Nana by Émile Zola (top 100 novels of all time .txt) 📕

the man.

 

“Well, what then? Fauchery isn’t the devil!” Nana repeated, feeling

her way cautiously and trying to find out how matters stood between

husband and lover. “One can get over his soft side. I promise you,

he’s a good sort at bottom! So it’s a bargain, eh? You’ll tell him

that it’s for my sake?”

 

The idea of taking such a step disgusted the count.

 

“No, no! Never!” he cried.

 

She paused, and this sentence was on the verge of utterance:

 

“Fauchery can refuse you nothing.”

 

But she felt that by way of argument it was rather too much of a

good thing. So she only smiled a queer smile which spoke as plainly

as words. Muffat had raised his eyes to her and now once more

lowered them, looking pale and full of embarrassment.

 

“Ah, you’re not good natured,” she muttered at last.

 

“I cannot,” he said with a voice and a look of the utmost anguish.

“I’ll do whatever you like, but not that, dear love! Oh, I beg you

not to insist on that!”

 

Thereupon she wasted no more time in discussion but took his head

between her small hands, pushed it back a little, bent down and

glued her mouth to his in a long, long kiss. He shivered violently;

he trembled beneath her touch; his eyes were closed, and he was

beside himself. She lifted him to his feet.

 

“Go,” said she simply.

 

He walked off, making toward the door. But as he passed out she

took him in her arms again, became meek and coaxing, lifted her face

to his and rubbed her cheek against his waistcoat, much as a cat

might have done.

 

“Where’s the fine house?” she whispered in laughing embarrassment,

like a little girl who returns to the pleasant things she has

previously refused.

 

“In the Avenue de Villiers.”

 

“And there are carriages there?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Lace? Diamonds?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Oh, how good you are, my old pet! You know it was all jealousy

just now! And this time I solemnly promise you it won’t be like the

first, for now you understand what’s due to a woman. You give all,

don’t you? Well then, I don’t want anybody but you! Why, look

here, there’s some more for you! There and there AND there!”

 

When she had pushed him from the room after firing his blood with a

rain of kisses on hands and on face, she panted awhile. Good

heavens, what an unpleasant smell there was in that slut Mathilde’s

dressing room! It was warm, if you will, with the tranquil warmth

peculiar to rooms in the south when the winter sun shines into them,

but really, it smelled far too strong of stale lavender water, not

to mention other less cleanly things! She opened the window and,

again leaning on the window sill, began watching the glass roof of

the passage below in order to kill time.

 

Muffat went staggering downstairs. His head was swimming. What

should he say? How should he broach the matter which, moreover, did

not concern him? He heard sounds of quarreling as he reached the

stage. The second act was being finished, and Prulliere was beside

himself with wrath, owing to an attempt on Fauchery’s part to cut

short one of his speeches.

 

“Cut it all out then,” he was shouting. “I should prefer that!

Just fancy, I haven’t two hundred lines, and they’re still cutting

me down. No, by Jove, I’ve had enough of it; I give the part up.”

 

He took a little crumpled manuscript book out of his pocket and

fingered its leaves feverishly, as though he were just about to

throw it on Cossard’s lap. His pale face was convulsed by outraged

vanity; his lips were drawn and thin, his eyes flamed; he was quite

unable to conceal the struggle that was going on inside him. To

think that he, Prulliere, the idol of the public, should play a part

of only two hundred lines!

 

“Why not make me bring in letters on a tray?” he continued bitterly.

 

“Come, come, Prulliere, behave decently,” said Bordenave, who was

anxious to treat him tenderly because of his influence over the

boxes. “Don’t begin making a fuss. We’ll find some points. Eh,

Fauchery, you’ll add some points? In the third act it would even be

possible to lengthen a scene out.”

 

“Well then, I want the last speech of all,” the comedian declared.

“I certainly deserve to have it.”

 

Fauchery’s silence seemed to give consent, and Prulliere, still

greatly agitated and discontented despite everything, put his part

back into his pocket. Bosc and Fontan had appeared profoundly

indifferent during the course of this explanation. Let each man

fight for his own hand, they reflected; the present dispute had

nothing to do with them; they had no interest therein! All the

actors clustered round Fauchery and began questioning him and

fishing for praise, while Mignon listened to the last of Prulliere’s

complaints without, however, losing sight of Count Muffat, whose

return he had been on the watch for.

 

Entering in the half-light, the count had paused at the back of the

stage, for he hesitated to interrupt the quarrel. But Bordenave

caught sight of him and ran forward.

 

“Aren’t they a pretty lot?” he muttered. “You can have no idea what

I’ve got to undergo with that lot, Monsieur le Comte. Each man’s

vainer than his neighbor, and they’re wretched players all the same,

a scabby lot, always mixed up in some dirty business or other! Oh,

they’d be delighted if I were to come to smash. But I beg pardon—

I’m getting beside myself.”

 

He ceased speaking, and silence reigned while Muffat sought how to

broach his announcement gently. But he failed and, in order to get

out of his difficulty the more quickly, ended by an abrupt

announcement:

 

“Nana wants the duchess’s part.”

 

Bordenave gave a start and shouted:

 

“Come now, it’s sheer madness!”

