; he was afraid of being seen. If he were to be seen driving

with her there would be an atrocious scandal. But she burst into

tears and evinced the noisy despair of a slighted woman. And he

thereupon consoled her and formally promised to be one of the party.

 

“So you do love me very much,” she blurted out. “Say you love me

very much. Oh, my darling old bear, if I were to die would you feel

it very much? Confess!”

 

At Les Fondettes the near neighborhood of Nana had utterly

disorganized the party. Every morning during lunch good Mme Hugon

returned to the subject despite herself, told her guests the news

the gardener had brought her and gave evidence of the absorbing

curiosity with which notorious courtesans are able to inspire even

the worthiest old ladies. Tolerant though she was, she was revolted

and maddened by a vague presentiment of coming ill, which frightened

her in the evenings as thoroughly as if a wild beast had escaped

from a menagerie and were known to be lurking in the countryside.

 

She began trying to pick a little quarrel with her guests, whom she

each and all accused of prowling round La Mignotte. Count

Vandeuvres had been seen laughing on the highroad with a golden-haired lady, but he defended himself against the accusation; he

denied that it was Nana, the fact being that Lucy had been with him

and had told him how she had just turned her third prince out of

doors. The Marquis de Chouard used also to go out every day, but

his excuse was doctor’s orders. Toward Daguenet and Fauchery Mme

Hugon behaved unjustly too. The former especially never left Les

Fondettes, for he had given up the idea of renewing the old

connection and was busy paying the most respectful attentions to

Estelle. Fauchery also stayed with the Muffat ladies. On one

occasion only he had met Mignon with an armful of flowers, putting

his sons through a course of botanical instruction in a by-path.

The two men had shaken hands and given each other the news about

Rose. She was perfectly well and happy; they had both received a

letter from her that morning in which she besought them to profit by

the fresh country air for some days longer. Among all her guests

the old lady spared only Count Muffat and Georges. The count, who

said he had serious business in Orleans, could certainly not be

running after the bad woman, and as to Georges, the poor child was

at last causing her grave anxiety, seeing that every evening he was

seized with atrocious sick headaches which kept him to his bed in

broad daylight.

 

Meanwhile Fauchery had become the Countess Sabine’s faithful

attendant in the absence during each afternoon of Count Muffat.

Whenever they went to the end of the park he carried her campstool

and her sunshade. Besides, he amused her with the original

witticisms peculiar to a second-rate journalist, and in so doing he

prompted her to one of those sudden intimacies which are allowable

in the country. She had apparently consented to it from the first,

for she had grown quite a girl again in the society of a young man

whose noisy humor seemed unlikely to compromize her. But now and

again, when for a second or two they found themselves alone behind

the shrubs, their eyes would meet; they would pause amid their

laughter, grow suddenly serious and view one another darkly, as

though they had fathomed and divined their inmost hearts.

 

On Friday a fresh place had to be laid at lunch time. M. Theophile

Venot, whom Mme Hugon remembered to have invited at the Muffats’

last winter, had just arrived. He sat stooping humbly forward and

behaved with much good nature, as became a man of no account, nor

did he seem to notice the anxious deference with which he was

treated. When he had succeeded in getting the company to forget his

presence he sat nibbling small lumps of sugar during dessert,

looking sharply up at Daguenet as the latter handed Estelle

strawberries and listening to Fauchery, who was making the countess

very merry over one of his anecdotes. Whenever anyone looked at HIM

he smiled in his quiet way. When the guests rose from table he took

the count’s arm and drew him into the park. He was known to have

exercised great influence over the latter ever since the death of

his mother. Indeed, singular stories were told about the kind of

dominion which the ex-lawyer enjoyed in that household. Fauchery,

whom his arrival doubtless embarrassed, began explaining to Georges

and Daguenet the origin of the man’s wealth. It was a big lawsuit

with the management of which the Jesuits had entrusted him in days

gone by. In his opinion the worthy man was a terrible fellow

despite his gentle, plump face and at this time of day had his

finger in all the intrigues of the priesthood. The two young men

had begun joking at this, for they thought the little old gentleman

had an idiotic expression. The idea of an unknown Venot, a gigantic

Venot, acting for the whole body of the clergy, struck them in the

light of a comical invention. But they were silenced when, still

leaning on the old man’s arm, Count Muffat reappeared with blanched

cheeks and eyes reddened as if by recent weeping.

