Nana, Émile Zola [reading list txt] 📗

more their long walk fatigued them, the more respectful they

became, for at each successive step they were increasingly impressed

by the tranquil, lordly dignity of the domain.

 

“It’s getting silly, this is!” said Caroline Hequet, grinding her

teeth.

 

Nana silenced her with a shrug. For some moments past she had been

rather pale and extremely serious and had not spoken a single word.

Suddenly the path gave a final turn; the wall ended, and as they

came out on the village square the mansion house stood before them

on the farther side of its grand outer court. All stopped to admire

the proud sweep of the wide steps, the twenty frontage windows, the

arrangement of the three wings, which were built of brick framed by

courses of stone. Henri IV had erewhile inhabited this historic

mansion, and his room, with its great bed hung with Genoa velvet,

was still preserved there. Breathless with admiration, Nana gave a

little childish sigh.

 

“Great God!” she whispered very quietly to herself.

 

But the party were deeply moved when Gaga suddenly announced that

Irma herself was standing yonder in front of the church. She

recognized her perfectly. She was as upright as of old, the hoary

campaigner, and that despite her age, and she still had those eyes

which flashed when she moved in that proud way of hers! Vespers

were just over, and for a second or two Madame stood in the church

porch. She was dressed in a dark brown silk and looked very simple

and very tall, her venerable face reminding one of some old marquise

who had survived the horrors of the Great Revolution. In her right

hand a huge Book of Hours shone in the sunlight, and very slowly she

crossed the square, followed some fifteen paces off by a footman in

livery. The church was emptying, and all the inhabitants of Chamont

bowed before her with extreme respect. An old man even kissed her

hand, and a woman wanted to fall on her knees. Truly this was a

potent queen, full of years and honors. She mounted her flight of

steps and vanished from view.

 

“That’s what one attains to when one has methodical habits!” said

Mignon with an air of conviction, looking at his sons and improving

the occasion.

 

Then everybody said his say. Labordette thought her extraordinarily

well preserved. Maria Blond let slip a foul expression and vexed

Lucy, who declared that one ought to honor gray hairs. All the

women, to sum up, agreed that she was a perfect marvel. Then the

company got into their conveyances again. From Chamont all the way

to La Mignotte Nana remained silent. She had twice turned round to

look back at the house, and now, lulled by the sound of the wheels,

she forgot that Steiner was at her side and that Georges was in

front of her. A vision had come up out of the twilight, and the

great lady seemed still to be sweeping by with all the majesty of a

potent queen, full of years and of honors.

 

That evening Georges re-entered Les Fondettes in time for dinner.

Nana, who had grown increasingly absent-minded and singular in point

of manner, had sent him to ask his mamma’s forgiveness. It was his

plain duty, she remarked severely, growing suddenly solicitous for

the decencies of family life. She even made him swear not to return

for the night; she was tired, and in showing proper obedience he was

doing no more than his duty. Much bored by this moral discourse,

Georges appeared in his mother’s presence with heavy heart and

downcast head.

 

Fortunately for him his brother Philippe, a great merry devil of a

military man, had arrived during the day, a fact which greatly

curtailed the scene he was dreading. Mme Hugon was content to look

at him with eyes full of tears while Philippe, who had been put in

possession of the facts, threatened to go and drag him home by the

scruff of the neck if ever he went back into that woman’s society.

Somewhat comforted, Georges began slyly planning how to make his

escape toward two o’clock next day in order to arrange about future

meetings with Nana.

 

Nevertheless, at dinnertime the house party at Les Fondettes seemed

not a little embarrassed. Vandeuvres had given notice of departure,

for he was anxious to take Lucy back to Paris with him. He was

amused at the idea of carrying off this girl whom he had known for

ten years yet never desired. The Marquis de Chouard bent over his

plate and meditated on Gaga’s young lady. He could well remember

dandling Lili on his knee. What a way children had of shooting up!

This little thing was becoming extremely plump! But Count Muffat

especially was silent and absorbed. His cheeks glowed, and he had

given Georges one long look. Dinner over, he went upstairs,

intending to shut himself in his bedroom, his pretext being a slight

feverish attack. M. Venot had rushed after him, and upstairs in the

bedroom a scene ensued. The count threw himself upon the bed and

strove to stifle a fit of nervous sobbing in the folds of the pillow

while M. Venot, in a soft voice, called him brother and advised him

to implore heaven for mercy. But he heard nothing: there was a

rattle in his throat. Suddenly he sprang off the bed and stammered:

 

“I am going there. I can’t resist any longer.”

 

“Very well,” said the old man, “I go with you.”

 

As they left the house two shadows were vanishing into the dark

depths of a garden walk, for every evening now Fauchery and the

Countess Sabine left Daguenet to help Estelle make tea. Once on the

highroad the count walked so rapidly that his companion had to run

in order to follow him. Though utterly out of breath, the latter

never ceased showering on him the most conclusive arguments against

the temptations of the flesh. But the other never opened his mouth

as he hurried away into the night. Arrived in front of La Mignotte,

he said simply:

 

“I can’t resist any longer. Go!”

 

“God’s will be done then!” muttered M. Venot. “He uses every method

to assure His final triumph. Your sin will become His weapon.”

 

At La Mignotte there was much wrangling during the evening meal.

Nana had found a letter from Bordenave awaiting her, in which he

advised rest, just as though he were anxious to be rid of her.

Little Violaine, he said, was being encored twice nightly. But when

Mignon continued urging her to come away with them on the morrow

Nana grew exasperated and declared that she did not intend taking

advice from anybody. In other ways, too, her behavior at table was

ridiculously stuck up. Mme Lerat having made some sharp little

speech or other, she loudly announced that, God willing, she wasn’t

going to let anyone—no, not even her own aunt—make improper

remarks in her presence. After which she dreed her guests with

honorable sentiments. She seemed to be suffering from a fit of

stupid right-mindedness, and she treated them all to projects of

religious education for Louiset and to a complete scheme of

regeneration for herself. When the company began laughing she gave

vent to profound opinions, nodding her head like a grocer’s wife who

knows what she is saying. Nothing but order could lead to fortune!

And so far as she was concerned, she had no wish to die like a

beggar! She set the ladies’ teeth on edge. They burst out in

protest. Could anyone have been converting Nana? No, it was

impossible! But she sat quite still and with absent looks once more

plunged into dreamland, where the vision of an extremely wealthy and

greatly courted Nana rose up before her.

 

The household were going upstairs to bed when Muffat put in an

appearance. It was Labordette who caught sight of him in the

garden. He understood it all at once and did him a service, for he

got Steiner out of the way and, taking his hand, led him along the

dark corridor as far as Nana’s bedroom. In affairs of this kind

Labordette was wont to display the most perfect tact and cleverness.

Indeed, he seemed delighted to be making other people happy. Nana

showed no surprise; she was only somewhat annoyed by the excessive

heat of Muffat’s pursuit. Life was a serious affair, was it not?

Love was too silly: it led to nothing. Besides, she had her

scruples in view of Zizi’s tender age. Indeed, she had scarcely

behaved quite fairly toward him. Dear me, yes, she was choosing the

proper course again in taking up with an old fellow.

 

“Zoe,” she said to the lady’s maid, who was enchanted at the thought

of leaving the country, “pack the trunks when you get up tomorrow.

We are going back to Paris.”

 

And she went to bed with Muffat but experienced no pleasure.