Nana, Émile Zola [reading list txt] 📗

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 Varietes, 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 firstcomer.”

 

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

extraordinarily 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.

 

Nevertheless, for the last week, under the immediate necessity of

finding Labordette’s hundred thousand francs, Muffat had been able

to hit on but one expedient, from which he recoiled. This was that

he should sell the Bordes, a magnificent property valued at half a

million, which an uncle had recently left the countess. However,

her signature was necessary, and she herself, according to the terms

of the deed, could not alienate the property without the count’s

authorization. The day before he had indeed resolved to talk to his

wife about this signature. And now everything was ruined; at such a

moment he would never accept of such a compromise. This reflection

added bitterness to the frightful disgrace of the adultery. He

fully understood what Nana was asking for, since in that ever-growing self-abandonment which prompted him to put her in

possession of all his secrets, he had complained to her of his

position and had confided to her the tiresome difficulty he was in

with regard to the signature of the countess.

 

Nana, however, did not seem to insist. She did not open her eyes

again, and, seeing her so pale, he grew frightened and made her

inhale a little ether. She gave a sigh and without mentioning

Daguenet asked him some questions.

 

“When is the marriage?”

 

“We sign the contract on Tuesday, in five days’ time,” he replied.

 

Then still keeping her eyelids closed, as though she were speaking

from the darkness and silence of her brain:

 

“Well then, pet, see to what you’ve got to do. As far as I’m

concerned, I want everybody to be happy and comfortable.”

 

He took her hand and soothed her. Yes, he would see about it; the

important thing now was for her to rest. And the revolt within him

ceased, for this warm and slumberous sickroom, with its all-pervading scent of ether, had ended by lulling him into a mere

longing for happiness and peace. All his manhood, erewhile maddened

by wrong, had departed out of him in the neighborhood of that warm

bed and that suffering woman, whom he was nursing under the

influence of her feverish heat and of remembered delights. He

leaned over her and pressed her in a close embrace, while despite

her unmoved features her lips wore a