Nana: By Emile Zola - Illustrated

  “Well! and what next?” said Nana, letting him do as he pleased. “All this will not help you, when I tell you it’s not possible. Dear me! how young you are!”

  He became quieter, but he remained on the ground. He did not let go of her, and he said, in a voice broken by sobs,

  “At least, listen to what I came to offer you. I have already seen a mansion near the Pare Monceau. I would realise all your desires. To have you all my own I would give my fortune. Yes! that would be the only condition—all my own, you understand me! and if you consent to be mine alone, oh! I should wish you to be the most admired, and also the richest—carriages, diamonds, dresses—”

  Nana proudly shook her head at each offer. Then as he continued, as he talked of settling money on her, not knowing what more to lay at her feet, she seemed to lose patience.

  “Come, have you finished mauling me about? I’m good-natured, I let you do it for a minute, because you seemed so upset; but there now, that’s enough, isn’t it? Let me get up; you’re tiring me.”

  She shook him off. When she rose, she said: “No, no, no—I won’t.”

  Then he regained his feet painfully, and having no strength left, he dropped on to the chair, leaning against the back, his face buried in his hands. Nana in her turn, walked about. For a moment she looked at the stained wall-paper, the greasy dressing-table, all over that dirty hole, bathed in the pale sunlight. Then stopping in front of the count, she spoke without the slightest emotion.

  “It’s funny how rich people suppose they can have everything for their money. Well! but if I won’t? I don’t care a pin for your presents. You might give me all Paris, and I would say ‘no,’ and always ‘no.’ It isn’t very clean in here, as you see.

  Well! I should think it lovely, if it pleased me to live here with you; whereas one pines away in your palaces, if one’s heart isn’t there. Ah! money! my poor fellow, I have some somewhere! But let me tell you, I dance on money! more, I spit upon it!”

  And she assumed a look of disgust. Then, she went in for sentiment, and added in a melancholy tone of voice:

  “I know of something that is worth more than money. Ah! if any one gave me what I desire.”

  He slowly raised his head, his eyes sparkled with hope.

  “Oh! you can’t give it me,” she resumed; “it’s not in your power to do so, and that is why I speak of it to you. Well, this is only between ourselves—I wish for the part of the grand lady, in their new piece.”

  “What grand lady?” murmured he in surprise.

  “Their Duchess Hélène, of course! If they think I’m going to play Géraldine, they’re very much mistaken! A part of no consequence at all—one scene, and not much in that! Besides, it’s not only that. I’ve had enough of gay women.at Always gay women; one would think I’ve nothing in me but gay women. It’s become annoying in the long run, for I can see clear enough, they fancy I’m ill-bred. Ah, well! my friend, they make a slight mistake! When I choose to be the grand lady, I do it as well as any one! Just look at this!”

  And she retreated to the window, then advanced carrying her head high, measuring her steps with the circumspect air of a fat old hen, hesitating to dirty her feet. He watched her with his eyes still full of tears, stupefied by this sudden bit of comedy traversing his anguish. She walked about for a while to show all her by-play, smiling delicately, blinking her eye-lids, swaying her skirts; then stopping in front of him, she said:

  “Well! I think that’s good enough, isn’t it?”

  “Oh! quite,” he stammered, with a choking sensation in his throat, and his glance still dim.

  “I told you I could do the grand lady! I tried it at home, and there’s not one of them that has my little air of a duchess who doesn’t care a hang for the men. Did you notice, when I passed in front of you, how I quizzed you? That air only comes with the blood. And then I want to play the part of a respectable woman. It has been my dream; it is making me quite unhappy. I must have the part, do you hear? I must have it!”

  She spoke in a harsh tone of voice. She had become serious now, and was greatly affected, suffering from her stupid desire. Muffat, not yet recovered from the blow of her refusals, waited without understanding. There was a short silence, which was not disturbed by the least sound.

  “Do you know,” she resumed, without any more beating about the bush; “you must get that part given to me.”

  He was astounded. Then with a gesture of despair, he said, “But it is not possible! You said yourself that I had no power to do so.”