 

I bet they’ve been chatting about hell,” muttered Fauchery in a

bantering tone.

 

The Countess Sabine overheard the remark. She turned her head

slowly, and their eyes met in that long gaze with which they were

accustomed to sound one another prudently before venturing once for

all.

 

After the breakfast it was the guests’ custom to betake themselves

to a little flower garden on a terrace overlooking the plain. This

Sunday afternoon was exquisitely mild. There had been signs of rain

toward ten in the morning, but the sky, without ceasing to be

covered, had, as it were, melted into milky fog, which now hung like

a cloud of luminous dust in the golden sunlight. Soon Mme Hugon

proposed that they should step down through a little doorway below

the terrace and take a walk on foot in the direction of Gumieres and

as far as the Choue. She was fond of walking and, considering her

threescore years, was very active. Besides, all her guests declared

that there was no need to drive. So in a somewhat straggling order

they reached the wooden bridge over the river. Fauchery and

Daguenet headed the column with the Muffat ladies and were followed

by the count and the marquis, walking on either side of Mme Hugon,

while Vandeuvres, looking fashionable and out of his element on the

highroad, marched in the rear, smoking a cigar. M. Venot, now

slackening, now hastening his pace, passed smilingly from group to

group, as though bent on losing no scrap of conversation.

 

“To think of poor dear Georges at Orleans!” said Mme Hugon. “He was

anxious to consult old Doctor Tavernier, who never goes out now, on

the subject of his sick headaches. Yes, you were not up, as he went

off before seven o’clock. But it’ll be a change for him all the

same.”

 

She broke off, exclaiming:

 

“Why, what’s making them stop on the bridge?”

 

The fact was the ladies and Fauchery and Daguenet were standing

stock-still on the crown of the bridge. They seemed to be

hesitating as though some obstacle or other rendered them uneasy and

yet the way lay clear before them.

 

“Go on!” cried the count.

 

They never moved and seemed to be watching the approach of something

which the rest had not yet observed. Indeed the road wound

considerably and was bordered by a thick screen of poplar trees.

Nevertheless, a dull sound began to grow momentarily louder, and

soon there was a noise of wheels, mingled with shouts of laughter

and the cracking of whips. Then suddenly five carriages came into

view, driving one behind the other. They were crowded to bursting,

and bright with a galaxy of white, blue and pink costumes.

 

“What is it?” said Mme Hugon in some surprise.

 

Then her instinct told her, and she felt indignant at such an

untoward invasion of her road.

 

“Oh, that woman!” she murmured. “Walk on, pray walk on. Don’t

appear to notice.”

 

But it was too late. The five carriages which were taking Nana and

her circle to the ruins of Chamont rolled on to the narrow wooden

bridge. Fauchery, Daguenet and the Muffat ladies were forced to

step backward, while Mme Hugon and the others had also to stop in

Indian file along the roadside. It was a superb ride past! The

laughter in the carriages had ceased, and faces were turned with an

expression of curiosity. The rival parties took stock of each other

amid a silence broken only by the measured trot of the horses. In

the first carriage Maria Blond and Tatan Nene were lolling backward

like a pair of duchesses, their skirts swelling forth over the

wheels, and as they passed they cast disdainful glances at the

honest women who were walking afoot. Then came Gaga, filling up a

whole seat and half smothering La Faloise beside her so that little

but his small anxious face was visible. Next followed Caroline

Hequet with Labordette, Lucy Stewart with Mignon and his boys and at

the close of all Nana in a victoria with Steiner and on a bracket

seat in front of her that poor, darling Zizi, with his knees jammed

against her own.

 

“It’s the last of them, isn’t it?” the countess placidly asked

Fauchery, pretending at the same time not to recognize Nana.

 

The wheel of the victoria came near grazing her, but she did not

step back. The two women had exchanged a deeply significant glance.

It was, in fact, one of those momentary scrutinies which are at once

complete and definite. As to the men, they behaved unexceptionably.

Fauchery and Daguenet looked icy and recognized no one. The

marquis, more nervous than they and afraid of some farcical

ebullition on the part of the ladies, had plucked a blade of grass

and was rolling it between his fingers. Only Vandeuvres, who had

stayed somewhat apart from the rest of the company, winked

imperceptibly at Lucy, who smiled at him as she passed.

 

“Be careful!” M. Venot had whispered as he stood behind Count

Muffat.

 

The latter in extreme