“Of course, you will only sit for the head and shoulders,” said Labordette.
“Why!” asked she, coolly looking him in the face. “As it is a question of a work of art, I sha’n’t care a fig for the sculptor who copies me!”
So it was settled. She chose the second subject also; but he stopped her.
“Wait. It will cost six thousand francs more.”
“Well! that’s all the same to me!” cried she, bursting out laughing. “My little muff will pay!”
It was thus she called Count Muffat now amongst her intimate acquaintances; and the gentlemen never asked after him otherwise than as, “Did you see your little muff last night? Ah! I thought I should have found the little muff here!” A simple familiarity which, however, she did not as yet allow herself to make use of in his presence.
Labordette rolled up the drawings as he gave her some final information: the goldsmiths engaged to deliver the bedstead in two months’ time, towards the 25th December; the very next week a sculptor would come to make the rough model for the figure of Night. As she walked with him to the stairs, Nana remembered the baker, and said suddenly,
“By the way, do you happen to have ten louis about you?”
One of Labordette’s principles, and which he found invaluable, was never to lend money to women. He always gave the same answer,
“No, my girl; I’m quite stumped. But would you like me to call on your little muff?”
She refused; it was useless. Two days before she had got five thousand francs out of the count. Following Labordette, though it was scarcely half-past two when he called, the baker reappeared; and he roughly seated himself on a bench in the hall, swearing very loud. The young woman was listening to him up on the first floor. She turned pale; she suffered especially at hearing up there the secret joy of the servants. They were splitting their sides with laughing in the kitchen. The coachman looked on from the yard; François passed across the hall without any necessity, and then went and told the others how things were progressing, after bestowing a chuckle of intelligence on the baker. They did not care a straw for madame; the walls seemed bursting with the sounds of their mirth. She felt herself all alone, despised by her servants, who spied on her and bespattered her with their filthy jokes. Then as she had had an idea of borrowing the hundred and thirty-three francs from Zoé, she gave it up. She already owed her some money; she was too proud to risk a refusal. So strong an emotion possessed her that she returned to her bed-room, saying aloud,
“Never mind, my girl; only depend upon yourself. Your body’s your own, and it’s best to make use of it rather than to submit to an insult.”
And without even ringing for Zoé, she hastily dressed herself to go to old Tricon’s. It was her supreme resource in the hours of great distress. Very much asked for, always required by the old woman, she refused or accepted, according to her wants; and the days, which were becoming more and more frequent, when she suffered from any embarrassment in her royal career, she was always sure of finding twenty-five louis awaiting her there. She would go to old Tricon’s in the easy style gained by habit, the same as poor people go to the pawn-shop.
But on leaving her bed-room, she ran up against George, standing in the middle of the parlour. She did not notice his wax-like paleness, the dull light in his wide open eyes. She uttered a sigh of relief.
“Ah! you’ve come from your brother?”
“No,” said the youngster, turning paler still.
Then she made a gesture of despair. What did he want? Why was he standing in front of her? Come, she was in a hurry; and she passed him. Then retracing her steps, she asked,
“Have you any money with you?”
“No.”
“It’s true—how stupid of me! Never a thing, not even the six sous for their omnibus. Mamma won’t. What men!”
And she was hurrying off; but he stopped her. He wished to speak to her. She, excited, kept saying that she had not time, when with a word he made her leave off.
“Listen, I know you are going to marry my brother.”
Well, that was comic. She dropped into a chair to laugh at her ease.
“Yes,” continued the youngster; “and I will not have it. It is I whom you must marry. That is why I have come.”
“Eh, what? you also?” she exclaimed. “Is it then a family complaint? But, never! What an idea! Did I ever ask you to do such a disgraceful thing? Neither the one nor the other—never!”
Then George’s face brightened up. He might by chance have been mistaken. He resumed, “Then swear to me that you are not my brother’s mistress.”
“Ah! you’re becoming a confounded nuisance!” said Nana, rising to her feet, impatient to be off. “It’s funny for a minute, but I tell you I’m in a hurry! I’m your brother’s mistress when I choose to be. Do you keep me—do you pay here, that you come and call me to account? Yes, I’m your brother’s mistress.”
He had seized her arm, and squeezed it almost enough to break it, as he stammered out, “Don’t say that—don’t say that—”
With a slap she freed herself.
“He’s whipping me now! the young monkey! My little fellow, you must be off, and at once too. I’ve let you be here through kindness. It’s just so, however wide you may open your eyes! You didn’t expect, I suppose, to have me for your mamma until the day of my death. I’ve something better to do than to nurse brats.”
