“My young friend, it’s absurd,” said he to Fauchery, in a quiet tone of voice.
“How! absurd!” exclaimed the author, turning very pale. “You are absurd yourself, my boy! ”
Bordenave at once flew into a passion. He repeated the word absurd, and seeking for something stronger, substituted imbecile and idiotic. It would be hissed, they would never be allowed to finish the act; and as Fauchery, exasperated though not particularly offended by his abuse, which occurred each time they rehearsed a new piece together, roundly called him a brute, Bordenave lost all control over himself. He twirled his stick in his hand, and breathing like a mad bull, exclaimed:
“Damnation! go to the deuce. There’s another quarter of an hour wasted in stupidity—yes, stupidity. There’s not the least particle of common sense in it. And yet it’s so simple! You, Fontan, you’re not to budge. You, Rose, you make a little movement like this, you know, but no more, and then you come forward. Now try it that way, off you go; Cossard, give the kiss. ”
The scene went no better. The confusion became greater. Then Bordenave also began to mimic with the gracefulness of an elephant, whilst Fauchery stood by sneering and shrugging his shoulders, in a pitying sort of way. Then Fontan mixed himself up in it, and even Bosc ventured to give his advice. Rose, quite tired out, had finished by sitting down on the chair which indicated the door. No one any longer knew what they were about. To crown the confusion, Simone, thinking she heard her cue, made her entrance too soon, in the midst of the disorder. This so enraged Bordenave, that whirling his stick round in a terrible manner, it alighted with great force on her posterior. He often struck the women, who had been his mistresses, during rehearsals. She rushed off, pursued by this furious cry:
“Take that home with you, and damn it all! I’ll shut up the show if I’m bothered any more!”
Fauchery had pressed his hat down on his head, and pretended to leave the theatre; but he remained standing at the back of the stage, and came forward again when he saw Bordenave return to his arm-chair in a frightful state of perspiration. He resumed his own seat. They remained a short time side by side, without stirring, whilst complete silence reigned throughout the house. The actors waited nearly two minutes. They all seemed to be in a state of the greatest dejection, as though they had just gone through a most fatiguing task.
“Well! continue,” said Bordenave at length in his ordinary tone of voice, and perfectly calm.
“Yes, continue,” repeated Fauchery. “We will arrange the scene to-morrow.”
And they stretched themselves out, and the rehearsal resumed its course of tediousness and supreme indifference. During the row between the manager and the author, Fontan and the others had had a most enjoyable time at the back, seated on the bench and the rustic chairs. They had laughed quietly among themselves, with numerous grunts and witty remarks; but when Simone returned with her whack behind, and her voice broken by sobs, they went in for tragedy, saying that in her place they would have strangled the old pig. She wiped her eyes, nodding her head the while. It was all over; she would leave him, more especially as Steiner, the day before, had offered to provide for her. Clarisse was lost in astonishment—the banker was without a sou; but Prullière laughed and reminded her of how the confounded Jew had advertised himself by means of Rose, when he had been working the shares of the Salt Works of the Landes. Just then he had another project—a tunnel under the Bosphorus. Simone listened very much interested. As for Clarisse, she had been in an awful rage for a week past. That beast La Faloise, whom she had flung into Gaga’s venerable arms, had just inherited the property of a very rich uncle! She had no luck; she was always warming the house for the next tenant. Then that brute Bordenave had only given her a wretched part of fifty lines, when she could very well have played Géraldine! She was longing for the part, and had great hopes that Nana would refuse it.
“Well! and I?” said Prullière indignantly; “I haven’t two hundred lines. I wished to decline the part. It’s an insult to ask me to play that Saint-Firmin; it’s as bad as being shelved. And what a piece, my friends! You know, it’ll be an awful fiasco.”
Here Simone, who had been talking with old Barillot, returned and said, all out of breath, “I say, Nana’s here!”
“Whereabouts?” asked Clarisse, rising quickly from her seat to see.