 

Then looking at the count and finding him so pale and so shaken, he

was calm at once.

 

“Devil take it!” he said simply.

 

And with that there ensued a fresh silence. At bottom he didn’t

care a pin about it. That great thing Nana playing the duchess

might possibly prove amusing! Besides, now that this had happened

he had Muffat well in his grasp. Accordingly he was not long in

coming to a decision, and so he turned round and called out:

 

“Fauchery!”

 

The count had been on the point of stopping him. But Fauchery did

not hear him, for he had been pinned against the curtain by Fontan

and was being compelled to listen patiently to the comedian’s

reading of the part of Tardiveau. Fontan imagined Tardiveau to be a

native of Marseilles with a dialect, and he imitated the dialect.

He was repeating whole speeches. Was that right? Was this the

thing? Apparently he was only submitting ideas to Fauchery of which

he was himself uncertain, but as the author seemed cold and raised

various objections, he grew angry at once.

 

Oh, very well, the moment the spirit of the part escaped him it

would be better for all concerned that he shouldn’t act it at all!

 

“Fauchery!” shouted Bordenave once more.

 

Thereupon the young man ran off, delighted to escape from the actor,

who was wounded not a little by his prompt retreat.

 

“Don’t let’s stay here,” continued Bordenave. “Come this way,

gentlemen.”

 

In order to escape from curious listeners he led them into the

property room behind the scenes, while Mignon watched their

disappearance in some surprise. They went down a few steps and

entered a square room, whose two windows opened upon the courtyard.

A faint light stole through the dirty panes and hung wanly under the

low ceiling. In pigeonholes and shelves, which filled the whole

place up, lay a collection of the most varied kind of bric-a-brac.

Indeed, it suggested an old-clothes shop in the Rue de Lappe in

process of selling off, so indescribable was the hotchpotch of

plates, gilt pasteboard cups, old red umbrellas, Italian jars,

clocks in all styles, platters and inkpots, firearms and squirts,

which lay chipped and broken and in unrecognizable heaps under a

layer of dust an inch deep. An unendurable odor of old iron, rags

and damp cardboard emanated from the various piles, where the debris

of forgotten dramas had been collecting for half a century.

 

“Come in,” Bordenave repeated. “We shall be alone, at any rate.”

 

The count was extremely embarrassed, and he contrived to let the

manager risk his proposal for him. Fauchery was astonished.

 

“Eh? What?” he asked.

 

“Just this,” said Bordenave finally. “An idea has occurred to us.

Now whatever you do, don’t jump! It’s most serious. What do you

think of Nana for the duchess’s part?”

 

The author was bewildered; then he burst out with:

 

“Ah no, no! You’re joking, aren’t you? People would laugh far too

much.”

 

“Well, and it’s a point gained already if they do laugh! Just

reflect, my dear boy. The idea pleases Monsieur le Comte very

much.”

 

In order to keep himself in countenance Muffat had just picked out

of the dust on a neighboring shelf an object which he did not seem

to recognize. It was an eggcup, and its stem had been mended with

plaster. He kept hold of it unconsciously and came forward,

muttering:

 

“Yes, yes, it would be capital.”

 

Fauchery turned toward him with a brisk, impatient gesture. The

count had nothing to do with his piece, and he said decisively:

 

“Never! Let Nana play the courtesan as much as she likes, but a

lady—No, by Jove!”

 

“You are mistaken, I assure you,” rejoined the count, growing

bolder. “This very minute she has been playing the part of a pure

woman for my benefit.”

 

“Where?” queried Fauchery with growing surprise.

 

“Upstairs in a dressing room. Yes, she has, indeed, and with such

distinction! She’s got a way of glancing at you as she goes by you—

something like this, you know!”

 

And eggcup in hand, he endeavored to imitate Nana, quite forgetting

his dignity in his frantic desire to convince the others. Fauchery

gazed at him in a state of stupefaction. He understood it all now,

and his anger had ceased. The count felt that he was looking at him

mockingly and pityingly, and he paused with a slight blush on his

face.

 

“Egad, it’s quite possible!” muttered the author complaisantly.

“Perhaps she would do very well, only the part’s been assigned. We

can’t take it away from Rose.”

 

“Oh, if that’s all the trouble,” said Bordenave, “I’ll undertake to

arrange matters.”

 

But presently, seeing them both against him and guessing that

Bordenave had some secret interest at stake, the young man thought

to avoid aquiescence by redoubling the violence of his refusal. The

consultation was on the verge of being broken up.

 

“Oh, dear! No, no! Even if the part were unassigned I should never

give it her! There, is that plain? Do let me alone; I have no wish

to ruin my play!”

 

He lapsed into silent embarrassment. Bordenave, deeming himself DE

TROP, went away, but the count remained with bowed head. He raised

it with an effort and said in a breaking voice:

 

“Supposing, my dear fellow, I were to ask this of you as a favor?”

 

“I cannot, I cannot,” Fauchery kept repeating as he writhed to get

free.

 

Muffat’s voice became harder.

 

“I pray and beseech you for it! I want it!”

 

And with that he fixed his eyes on him. The young man read menaces

in that