Nana by Émile Zola (top 100 novels of all time .txt) 📕
Then to put an end to the discussion, he introduced his cousin, M.Hector de la Faloise, a young man who had come to finish hiseducation in Paris. The manager took the young man's measure at aglance. But Hector returned his scrutiny with deep interest. This,then, was that Bordenave, that showman of the sex who treated womenlike a convict overseer, that clever fellow who was always at fullsteam over some advertising dodge, that shouting, spitting, thigh-slapping fellow, that cynic with the soul of a policeman! Hectorwas under the impression that he ought to discover some amiableobservation for the occasion.
"Your theater--" he began in dulcet tones.
Bordenave interrupted him with a savage phrase, as becomes a man whodotes on frank situations.
"Call it my brothel!"
At this Fauchery laughed approvingly, while La Faloise stopped with
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The ladies had come round again to their earliest topic of
conversation.
“What the deuce! Still Monsieur de Bismarck!” muttered Fauchery.
“This time I make my escape for good and all.”
“Wait a bit,” said Vandeuvres, “we must have a definite no from the
count.”
The Count Muffat was talking to his father-in-law and a certain
serious-looking gentleman. Vandeuvres drew him away and renewed the
invitation, backing it up with the information that he was to be at
the supper himself. A man might go anywhere; no one could think of
suspecting evil where at most there could only be curiosity. The
count listened to these arguments with downcast eyes and
expressionless face. Vandeuvres felt him to be hesitating when the
Marquis de Chouard approached with a look of interrogation. And
when the latter was informed of the question in hand and Fauchery
had invited him in his turn, he looked at his son-in-law furtively.
There ensued an embarrassed silence, but both men encouraged one
another and would doubtless have ended by accepting had not Count
Muffat perceived M. Venot’s gaze fixed upon him. The little old man
was no longer smiling; his face was cadaverous, his eyes bright and
keen as steel.
‘No,” replied the count directly, in so decisive a tone that further
insistence became impossible.
Then the marquis refused with even greater severity of expression.
He talked morality. The aristocratic classes ought to set a good
example. Fauchery smiled and shook hands with Vandeuvres. He did
not wait for him and took his departure immediately, for he was due
at his newspaper office.
“At Nana’s at midnight, eh?”
La Faloise retired too. Steiner had made his bow to the countess.
Other men followed them, and the same phrase went round—“At
midnight, at Nana’s”—as they went to get their overcoats in the
anteroom. Georges, who could not leave without his mother, had
stationed himself at the door, where he gave the exact address.
“Third floor, door on your left.” Yet before going out Fauchery
gave a final glance. Vandeuvres had again resumed his position
among the ladies and was laughing with Leonide de Chezelles. Count
Muffat and the Marquis de Chouard were joining in the conversation,
while the good Mme Hugon was falling asleep open-eyed. Lost among
the petticoats, M. Venot was his own small self again and smiled as
of old. Twelve struck slowly in the great solemn room.
“What—what do you mean?” Mme du Joncquoy resumed. “You imagine
that Monsieur de Bismarck will make war on us and beat us! Oh,
that’s unbearable!”
Indeed, they were laughing round Mme Chantereau, who had just
repeated an assertion she had heard made in Alsace, where her
husband owned a foundry.
“We have the emperor, fortunately,” said Count Muffat in his grave,
official way.
It was the last phrase Fauchery was able to catch. He closed the
door after casting one more glance in the direction of the Countess
Sabine. She was talking sedately with the chief clerk and seemed to
be interested in that stout individual’s conversation. Assuredly he
must have been deceiving himself. There was no “little rift” there
at all. It was a pity.
“You’re not coming down then?” La Faloise shouted up to him from the
entrance hall.
And out on the pavement, as they separated, they once more repeated:
“Tomorrow, at Nana’s.”
Since morning Zoe had delivered up the flat to a managing man who
had come from Brebant’s with a staff of helpers and waiters.
Brebant was to supply everything, from the supper, the plates and
dishes, the glass, the linen, the flowers, down to the seats and
footstools. Nana could not have mustered a dozen napkins out of all
her cupboards, and not having had time to get a proper outfit after
her new start in life and scorning to go to the restaurant, she had
decided to make the restaurant come to her. It struck her as being
more the thing. She wanted to celebrate her great success as an
actress with a supper which should set people talking. As her
dining room was too small, the manager had arranged the table in the
drawing room, a table with twenty-five covers, placed somewhat close
together.
“Is everything ready?” asked Nana when she returned at midnight.
“Oh! I don’t know,” replied Zoe roughly, looking beside herself with
worry. “The Lord be thanked, I don’t bother about anything.
They’re making a fearful mess in the kitchen and all over the flat!
I’ve had to fight my battles too. The other two came again. My
eye! I did just chuck ‘em out!”
She referred, of course, to her employer’s old admirers, the
tradesman and the Walachian, to whom Nana, sure of her future and
longing to shed her skin, as she phrased it, had decided to give the
go-by.
“There are a couple of leeches for you!” she muttered.
“If they come back threaten to go to the police.”
