Nana, Émile Zola [reading list txt] 📗

darkling gaze and suddenly gave way with a splutter of

confused phrases:

 

“Do what you like—I don’t care a pin about it. Yes, yes, you’re

abusing your power, but you’ll see, you’ll see!”

 

At this the embarrassment of both increased. Fauchery was leaning

up against a set of shelves and was tapping nervously on the ground

with his foot. Muffat seemed busy examining the eggcup, which he

was still turning round and about.

 

“It’s an eggcup,” Bordenave obligingly came and remarked.

 

“Yes, to be sure! It’s an eggeup,” the count repeated.

 

“Excuse me, you’re covered with dust,” continued the manager,

putting the thing back on a shelf. “If one had to dust every day

there’d be no end to it, you understand. But it’s hardly clean

here—a filthy mess, eh? Yet you may believe me or not when I tell

you there’s money in it. Now look, just look at all that!”

 

He walked Muffat round in front of the pigeonholes and shelves and

in the greenish light which filtered through the courtyard, told him

the names of different properties, for he was anxious to interest

him in his marine-stores inventory, as he jocosely termed it.

 

Presently, when they had returned into Fauchery’s neighborhood, he

said carelessly enough:

 

“Listen, since we’re all of one mind, we’ll finish the matter at

once. Here’s Mignon, just when he’s wanted.”

 

For some little time past Mignon had been prowling in the adjoining

passage, and the very moment Bordenave began talking of a

modification of their agreement he burst into wrathful protest. It

was infamous—they wanted to spoil his wife’s career—he’d go to law

about it! Bordenave, meanwhile, was extremely calm and full of

reasons. He did not think the part worthy of Rose, and he preferred

to reserve her for an operetta, which was to be put on after the

Petite Duchesse. But when her husband still continued shouting he

suddenly offered to cancel their arrangement in view of the offers

which the Folies-Dramatiques had been making the singer. At this

Mignon was momenrarily put out, so without denying the truth of

these offers he loudly professed a vast disdain for money. His

wife, he said, had been engaged to play the Duchess Helene, and she

would play the part even if he, Mignon, were to be ruined over it.

His dignity, his honor, were at stake! Starting from this basis,

the discussion grew interminable. The manager, however, always

returned to the following argument: since the Folies had offered

Rose three hundred francs a night during a hundred performances, and

since she only made a hundred and fifty with him, she would be the

gainer by fifteen thousand francs the moment he let her depart. The

husband, on his part, did not desert the artist’s position. What

would people say if they saw his wife deprived of her part? Why,

that she was not equal to it; that it had been deemed necessary to

find a substitute for her! And this would do great harm to Rose’s

reputation as an artist; nay, it would diminish it. Oh no, no!

Glory before gain! Then without a word of warning he pointed out a

possible arrangement: Rose, according to the terms of her agreement,

was pledged to pay a forfeit of ten thousand francs in case she gave

up the part. Very well then, let them give her ten thousand francs,

and she would go to the Folies-Dramatiques. Bordenave was utterly

dumfounded while Mignon, who had never once taken his eyes off the

count, tranquilly awaited results.

 

“Then everything can be settled,” murmured Muffat in tones of

relief; “we can come to an understanding.”

 

“The deuce, no! That would be too stupid!” cried Bordenave,

mastered by his commercial instincts. “Ten thousand francs to let

Rose go! Why, people would make game of me!”

 

But the count, with a multiplicity of nods, bade him accept. He

hesitated, and at last with much grumbling and infinite regret over

the ten thousand francs which, by the by, were not destined to come

out of his own pocket he bluntly continued:

 

“After all, I consent. At any rate, I shall have you off my hands.”

 

For a quarter of an hour past Fontan had been listening in the

courtyard. Such had been his curiosity that he had come down and

posted himself there, but the moment he understood the state of the

case he went upstairs again and enjoyed the treat of telling Rose.

Dear me! They were just haggling in her behalf! He dinned his

words into her ears; she ran off to the property room. They were

silent as she entered. She looked at the four men. Muffat hung his

head; Fauchery answered her questioning glance with a despairing

shrug of the shoulders; as to Mignon, he was busy discussing the

terms of the agreement with Bordenave.

 

“What’s up?” she demanded curtly.

 

“Nothing,” said her husband. “Bordenave here is giving ten thousand

francs in order to get you to give up your part.”

