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

the Prince

Cocorico. And their memories once stirred up, they launched into

interminable particulars. How ripping she looked with that rich

coloring of hers in the crystal grot! Didn’t she, now? She didn’t

say a word: the authors had even deprived her of a line or two,

because it was superfluous. No, never a word! It was grander that

way, and she drove her public wild by simply showing herself. You

wouldn’t find another body like hers! Such shoulders as she had,

and such legs and such a figure! Strange that she should be dead!

You know, above her tights she had nothing on but a golden girdle

which hardly concealed her behind and in front. All round her the

grotto, which was entirely of glass, shone like day. Cascades of

diamonds were flowing down; strings of brilliant pearls glistened

among the stalactites in the vault overhead, and amid the

transparent atmosphere and flowing fountain water, which was crossed

by a wide ray of electric light, she gleamed like the sun with that

flamelike skin and hair of hers. Paris would always picture her

thus—would see her shining high up among crystal glass like the

good God Himself. No, it was too stupid to let herself die under

such conditions! She must be looking pretty by this time in that

room up there!

 

“And what a lot of pleasures bloody well wasted!” said Mignon in

melancholy tones, as became a man who did not like to see good and

useful things lost.

 

He sounded Lucy and Caroline in order to find out if they were going

up after all. Of course they were going up; their curiosity had

increased. Just then Blanche arrived, out of breath and much

exasperated at the way the crowds were blocking the pavement, and

when she heard the news there was a fresh outburst of exclamations,

and with a great rustling of skirts the ladies moved toward the

staircase. Mignon followed them, crying out:

 

“Tell Rose that I’m waiting for her. She’ll come at once, eh?”

 

“They do not exactly know whether the contagion is to be feared at

the beginning or near the end,” Fontan was explaining to Fauchery.

“A medical I know was assuring me that the hours immediately

following death are particularly dangerous. There are miasmatic

exhalations then. Ah, but I do regret this sudden ending; I should

have been so glad to shake hands with her for the last time.

 

“What good would it do you now?” said the journalist.

 

“Yes, what good?” the two others repeated.

 

The crowd was still on the increase. In the bright light thrown

from shopwindows and beneath the wavering glare of the gas two

living streams were distinguishable as they flowed along the

pavement, innumerable hats apparently drifting on their surface. At

that hour the popular fever was gaining ground rapidly, and people

were flinging themselves in the wake of the bands of men in blouses.

A constant forward movement seemed to sweep the roadway, and the cry

kept recurring; obstinately, abruptly, there rang from thousands of

throats:

 

“A BERLIN! A BERLIN! A BERLIN!”

 

The room on the fourth floor upstairs cost twelve francs a day,

since Rose had wanted something decent and yet not luxurious, for

sumptuousness is not necessary when one is suffering. Hung with

Louis XIII cretonne, which was adorned with a pattern of large

flowers, the room was furnished with the mahogany commonly found in

hotels. On the floor there was a red carpet variegated with black

foliage. Heavy silence reigned save for an occasional whispering

sound caused by voices in the corridor.

 

“I assure you we’re lost. The waiter told us to turn to the right.

What a barrack of a house!”

 

“Wait a bit; we must have a look. Room number 401; room number

401!”

 

“Oh, it’s this way: 405, 403. We ought to be there. Ah, at last,

401! This way! Hush now, hush!”

 

The voices were silent. Then there was a slight coughing and a

moment or so of mental preparation. Then the door opened slowly,

and Lucy entered, followed by Caroline and Blanche. But they

stopped directly; there were already five women in the room; Gaga

was lying back in the solitary armchair, which was a red velvet

Voltaire. In front of the fireplace Simonne and Clarisse were now

standing talking to Lea de Horn, who was seated, while by the bed,

to the left of the door, Rose Mignon, perched on the edge of a

chest, sat gazing fixedly at the body where it lay hidden in the

shadow of the curtains. All the others had their hats and gloves on

and looked as if they were paying a call: she alone sat there with

bare hands and untidy hair and cheeks rendered pale by three nights

of watching. She felt stupid in the face of this sudden death, and

her eyes were swollen with weeping. A shaded lamp standing on the

corner of the chest of drawers threw a bright flood of light over

Gaga.

 

“What a sad misfortune, is it not?” whispered Lucy as she shook

hands with Rose. “We wanted to bid her good-by.”

 

And she turned round and tried to catch sight of her, but the lamp

was too far off, and she did not dare bring it nearer. On the bed

lay stretched a gray mass, but only the ruddy chignon was

distinguishable and a pale blotch which might be the face. Lucy

added:

 

“I never saw her since that time at the Gaite, when she was at the

end of the grotto.”

 

At this Rose awoke from her stupor and smiled as she said:

 

“Ah, she’s changed; she’s changed.”

 

Then she once more lapsed into contemplation and neither moved nor

spoke. Perhaps they would be able to look at her presently! And

with that the three women joined the others in front of the

fireplace. Simonne and Clarisse were discussing the dead woman’s

diamonds in low tones. Well, did they really exist—those diamonds?