  She interrupted him with a shrug of her shoulders.

  “You’ve only to go downstairs and say to Bordenave that you want the part. Pray don’t be so simple! Bordenave is in want of money. Well! you can lend him some, as you’ve such a lot to throw out of the window.” And as he still argued against it, she grew angry. “Very well, I understand; you’re afraid Rose won’t like it. I didn’t speak to you of her when you were sobbing on the ground. I should have had too much to say about her. Yes, when a man swears to a woman that he will love her for ever, he shouldn’t go the next day and make up to the first one he meets. Oh! the wound is here; I sha’n’t forget it! Besides, my friend, it’s not so pleasant after all to take the Mignons’ leavings! Before you went and made a fool of yourself down at my knees, you would have done better to have broken off entirely with that dirty set! ”

  He kept protesting, and ended at last by being able to say a few words. “But I don’t care a button for Rose; I will cast her off at once.”

  Nana appeared to be satisfied on that point. She resumed: “Then what is it that bothers you? Bordenave’s the master. You’ll tell me that besides Bordenave there’s Fauchery.”

  She spoke slower now. She was arriving at the delicate part of the matter. Muffat, his eyes fixed on the ground, said nothing. He had remained in a voluntary ignorance respecting Fauchery’s assiduities for the countess, gradually quieting his suspicions, and hoping that he had been mistaken on that frightful night passed by him in a doorway of the Rue Taitbout. But he entertained a certain repugnance and a secret anger against the man.

  “Well—what! Fauchery isn’t the devil!” repeated Nana, feeling her way, wishing to find out how things were between the husband and the lover. “It’s easy enough to get over Fauchery. He is at bottom a very decent fellow, I assure you. Well! it’s understood; you’ll tell him it’s for me.”

  The mere idea of such an undertaking was revolting to the count.

  “No, no, never! cried he.

  She waited. This phrase came to her lips, “Fauchery can refuse you nothing”; but she felt that it would be rather too strong an argument to use. Only she smiled, and her smile, which was a peculiar one, seemed to speak the words. Muffat, glancing up at her face, lowered his gaze again, and looked pale and embarrassed.

  “Ah! you’re not at all obliging,” murmured she at length.

  “I cannot!” said he in a voice full of agony. “Everything you wish; but not that, my love—oh! I pray you!”

  So she did not waste any more time in arguing. With her little hands she bent back his head; then stooping forward, she pressed her lips to his in one long embrace. A thrill passed through his frame. He started beneath her; his eyes were closed, his reason gone. And she raised him from his seat.

  “Go,” said she, simply.

  He walked, he moved towards the door; but as he was about to leave the room, she took him once more in her arms, and, looking up at him meekly and coaxingly, she rubbed her cat-like chin against his waistcoat.

  “Where is the mansion?” asked she, in a very low voice, in the confused and laughing way of a child returning to some good things it would not at first look at.

  “In the Avenue de Villiers.”

  “And are there any carriages?”

  “Yes.”

  “And lace, and diamonds?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh! how kind you are, my ducky! You know, just now, it was because I was jealous; and this
time, I swear to you, sha‘n’t be like the first, for now you know what a woman requires. You give me everything, don’t you? Then I sha’n’t want to have anything to do with any one else. Look! they’re only for you now!—that, and that, and that!”

  When she had pushed him outside, after stimulating him with a shower of kisses on his face and hands, she stood a moment to take breath. Good heavens! what a stench there was in the dressing-room of that untidy Mathilde! It was warm in there, just like a room in the south of France with the winter sun shining upon it; but, really, it smelt too much of stale lavender water, and of other things not very clean. Nana opened the window. She looked out as before, and examined the glass roof of the Passage to pass the time away.

  Muffat staggered down stairs with a buzzing in his ears. What was he to say? how could he enter into this matter, which was none of his business? As he reached the stage he heard sounds of quarrelling. They were finishing the second act. Prullière was in a fury because Fauchery had wished to strike out one of his speeches.