 

She grew tremulous with anger and very pale, and she clenched her

little fists. For some moments she stared at him, her whole nature

in revolt. Ordinarily in matters of business she was wont to trust

everything obediently to her husband, leaving him to sign agreements

with managers and lovers. Now she could but cry:

 

“Oh, come, you’re too base for anything!”

 

The words fell like a lash. Then she sped away, and Mignon, in

utter astonishment, ran after her. What next? Was she going mad?

He began explaining to her in low tones that ten thousand francs

from one party and fifteen thousand from the other came to twenty-five thousand. A splendid deal! Muffat was getting rid of her in

every sense of the word; it was a pretty trick to have plucked him

of this last feather! But Rose in her anger vouchsafed no answer.

Whereupon Mignon in disdain left her to her feminine spite and,

turning to Bordenave, who was once more on the stage with Fauchery

and Muffat, said:

 

“We’ll sign tomorrow morning. Have the money in readiness.”

 

At this moment Nana, to whom Labordette had brought the news, came

down to the stage in triumph. She was quite the honest woman now

and wore a most distinguished expression in order to overwhelm her

friends and prove to the idiots that when she chose she could give

them all points in the matter of smartness. But she nearly got into

trouble, for at the sight of her Rose darted forward, choking with

rage and stuttering:

 

“Yes, you, I’ll pay you out! Things can’t go on like this; d’you

understand?” Nana forgot herself in face of this brisk attack and

was going to put her arms akimbo and give her what for. But she

controlled herself and, looking like a marquise who is afraid of

treading on an orange peel, fluted in still more silvery tones.

 

“Eh, what?” said she. “You’re mad, my dear!”

 

And with that she continued in her graceful affectation while Rose

took her departure, followed by Mignon, who now refused to recognize

her. Clarisse was enraptured, having just obtained the part of

Geraldine from Bordenave. Fauchery, on the other hand, was gloomy;

he shifted from one foot to the other; he could not decide whether

to leave the theater or no. His piece was bedeviled, and he was

seeking how best to save it. But Nana came up, took him by both

hands and, drawing him toward her, asked whether he thought her so

very atrocious after all. She wasn’t going to eat his play—not

she! Then she made him laugh and gave him to understand that he

would be foolish to be angry with her, in view of his relationship

to the Muffats. If, she said, her memory failed her she would take

her lines from the prompter. The house, too, would be packed in

such a way as to ensure applause. Besides, he was mistaken about

her, and he would soon see how she would rattle through her part.

By and by it was arranged that the author should make a few changes

in the role of the duchess so as to extend that of Prulliere. The

last-named personage was enraptured. Indeed, amid all the joy which

Nana now quite naturally diffused, Fontan alone remained unmoved.

In the middle of the yellow lamplight, against which the sharp

outline of his goatlike profile shone out with great distinctness,

he stood showing off his figure and affecting the pose of one who

has been cruelly abandoned. Nana went quietly up and shook hands

with him.

 

“How are you getting on?”

 

“Oh, pretty fairly. And how are you?”

 

“Very well, thank you.”

 

That was all. They seemed to have only parted at the doors of the

theater the day before. Meanwhile the players were waiting about,

but Bordenave said that the third act would not be rehearsed. And

so it chanced that old Bosc went grumbling away at the proper time,

whereas usually the company were needlessly detained and lost whole

afternoons in consequence. Everyone went off. Down on the pavement

they were blinded by the broad daylight and stood blinking their

eyes in a dazed sort of way, as became people who had passed three

hours squabbling with tight-strung nerves in the depths of a cellar.

The count, with racked limbs and vacant brain, got into a conveyance

with Nana, while Labordette took Fauchery off and comforted him.

 

A month later the first night of the Petite Duchesse proved

supremely disastrous to Nana. She was atrociously bad and displayed

such pretentions toward high comedy that the public grew mirthful.

They did not hiss—they were too amused. From a stage box Rose

Mignon kept greeting her rival’s successive entrances with a shrill

laugh, which set the whole house off. It was the beginning of her

revenge. Accordingly, when at night Nana, greatly chagrined, found

herself alone with Muffat, she said furiously:

 

“What a conspiracy, eh? It’s all owing to jealousy. Oh, if they

only knew how I despise ‘em! What do I want them for nowadays?

Look here! I’ll bet a hundred louis that I’ll bring all those who

made fun today and make ‘em lick the ground at my feet! Yes, I’ll

fine-lady your Paris for you, I will!”