He listened to her in an agony which stiffened his limbs and left him powerless. Each word stabbed him to the heart, with a blow so hard that he felt it was killing him. She, not even noticing his suffering, continued, happy at being able to vent herself on him for all her worries of the morning.
“It’s just the same with your brother; he’s a nice one, he is! He promised me two hundred francs. Ah, well! I may wait for ever for him. It’s not that I care about his money! Not enough to pay for my pomades. But he’s left me in a fix! Now would you like to know? Well, through your brother’s fault, I’m going out to earn twenty-five louis from another man.”
Then, in a state of bewilderment, he stood before the door; and he cried, and implored, clasping his hands together, and muttering, “Oh, no! oh, no!”
“Well, I’m willing,” said she. ”Have you the money?”
No, he had not got the money. He would have given his life to have had it. Never before had he felt so miserable, so useless, such a child. All his poor body, shaken with sobs, expressed a grief so great that she ended by seeing it and feeling for him. She pushed him gently on one side.
“Come, ducky, let me pass; you must. Be reasonable. You’re a baby, and it was all very nice for a week; but to-day I must attend to my affairs. Think it over now. Your brother, too, is a man. I don’t say with him—Ah! do me a kindness; don’t mention to him anything of all this. He has no need to know where I’m going. I always say too much when I’m angry.”
She laughed. Then, putting her arms round him and kissing him on the forehead, she added,
“Good-bye, baby; it’s over, all over, you understand. Now, I’m off.”
And she left him. He was standing in the centre of the parlour. The last words sounded like a knell in his ears, “It is over, all over”; and the ground seemed to open beneath his feet. In the vacuum of his brain, the man who was awaiting Nana had disappeared; Philippe alone remained, continually in the woman’s bare arms. She did not deny it; she certainly loved him, as she wished to spare him the grief of knowing her to be unfaithful. It was over, all over. He drew a long breath, he gazed around the room, choked by a weight that was crushing him. Recollections returned to him one by one—the merry nights at La Mignotte, hours of love during which he thought himself her child, the voluptuous pleasures snatched in that very room. And never, never more! He was too little, he had not grown quick enough; Philippe had taken his place, because he had a beard. So, it was the end, he could no longer live. His vice had become full of an infinite tenderness, of a sensual adoration, in which his whole being was centr
ed. Then, how could he forget, when his brother would remain there—his brother, who was of the same blood, another self whose pleasure drove him mad with jealousy? It was the end, he wished to die.
All the doors were left open as the servants noisily scuttled about, they having seen madame go out on foot. Downstairs, on the bench in the hall, the baker was laughing with Charles and François. As Zoé crossed the parlour at a run, she appeared surprised at seeing George, and asked him if he was waiting for madame. Yes, he was waiting for her, he had forgotten to tell her something. And, when he was again alone, he ferreted about. Finding nothing better, he took from the dressing-room a pair of sharply pointed scissors, which Nana was continually using, cutting her hangnails and little hairs with them.
Then, for an hour, he waited patiently, his hand in his pocket, his fingers nervously clutching the scissors.
“Here’s madame,” said Zoé, coming back; she had probably been watching for her out of the bed-room window.
More scuttling about was heard in the house, and sounds of laughter died away as doors were closed. George heard Nana pay the baker and utter a few brief words. Then she came up the stairs.
“What! you’re still here!” said she, as she caught sight of him. “Ah! we shall have a row, my little man!”
He followed her whilst she moved towards the bed-room.
“Nana, will you marry me?”
But she shrugged her shoulders. It was too absurd, she did not answer. Her idea was to bang the door in his face.
“Nana, will you marry me?”
She slammed the door. With one hand he opened it, whilst he withdrew the other hand holding the scissors from his pocket. And, simply, with one violent blow, he thrust them into his chest.
Nana, however, had had a feeling that something terrible was going to happen. She turned round. When she saw him strike himself, she was seized with indignation.
“But he’s cracked! he’s cracked! And with my scissors too! Will you leave off, you wicked child! Ah! good heavens!—ah! good heavens!”
She was seized with fear. The youngster, fallen on his knees, had struck himself a second blow, which had laid him flat on the carpet. He blocked the threshold of the bed-room. Then she became quite bewildered; she shouted with all her might, not daring to step over that body, which shut her in and prevented her running for help.