  “Strike them all out then,” cried he, “I would rather you did that! What! I haven’t two hundred lines, and now some of those are to be taken away! No, I’ve had enough of it; I throw up my part.”

  He pulled out of his pocket a crumpled little memorandum and turned it over in his trembling hands, as though about to throw it on to Cossard’s knees. His injured vanity convulsed his pale face, his lips being tightly compressed, and his eyes on fire, without his being able to conceal that internal revolution.

  He, Prullière, the idol of the public, to perform a part of two hundred lines!

  “Why not make me bring in letters on a salver?” resumed he, bitterly.

  “Come, Prullière, do be pleasant,” said Bordenave, who humoured him on account of his influence on the people in the boxes. “Don’t begin your complaints again. We will find you some good effects. Eh, Fauchery? you’ll introduce some effects for him. In the third act we could even lengthen one of the scenes.”

  “Then,” declared the actor, “I must have the word at the end. You certainly owe me that.”

  Fauchery’s silence appeared to give consent, and Prullière put his part back in his pocket, still excited and discontented all the same. Bosc and Fontan, during the discussion, had assumed looks of supreme indifference. Every one for himself. It did not concern them, they took no interest in it; and all the actors surrounded Fauchery, questioning him and fishing for compliments, whilst Mignon listened to Prullière’s final complaints, without losing sight of Count Muffat, whose return he had been watching for. The count remained in shadow at the back of the stage, hesitating to advance into the midst of the quarrel; but Bordenave catching sight of him, hastened to where he stood.

  “Aren’t they a set of grumblers?” murmured he. “You’ve no idea, count, what trouble I have with those people. They’re all more vain one than the other, and so disobliging and spiteful —always slandering other people, and only too delighted if I make myself ill in keeping them to their business. But excuse me, I’m losing my temper.”

  He stopped, and silence ensued between them. Muffat was seeking a way of leading up to the subject that occupied his mind; but failing in his endeavour, he ended by abruptly saying, so as to get it over the sooner,

  “Nana wants to play the part of the duchess.”

  Bordenave started violently as he exclaimed, “Pooh! that’s absurd!” Then glancing at the count, he saw him looking so pale, so agitated, that he regained his composure at once. “The deuce!” he added simply.

  And there was again silence between them. As for himself, he did not care a fig. It would perhaps be funny to have that fat Nana to play the part of the duchess. Besides, he would thus have a strong hold on Muffat. So his decision was soon formed. He turned round and called,

  “Fauchery! ”

  The count made a slight gesture to stop him. Fauchery did not hear. Fontan had got him up against the proscenium wall, and was giving him his ideas of the part of Tardiveau. The actor thought he should make up as a Marseillais, with the southern accent, which he kept imitating. He made whole speeches that way; was that the proper rendering of the part? He seemed only to be giving his own ideas, and which he himself had doubts about. But Fauchery, keeping very cool in the matter, and offering numerous objections, Fontan became annoyed at once. Very well! As the correct reading of the part had entirely escaped him, it would be far better for every one that he should not play it.

  “Fauchery!” Bordenave again called.

  Then the young man hurried away, glad of the opportunity of escaping from the actor, who felt highly indignant at being left in so abrupt a manner.

  “Don’t let us remain here,” resumed Bordenave. “Come, gentlemen.”

  To be out of the way of indiscreet ears, he took them to the property room behind the stage. Mignon watched them go off, greatly surprised. A few steps descended to the room, which was square, with a couple of windows looking on to the courtyard. The ceiling was low, and the dirty window panes only admitted that dim light usually met with in cellars. In pigeon-holes placed about the room was a collection of all sorts of things—the turn-out of a second-hand dealer of the Rue de Lappeau selling off, an odd medley of plates, of cups in gilded pasteboard, of old red umbrellas, of Italian pitchers, of clocks of every shape and size, of trays and inkstands, of firearms and squirts—the whole heaped anyhow, chipped, broken, unrecognisable, and covered with a layer of dust an inch thick; and an unbearable stench of old iron and rags and of damp pasteboard arose from the piles formed of the remains of the pieces produced during a period of fifty years.

