Nana, Émile Zola [reading list txt] 📗

First of all she kissed the

countess. Then when the children came up she gave them her blessing

and said to Daguenet, ‘Listen, Paul, if you go running after the

girls you’ll have to answer for it to me.’ What, d’you mean to say

you didn’t see that? Oh, it WAS smart. A success, if you like!”

 

The other two listened to him, openmouthed, and at last burst out

laughing. He was enchanted and thought himself in his best vein.

 

“You thought it had really happened, eh? Confound it, since Nana’s

made the match! Anyway, she’s one of the family.”

 

The young Hugons were passing, and Philippe silenced him. And with

that they chatted about the marriage from the male point of view.

Georges was vexed with La Faloise for telling an anecdote.

Certainly Nana had fubbed off on Muffat one of her old flames as

son-in-law; only it was not true that she had been to bed with

Daguenet as lately as yesterday. Foucarmont made bold to shrug his

shoulders. Could anyone ever tell when Nana was in bed with anyone?

But Georges grew excited and answered with an “I can tell, sir!”

which set them all laughing. In a word, as Steiner put it, it was

all a very funny kettle of fish!

 

The buffet was gradually invaded by the crowd, and, still keeping

together, they vacated their positions there. La Faloise stared

brazenly at the women as though he believed himself to be Mabille.

At the end of a garden walk the little band was surprised to find M.

Venot busily conferring with Daguenet, and with that they indulged

in some facile pleasantries which made them very merry. He was

confessing him, giving him advice about the bridal night! Presently

they returned in front of one of the drawing-room doors, within

which a polka was sending the couples whirling to and fro till they

seemed to leave a wake behind them among the crowd of men who

remained standing about. In the slight puffs of air which came from

outside the tapers flared up brilliantly, and when a dress floated

by in time to the rat-tat of the measure, a little gust of wind

cooled the sparkling heat which streamed down from the lusters.

 

“Egad, they’re not cold in there!” muttered La Faloise.

 

They blinked after emerging from the mysterious shadows of the

garden. Then they pointed out to one another the Marquis de Chouard

where he stood apart, his tall figure towering over the bare

shoulders which surrounded him. His face was pale and very stern,

and beneath its crown of scant white hair it wore an expression of

lofty dignity. Scandalized by Count Muffat’s conduct, he had

publicly broken off all intercourse with him and was by way of never

again setting foot in the house. If he had consented to put in an

appearance that evening it was because his granddaughter had begged

him to. But he disapproved of her marriage and had inveighed

indignantly against the way in which the government classes were

being disorganized by the shameful compromises engendered by modern

debauchery.

 

“Ah, it’s the end of all things,” Mme du Joncquoy whispered in Mme

Chantereau’s ear as she sat near the fireplace. “That bad woman has

bewitched the unfortunate man. And to think we once knew him such a

true believer, such a noblehearted gentleman!”

 

“It appears he is ruining himself,” continued Mme Chantereau. “My

husband has had a bill of his in his hands. At present he’s living

in that house in the Avenue de Villiers; all Paris is talking about

it. Good heavens! I don’t make excuses for Sabine, but you must

admit that he gives her infinite cause of complaint, and, dear me,

if she throws money out of the window, too—”

 

“She does not only throw money,” interrupted the other. “In fact,

between them, there’s no knowing where they’ll stop; they’ll end in

the mire, my dear.”

 

But just then a soft voice interrupted them. It was M. Venot, and

he had come and seated himself behind them, as though anxious to

disappear from view. Bending forward, he murmured:

 

“Why despair? God manifests Himself when all seems lost.”

 

He was assisting peacefully at the downfall of the house which he

erewhile governed. Since his stay at Les Fondettes he had been

allowing the madness to increase, for he was very clearly aware of

his own powerlessness. He had, indeed, accepted the whole position—

the count’s wild passion for Nana, Fauchery’s presence, even

Estelle’s marriage with Daguenet. What did these things matter? He

even became more supple and mysterious, for he nursed a hope of

being able to gain the same mastery over the young as over the

disunited couple, and he knew that great disorders lead to great

conversions. Providence would have its opportunity.

 

“Our friend,” he continued in a low voice, “is always animated by

the best religious sentiments. He has given me the sweetest proofs

of this.”

 

“Well,” said Mme du Joncquoy, “he ought first to have made it up

with his wife.”

 

“Doubtless. At this moment I have hopes that the reconciliation

will be shortly effected.”

 

Whereupon the two old ladies questioned him.

 

But he grew very humble again. “Heaven,” he said, “must be left to

act.” His whole desire in bringing the count and the countess

together again was to avoid a public scandal, for religion tolerated

many faults when the proprieties were respected.

 

“In fact,” resumed Mme du Joncquoy, “you ought to have prevented

this union with an adventurer.”

 

The little old gentleman assumed an expression of profound

astonishment. “You deceive yourself. Monsieur Daguenet is a young

man of the greatest merit. I am acquainted with his thoughts; he is

anxious to live down the errors of his youth. Estelle will bring

him back to the path of virtue, be sure of that.”