Then she called Daguenet and Georges, who had remained behind in the
anteroom, where they were hanging up their overcoats. They had both
met at the stage door in the Passage des Panoramas, and she had
brought them home with her in a cab. As there was nobody there yet,
she shouted to them to come into the dressing room while Zoe was
touching up her toilet. Hurriedly and without changing her dress
she had her hair done up and stuck white roses in her chignon and at
her bosom. The little room was littered with the drawing-room
furniture, which the workmen had been compelled to roll in there,
and it was full of a motley assemblage of round tables, sofas and
armchairs, with their legs in air for the most part. Nana was quite
ready when her dress caught on a castor and tore upward. At this
she swore furiously; such things only happened to her! Ragingly she
took off her dress, a very simple affair of white foulard, of so
thin and supple a texture that it clung about her like a long shift.
But she put it on again directly, for she could not find another to
her taste, and with tears in her eyes declared that she was dressed
like a ragpicker. Daguenet and Georges had to patch up the rent
with pins, while Zoe once more arranged her hair. All three hurried
round her, especially the boy, who knelt on the floor with his hands
among her skirts. And at last she calmed down again when Daguenet
assured her it could not be later than a quarter past twelve, seeing
that by dint of scamping her words and skipping her lines she had
effectually shortened the third act of the Blonde Venus.
“The play’s still far too good for that crowd of idiots,” she said.
“Did you see? There were thousands there tonight. Zoe, my girl,
you will wait in here. Don’t go to bed, I shall want you. By gum,
it is time they came. Here’s company!”
She ran off while Georges stayed where he was with the skirts of his
coat brushing the floor. He blushed, seeing Daguenet looking at
him. Notwithstanding which, they had conceived a tender regard the
one for the other. They rearranged the bows of their cravats in
front of the big dressing glass and gave each other a mutual dose of
the clothesbrush, for they were all white from their close contact
with Nana.
“One would think it was sugar,” murmured Georges, giggling like a
greedy little child.
A footman hired for the evening was ushering the guests into the
small drawing room, a narrow slip of a place in which only four
armchairs had been left in order the better to pack in the company.
From the large drawing room beyond came a sound as of the moving of
plates and silver, while a clear and brilliant ray of light shone
from under the door. At her entrance Nana found Clarisse Besnus,
whom La Faloise had brought, already installed in one of the
armchairs.
“Dear me, you’re the first of ‘em!” said Nana, who, now that she was
successful, treated her familiarly.
“Oh, it’s his doing,” replied Clarisse. “He’s always afraid of not
getting anywhere in time. If I’d taken him at his word I shouldn’t
have waited to take off my paint and my wig.”
The young man, who now saw Nana for the first time, bowed, paid her
a compliment and spoke of his cousin, hiding his agitation behind an
exaggeration of politeness. But Nana, neither listening to him nor
recognizing his face, shook hands with him and then went briskly
toward Rose Mignon, with whom she at once assumed a most
distinguished manner.
“Ah, how nice of you, my dear madame! I was so anxious to have you
here!”
“It’s I who am charmed, I assure you,” said Rose with equal
amiability.
“Pray, sit down. Do you require anything?”
“Thank you, no! Ah yes, I’ve left my fan in my pelisse, Steiner;
just look in the right-hand pocket.”
Steiner and Mignon had come in behind Rose. The banker turned back
and reappeared with the fan while Mignon embraced Nana fraternally
and forced Rose to do so also. Did they not all belong to the same
family in the theatrical world? Then he winked as though to
encourage Steiner, but the latter was disconcerted by Rose’s clear
gaze and contented himself by kissing Nana’s hand.
Just then the Count de Vandeuvres made his appearance with Blanche
de Sivry. There was an interchange of profound bows, and Nana with
the utmost ceremony conducted Blanche to an armchair. Meanwhile
Vandeuvres told them laughingly that Fauchery was engaged in a
dispute at the foot of the stairs because the porter had refused to
allow Lucy Stewart’s carriage to come in at the gate. They could
hear Lucy telling the porter he was a dirty blackguard in the
anteroom. But when the footman had opened the door she came forward
with her laughing grace of manner, announced her name herself, took
both Nana’s hands in hers and told her that she had liked her from
the very first and considered her talent splendid. Nana, puffed up
by her novel role of hostess, thanked her and was veritably
confused. Nevertheless, from the moment of Fauchery’s arrival she
appeared preoccupied, and directly she could get near him she asked
him in a low voice:
“Will he come?”
“No, he did not want to,” was the journalist’s abrupt reply, for he
was taken by surprise, though he had got ready some sort of tale to
explain Count Muffat’s refusal.
Seeing the young woman’s sudden pallor, he became conscious of his
folly and tried to retract his words.
“He was unable to; he is taking the countess to the ball at the
Ministry of the Interior tonight.”
“All right,” murmured Nana, who suspected him of ill will, “you’ll
pay me out for that, my pippin.”
She turned on her heel, and so did he; they were angry. Just then
Mignon was pushing Steiner up against Nana, and when Fauchery had
left her he said to her in a low voice and with the good-natured
cynicism of a comrade in arms who wishes his friends to be happy:
“He’s dying of it, you know, only he’s afraid of my wife. Won’t you
protect him?”
Nana did not appear to understand. She smiled and looked at Rose,
the husband and the banker and finally said to the latter:
“Monsieur Steiner, you will sit next to me.”
With that there came from the anteroom a sound of laughter and
whispering and
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