The news passed rapidly from one to the other. Every one leant forward to have a look. For an instant the rehearsal was interrupted; but Bordenave suddenly roused himself, and yelled,
“Well! what’s the matter? Finish the act, can’t you? And keep quiet you over there; the row you kick up is intolerable!”
Nana was still watching the piece from her box. Labordette had twice addressed her; but she had impatiently pushed him with her elbow to make him leave off. The second act was just about ending, when two figures appeared at the back of the stage. As they walked down to the front, on the tips of their toes, so as not to make any noise, Nana recognised Mignon and Count Muffat, who nodded in silence to Bordenave.
“Ah! there they are,” murmured she with a sigh of relief.
Rose Mignon gave the last cue. Then Bordenave said that they must go through the second act again, before touching the third one; and, leaving the rehearsal, he greeted the count with most exaggerated politeness, whilst Fauchery pretended to be wholly engaged with the actors around him.
Mignon whistled quietly to himself, with his hands behind his back, and looking tenderly at his wife, who seemed rather nervous.
“Well! shall we go up?” asked Labordette of Nana. “I will make you comfortable in the room, and then come back for him.”
Nana left the box at once. She had to feel her way along the passage which led to the boxes and stalls; but Bordenave guessed she was there, as she was hurrying along in the dark, and he caught her up at the end of the corridor which passed behind the stage—a narrow place where the gas was kept burning night and day. There, so as to get the matter settled quickly, he at once attacked her about the part of Géraldine.
“Eh! what a part! what go there is in it! It is exactly suited to you. Come to-morrow to rehearsal.”
Nana kept very cool. She wished to see the third act.
“Oh! the third act is superb! The duchess plays at being a fast woman in her own home, which disgusts Beaurivage and gives him a lesson. And then there’s a very funny imbroglio. Tardiveau arrives, and thinking he is at some dancer’s—”
“And what does Géraldine do in all that?” interrupted Nana.
“Géraldine?” repeated Bordenave slightly embarrassed. “She has a scene, not very long, but a capital one. The part is a splendid one for you, I tell you! Come and sign an agreement now. ”
For a few seconds she looked him straight in the face, and then replied, “We’ll talk it over by-and-by.”
And she joined Labordette, who was waiting for her on the stairs. Every one in the theatre had recognised her. They were all whispering together. Her return quite scandalised Prullière, and Clarisse was very uneasy about the part she was longing for. As for Fontan, he pretended supreme indifference. It was not for him to abuse a woman he had loved. In his heart—in his old infatuation now turned to hatred—he entertained a ferocious grudge against her on account of her devotion to him, of her beauty, and of that dual existence which he had severed through the perversion of his monster-like inclinations.
However, when Labordette returned and went up to the count, Rose Mignon, already put on her guard from the knowledge of Nana’s presence, suddenly understood what was going on. Muffat bored her immensely but the thought of being thrown over in that fashion was too much for her. She broke the silence she usually maintained with her husband on those matters, and said to him bluntly,
“You see what is going on? Well! I give you my word that if she tries on the Steiner dodge again, I will scratch her eyes out! ”
Mignon, calm and serene, shrugged his shoulders with the air of a man who sees everything.
“Be q
uiet, will you!” he murmured. “Just oblige me by holding your tongue!”
He knew what he was about. He had got pretty well all he could out of Muffat. He felt that on a sign from Nana the count was ready to lie down and be her footstool. It was impossible to fight with such a passion as his; and so, knowing what men are, his only thought was to get the most he could out of the situation. He must wait and see how things went. And he waited.
“Rose, it’s your scene!” cried Bordenave. “The second act over again. »
“Go!” resumed Mignon. “Leave me to manage this.”
Then in his bantering way he amused himself by complimenting Fauchery on his piece. It was a capital play, only why was his grand lady so extremely virtuous? It was not natural. And he jeeringly asked who was the original of the Duke de Beaurivage—the fool whom Géraldine did what she liked with. Fauchery, far from being annoyed, began to smile; but Bordenave, glancing in the direction of Muffat, seemed annoyed, and that made Mignon serious again, and set him thinking.