Nobody had seen them; it must be a bit of humbug. But Lea de Horn

knew someone who knew all about them. Oh, they were monster stones!

Besides, they weren’t all; she had brought back lots of other

precious property from Russia—embroidered stuffs, for instance,

valuable knickknacks, a gold dinner service, nay, even furniture.

“Yes, my dear, fifty-two boxes, enormous cases some of them, three

truckloads of them!” They were all lying at the station. “Wasn’t

it hard lines, eh?—to die without even having time to unpack one’s

traps?” Then she had a lot of tin, besides—something like a

million! Lucy asked who was going to inherit it all. Oh, distant

relations—the aunt, without doubt! It would be a pretty surprise

for that old body. She knew nothing about it yet, for the sick

woman had obstinately refused to let them warn her, for she still

owed her a grudge over her little boy’s death. Thereupon they were

all moved to pity about the little boy, and they remembered seeing

him at the races. Oh, it was a wretchedly sickly baby; it looked so

old and so sad. In fact, it was one of those poor brats who never

asked to be born!

 

“He’s happier under the ground,” said Blanche.

 

“Bah, and so’s she!” added Caroline. “Life isn’t so funny!”

 

In that gloomy room melancholy ideas began to take possession of

their imaginations. They felt frightened. It was silly to stand

talking so long, but a longing to see her kept them rooted to the

spot. It was very hot—the lamp glass threw a round, moonlike patch

of light upon the ceiling, but the rest of the room was drowned in

steamy darkness. Under the bed a deep plate full of phenol exhaled

an insipid smell. And every few moments tiny gusts of wind swelled

the window curtains. The window opened on the boulevard, whence

rose a dull roaring sound.

 

“Did she suffer much?” asked Lucy, who was absorbed in contemplation

of the clock, the design of which represented the three Graces as

nude young women, smiling like opera dancers.

 

Gaga seemed to wake up.

 

“My word, yes! I was present when she died. I promise you it was

not at all pleasant to see. Why, she was taken with a shuddering

fit—”

 

But she was unable to proceed with her explanation, for a cry arose

outside:

 

“A BERLIN! A BERLIN! A BERLIN!”

 

And Lucy, who felt suffocated, flung wide the window and leaned upon

the sill. It was pleasant there; the air came fresh from the starry

sky. Opposite her the windows were all aglow with light, and the

gas sent dancing reflections over the gilt lettering of the shop

signs.

 

Beneath these, again, a most amusing scene presented itself. The

streams of people were discernible rolling torrentwise along the

sidewalks and in the roadway, where there was a confused procession

of carriages. Everywhere there were vast moving shadows in which

lanterns and lampposts gleamed like sparks. But the band which now

came roaring by carried torches, and a red glow streamed down from

the direction of the Madeleine, crossed the mob like a trail of fire

and spread out over the heads in the distance like a vivid

reflection of a burning house. Lucy called Blanche and Caroline,

forgetting where she was and shouting:

 

“Do come! You get a capital view from this window!”

 

They all three leaned out, greatly interested. The trees got in

their way, and occasionally the torches disappeared under the

foliage. They tried to catch a glimpse of the men of their own

party below, but a protruding balcony hid the door, and they could

only make out Count Muffat, who looked like a dark parcel thrown

down on the bench where he sat. He was still burying his face in

his handkerchief. A carriage had stopped in front, and yet another

woman hurried up, in whom Lucy recognized Maria Blond. She was not

alone; a stout man got down after her.

 

“It’s that thief of a Steiner,” said Caroline. “How is it they

haven’t sent him back to Cologne yet? I want to see how he looks

when he comes in.”

 

They turned round, but when after the lapse of ten minutes Maria

Blond appeared, she was alone. She had twice mistaken the

staircase. And when Lucy, in some astonishment, questioned her:

 

“What, he?” she said. “My dear, don’t you go fancying that he’ll

come upstairs! It’s a great wonder he’s escorted me as far as the

door. There are nearly a dozen of them smoking cigars.”

 

As a matter of fact, all the gentlemen were meeting downstairs.

They had come strolling thither in order to have a look at the

boulevards, and they hailed one another and commented loudly on that

poor girl’s death. Then they began discussing politics and

strategy. Bordenave, Daguenet, Labordette, Prulliere and others,

besides, had swollen the group, and now they were all listening to

Fontan, who was explaining his plan for taking Berlin within a week.

 

Meanwhile Maria Blond was touched as she stood by the bedside and

murmured, as the others had done before her:

 

“Poor pet! The last time I saw her was in the grotto at the Gaite.”

 

“Ah, she’s changed; she’s changed!” Rose Mignon repeated with a

smile of gloomiest dejection.

 

Two more women arrived. These were Tatan Nene and Louise Violaine.

They had been wandering about the Grand Hotel for twenty minutes

past, bandied from waiter to waiter, and had ascended and descended

more than thirty flights of stairs amid a perfect stampede of

travelers who were hurrying to leave Paris amid the panic caused by

the war and the excitement on the boulevards. Accordingly they just

dropped down