 

“Oh, Estelle!” Mme Chantereau murmured disdainfully. “I believe the

dear young thing to be incapable of willing anything; she is so

insignificant!”

 

This opinion caused M. Venot to smile. However, he went into no

explanations about the young bride and, shutting his eyes, as though

to avoid seeming to take any further interest in the matter, he once

more lost himself in his corner behind the petticoats. Mme Hugon,

though weary and absent-minded, had caught some phrases of the

conversation, and she now intervened and summed up in her tolerant

way by remarking to the Marquis de Chouard, who just then bowed to

her:

 

“These ladies are too severe. Existence is so bitter for every one

of us! Ought we not to forgive others much, my friend, if we wish

to merit forgiveness ourselves?”

 

For some seconds the marquis appeared embarrassed, for he was afraid

of allusions. But the good lady wore so sad a smile that he

recovered almost at once and remarked:

 

“No, there is no forgiveness for certain faults. It is by reason of

this kind of accommodating spirit that a society sinks into the

abyss of ruin.”

 

The ball had grown still more animated. A fresh quadrille was

imparting a slight swaying motion to the drawing-room floor, as

though the old dwelling had been shaken by the impulse of the dance.

Now and again amid the wan confusion of heads a woman’s face with

shining eyes and parted lips stood sharply out as it was whirled

away by the dance, the light of the lusters gleaming on the white

skin. Mme du Joncquoy declared that the present proceedings were

senseless. It was madness to crowd five hundred people into a room

which would scarcely contain two hundred. In fact, why not sign the

wedding contract on the Place du Carrousel? This was the outcome of

the new code of manners, said Mme Chantereau. In old times these

solemnities took place in the bosom of the family, but today one

must have a mob of people; the whole street must be allowed to enter

quite freely, and there must be a great crush, or else the evening

seems a chilly affair. People now advertised their luxury and

introduced the mere foam on the wave of Parisian society into their

houses, and accordingly it was only too natural if illicit

proceedings such as they had been discussing afterward polluted the

hearth. The ladies complained that they could not recognize more

than fifty people. Where did all this crowd spring from? Young

girls with low necks were making a great display of their shoulders.

A woman had a golden dagger stuck in her chignon, while a bodice

thickly embroidered with jet beads clothed her in what looked like a

coat of mail. People’s eyes kept following another lady smilingly,

so singularly marked were her clinging skirts. All the luxuriant

splendor of the departing winter was there—the overtolerant world

of pleasure, the scratch gathering a hostess can get together after

a first introduction, the sort of society, in fact, in which great

names and great shames jostle together in the same fierce quest of

enjoyment. The heat was increasing, and amid the overcrowded rooms

the quadrille unrolled the cadenced symmetry of its figures.

 

“Very smart—the countess!” La Faloise continued at the garden door.

“She’s ten years younger than her daughter. By the by, Foucarmont,

you must decide on a point. Vandeuvres once bet that she had no

thighs.”

 

This affectation of cynicism bored the other gentlemen, and

Foucarmont contented himself by saying:

 

“Ask your cousin, dear boy. Here he is.”

 

“Jove, it’s a happy thought!” cried La Faloise. “I bet ten louis

she has thighs.”

 

Fauchery did indeed come up. As became a constant inmate of the

house, he had gone round by the dining room in order to avoid the

crowded doors. Rose had taken him up again at the beginning of the

winter, and he was now dividing himself between the singer and the

countess, but he was extremely fatigued and did not know how to get

rid of one of them. Sabine flattered his vanity, but Rose amused

him more than she. Besides, the passion Rose felt was a real one:

her tenderness for him was marked by a conjugal fidelity which drove

Mignon to despair.

 

“Listen, we want some information,” said La Faloise as he squeezed

his cousin’s arm. “You see that lady in white silk?”

 

Ever since his inheritance had given him a kind of insolent dash of

manner he had affected to chaff Fauchery, for he had an old grudge

to satisfy and wanted to be revenged for much bygone raillery,

dating from the days when he was just fresh from his native

province.

 

“Yes, that lady with the lace.”

 

The journalist stood on tiptoe, for as yet he did not understand.

 

“The countess?” he said at last.

 

“Exactly, my good friend. I’ve bet ten louis—now, has she thighs?”

 

And he fell a-laughing, for he was delighted to have succeeded in

snubbing a fellow who had once come heavily down on him for asking

whether the countess slept with anyone. But Fauchery, without

showing the very slightest astonishment, looked fixedly at him.

 

“Get along, you idiot!” he said finally as he shrugged his

shoulders.

 

Then he shook hands with the other gentlemen, while La Faloise, in

his discomfiture, felt rather uncertain whether he had said

something funny. The men chatted. Since the races the banker and

Foucarmont had formed part of the set in the Avenue de Villiers.

Nana was going on much better, and every evening the count came and

asked how she did. Meanwhile Fauchery, though he listened, seemed

preoccupied, for during a quarrel that morning Rose had roundly

confessed to the sending of the letter. Oh yes, he might present

himself at his great lady’s house; he would be well received!