“Damn it all! are we ever going to begin?” yelled the manager. “Look sharp, Barillot! Eh? Bosc isn’t there? Does he think he’s going to make a fool of me any longer?”
But at that moment Bosc quietly appeared and took his place. The rehearsal recommenced just as Labordette went off with the count. The latter trembled at the thought of seeing Nana again. After their rupture he had felt himself alone in the world, he had allowed himself to be led to Rose, not know ing how to employ his time, and thinking he was merely suffering from the alteration in his habits. Besides, in the state of stupor in which he then was, he wished to be ignorant of everything, forbidding himself to seek Nana, and avoiding an explanation with the countess. It seemed to him that he owed that oblivion to his dignity. But there was a secret power at work, and Nana slowly reconquered him by his recollections, by the weaknesses of his flesh, and by new feelings, exclusive, tender, and almost paternal. The abominable scene in which he had taken part was forgotten; he no longer beheld Fontan, he no longer heard Nana ordering him out as she twitted him with his wife’s adultery. They were mere words which passed by as soon as they were uttered, whilst in his heart there remained a sting the pangs of which almost suffocated him. His thoughts at times became quite childish, he accused himself, imagining that she would not have deceived him had he really loved her. His agony became intolerable, and he was most unhappy. It was like the smart of an old wound, no longer that blind and impatient desire putting up with anything, but a jealous love of that woman, a need of her alone, of her hair, of her mouth, of her body, that haunted him. Whenever he recalled the sound of her voice a tremor ran through his limbs. He longed for her with the exigencies of a miser and infinite delicacy. And this love had seized upon him so grievously, that, at the first words Labordette uttered when sounding him respecting an interview, he threw himself into his arms by an irresistible movement, ashamed afterwards of having given way in a manner so ridiculous for a man of his rank. But Labordette knew how to see and forget. He gave another proof of his tact in leaving the count at the foot of the stairs, with these simple words quickly uttered:
“On the second floor, turn to the right, the door is only pushed to.”
Muffat found himself alone in this silent corner of the building. As he passed by the green-room he noticed, through the open doors, the dilapidation of the vast apartment, which, in the daylight, appeared in a disgraceful state through dirt and constant wear and tear. But what surprised him, on his leaving the noise and semi-obscurity of the stage, were the bright clear light, the intense quietude of that staircase, which he had seen one night smoky with gas and sonorous with the rush of women skurrying about from floor to floor. One could tell the dressing-rooms were unoccupied, the passages deserted, for there was not a soul, not a sound, whilst through the small square windows, on a level with the stairs, entered the pale November sun, in the yellow rays of which an infinitesimal dust disported itself, whilst a death-like peacefulness hung over all. He felt happy in this silence and calm. He mounted the stairs slowly, trying not to get out of breath; his heart bounded against his breast, and he was seized with the fear of acting like a child, with sighs and tears. Then, when he reached the first landing, he leant against the wall, certain of not being seen, and, holding his handkerchief to his mouth, he looked at the warped steps, at the iron hand-rail shining from the constant friction, at the soiled walls, at all that wretchedness which gave the place the look of some low brothel displayed in all its bareness at that drowsy hour of the afternoon when the girls are sleeping. When he arrived at the second landing he had to step over a big tortoise-shell cat curled up asleep on the top stair. With its eyes half closed, this cat watched all alone over the house, always in a state of somnolency from the cool and stuffy odours left behind there every night by the women.