  “Come in here,” said Bordenave. “We shall at least be by ourselves.”

  The count, very much embarrassed, moved on a few steps, to leave the manager to arrange matters by himself. Fauchery could not make it all out.

  “What’s up?” he asked.

  “Well, it’s just this,” said Bordenave at length. “An idea has occurred to us—now, don’t jump, it’s very serious. What do you think of Nana playing the part of the duchess?”

  At first the author was quite bewildered, then he burst out,

  “Oh, no! you can’t mean it—it must be a joke. Every one would laugh at it.”

  “Well! it’s something to get people to laugh! Think it over, dear boy. The count is very much smitten with the idea.”

  Muffat, to conceal his emotion, had taken an object that he did not seem to recognise from amidst the dust on a shelf. It was an egg-cup, the foot of which had been mended with plaster. He kept it in his hand without knowing he did so, and advanced towards the others to murmur:

  “Yes, yes, it would be capital.”

  Fauchery turned round upon him, with an impatient gesture. The count had nothing to do with his piece; and he exclaimed in a decided tone of voice:

  “Never! Nana as the gay woman as much as you like, but as the grand lady, not if I know it!”

  “You do not judge her fairly, I assure you,” resumed Muffat, becoming bolder. “Only just now, she was showing me how well she could play the grand lady.”

  “Where?” inquired Fauchery, whose astonishment increased.

  “Upstairs, in one of the dressing-rooms. Well! she did it splendidly. Oh! such distinction! She can give such glances, too, you know, in passing—this way.”

  And with the egg-cup in his hand, he tried to imitate Nana, forgetting himself in the force of his desire to convince the two other men. Fauchery watched him in amazement. He understood, and his anger vanished. The count, who felt his glance upon him, in which there was derision and pity combined, blushed slightly and stopped.

  “Well! it may be so,” murmured the author, obligingly. “She would perhaps do it very well, only the part is already given. We cannot take it away from Rose.”

  “Oh! if that’s all,” said Bordenave, “I will undertake to manage that.”

  But then, seeing them both against him, understanding that Bordenave had some hidden motive for acting
as he did, the young man, not wishing to give way, declined again, but with increased energy, and in a manner not to admit of any further discussion.

  “No, I say! and no, and always no! Even if the part was not filled up I would never give it to her—there, is that clear enough for you? And now let me be, I don’t want to damn my own piece.”

  After this there was an embarrassed silence. Bordenave, thinking himself in the way, withdrew some distance off. The count stood with his head bowed down. He raised it with an effort, and said, in a broken voice,

  “My dear fellow, if I ask you to do it as a special favour to myself?”

  “I cannot, I cannot,” repeated Fauchery, struggling.

  Muffat’s voice became harsher.

  “I beg of you—I wish it!

  And he looked him straight in the eyes. Beneath that black look, in which he read a menace, the young man suddenly gave way, stammering confusedly,

  “Well, after all, do as you wish—I don’t care. Ah! you are unfair. You will see—you will see—”

  The embarrassment then became greater. Fauchery had leant up against some shelves, and was nervously stamping on the floor with his foot. Muffat appeared to be examining the egg-cup very attentively, as he continued to turn it round between his fingers.

  “It’s an egg-cup,” Bordenave obligingly came and said.

  “Why! yes, it’s an egg-cup,” repeated the count.

  “Excuse me, you’re all covered with dust,” continued the manager, as he replaced the article on a shelf. “You see, it would be impossible to be dusting here every day—one would always be at it. The consequence is it’s not very clean. What a mixture, isn’t it? Well, believe me if you like, it represents a lot of money. Look here—and here.”

  He led Muffat, in the greenish light that came from the courtyard, in front of all the shelves, naming the different articles, wishing to interest him in his rag merchant’s inventory, as he called it. Then, when they had worked their way round to where Fauchery stood, he said, in an easy tone of voice,

  “Listen! As we are now agreed, we’ll settle this matter at once. Ah! there is Mignon.”