In the passage on the right, the door of the dressing-room was, as Labordette had said, only pushed to. Nana was waiting there. That little slut of a Mathilde kept her dressing-room in a slovenly state; there were cracked pots scattered all about, a dirty wash-hand basin, and a chair stained with rouge, as though some one had been bleeding on the rush seat. The paper which covered the walls and the ceiling was splashed all over with soapy water. There was such a stench there, such a smell of lavender turned musty, that Nana opened the window. She stood there for a minute, breathing the fresh air, and leaning out to catch a glimpse of Madame Bron, whom she heard vigorously sweeping the green flagstones on the shady side of the narrow courtyard. A canary, in a cage hung up against a shutter, was uttering some piercing roulades. One could not hear the sounds of the vehicles on the Boulevard or in the neighbouring streets, all was as peaceful as in the country, though the sun but seldom penetrated there. On raising her eyes, Nana saw the little buildings and the shining glass roofs of the galleries of the Passage; then, farther off, in front of her, the high houses of the Rue Vivienne, the backs of which were so devoid of life that they seemed empty. Terraces rose one above another. On a roof a photographer had perched an enormous cage of blue glass. It looked very gay. Nana was becoming absorbed in contemplating the scene, when she thought she heard a knock at the door. She turned round and called out:
“Come in!”
On seeing the count enter she closed the window. The day was cold, and it was not necessary that curious Madame Bron should overhear them. They looked at one another gravely. Then, as he stood very stiff and speechless, she laughed, and said:
“Well! so there you are, you big booby!”
His emotion was so strong that he seemed frozen. He called her madame, and said how happy he was to see her again. So, to bring matters to the point that she desired, she became more familiar still.
“Now don’t stand on your dignity. As you wished to see me, it was not for us to look at each other like a couple of china dogs, I suppose! We’ve both been wrong. As for me, I forgive you!”
And it was agreed that they would not refer to the subject again. He nodded his approval. He was becoming calmer but, as yet, could find nothing to say out of the tumultuous flow of words which rushed to his lips. Surprised at his coldness, she played her trump card.
“Well, now, you’re reasonable,” she resumed, with a slight smile. “As we’ve made our peace, let’s shake hands and remain good friends for the future.”
“How good friends?” murmured he, becoming suddenly anxious.
“Yes, perhaps it’s stupid of me, but I was desirous of your esteem. At present we’ve explained matters, and if we ever meet each other anywhere, we, at least, won’t look like a couple of fools—”
He seemed on the point of interrupting her.
“Let me finish what I have to say. No man—do you hear?—no man has ever had anything to reproach me with. Well, it vexed me to begin with you. We all have our honour, my pet.”
“But that’s not it!” he exclaimed, violently. “Sit down and listen to me.”
And, as though he feared she might go away, he pushed her on to the
only chair. He walked about, his agitation increasing. The little dressing-room, close and full of sunshine, had a moist, warm atmosphere, and not a sound from outside reached it, except the canary’s piercing roulades, which, in the pauses, seemed like the distant trills of a flute.
“Listen,” said he, standing before her, “I have come to take you back. Yes, I want to begin again. You know it well, so why do you talk to me like this? Tell me—you consent?”
She held down her head, and was scratching with her nail the red coloured rush seat, which appeared to be bleeding beneath her; and, seeing him so anxious, she did not hurry herself. At length she raised her face, now become serious, while to her eyes she had managed to give an expression of sadness.
“Oh! impossible, little man. Never again will I live with you.”
“Why?” stuttered he, as a twinge of intense suffering passed over his countenance.
“Why? well!—because—it’s impossible, that’s all. I don’t wish it.”
He looked at her ardently for a few seconds longer. Then, bending his legs, he knelt on the floor. She looked annoyed and contented herself by adding.
“Oh! don’t be a child!”
But he was already behaving as one. Fallen at her feet, he had seized her round the waist, which he squeezed tightly, with his face between her knees, which he was pressing against his breast. When he felt her thus, when he felt again the velvet-like texture of her limbs beneath the thin material of her dress, his frame shook convulsively; and shivering with fever, and distracted, he pressed harder against her, as though he wished to become a part of her. The old chair creaked. Sighs of desire were stifled beneath the low ceiling, in the atmosphere rendered foul by stale perfumes.