“Zoé! Zoé! come quick. Make him leave off. It’s absurd, a child like that! He’s killing himself now! and in my house, too! Did anyone ever see such a thing?”
He frightened her. He was all white, and his eyes were closed. The wound scarcely bled at all, there was only a little blood which trickled from under the waistcoat. She had nerved herself to pass over the body, when an apparition caused her to draw back. Opposite to her, by the open door of the parlour, she beheld an old lady advancing, and she recognised Madame Hugon, terrified, unable to account for her presence. She continued to step back; she still wore her bonnet and gloves. Her terror became such that she attempted to defend herself in a hesitating voice.
“Madame, it was not I, I swear to you. He wanted to marry me, I said ‘no,’ and he’s killed himself.”
Madame Hugon slowly approached, dressed in black, with her pale face and white hair. In the carriage the thought of George had left her, and Philippe’s sin had alone occupied her mind. Perhaps that woman could give some explanations to the judges which might cause them to be more lenient; and her intention was to implore her to bear witness in her son’s favour. Downstairs the doors of the mansion were wide open. She hesitated at the staircase, with her poor legs, when, suddenly, shouts of fear had directed her steps. Then, upstairs, she beheld a man lying on the floor, his shirt stained with blood. It was George—it was her other child.
Nana kept repeating, in an idiotic way: “He wanted to marry me. I said ‘no,’ and he’s killed himself.”
Without a cry, Madame Hugon stooped down. Yes, it was the other one, it was George. The one dishonoured, the other dead. It did not surprise her, in the downfall of her whole existence. Kneeling on the carpet, ignoring the place where she was, noticing no one, she looked fixedly in George’s face, she listened with a hand upon his heart. Suddenly she uttered a faint sigh. She had felt his heart beat. Then she raised her head, examined the room and the woman, and seemed to recollect. A fire lighted up her vacant eyes. She was so grand and so terrible that Nana trembled as she continued to defend herself, over that corpse which separated them.
“I swear to you, madame—if his brother was here, he could explain.”
“His brother is a thief, he is in prison,” said the mother harshly.
Nana remained transfixed, gasping for breath. But why all that? The other had robbed—they were mad then, in that family! She ceased struggling, no longer seeming to be in her own house, but leaving Madame Hugon to give her own orders. Some of the servants had at last hastened to the spot; the old lady insisted on having George, insensible as he was, taken to her carriage. She would remove him from that house, though it killed him. Nana, with a stupefied gaze, watched the servants carrying that poor Zizi by his legs and shoulders. The mother followed behind, quite exhausted now, leaning on the furniture, as though sunk into the nothingness of all she loved. On the landing she sighed and turning round, said twice,
“Ah! you have done us much harm! You have done us much harm!”
That was all. Nana seated herself, in her stupor, with her gloves still on her hands, and her bonnet on her head. The house relapsed into a dull silence, the carriage had just gone off; and she remained immovable, without an idea, her head all buzzing with what had just transpired. A quarter of an hour later, Count Muffat found her in the same place. But then she eased herself with a great flow of words, telling him of the misfortune, repeating twenty times the same details, picking up the scissors smeared with blood, to imitate Zizi’s gesture when he stabbed himself. And she seemed especially anxious to prove her innocence.
“Come now, darling, was it my fault? If you were Justice, would you condemn me? I never told Philippe to steal, that’s very certain, any more than I drove this poor fellow to kill himself. In all this, I’m the most miserable. They come and make fools of themselves here; they cause me a great deal of pain; I’m treated like a wretch of a woman.”
And she burst out crying. Her nerves were highly unstrung, which rendered her weak and doleful, and deeply moved with an immense sorrow.
“You, too, you don’t seem very pleased. Ask Zoé, now, if I’m at all to blame. Zoé, speak; explain to the count—”
For some few minutes the maid, having fetched from the dressing-room a towel and a basin of water, had been rubbing the carpet to get rid of a stain of blood, whilst it was still wet.
“Oh, sir!” she declared; “madame is quite broken-hearted!”
Muffat was greatly affected, feeling stunned by the drama, his thoughts full of that mother weeping for her two children. He knew her great heart; he saw her in her widow’s weeds, pining away all alone at Les Fondettes. But Nana’s despair increased. Now, the picture of Zizi, lying on the floor, with a red spot on his shirt, put her quite beside herself.
“He was so pretty, so gentle, so caressing! Ah! you know, ducky, it’s so much the worse if you don’t like it. I loved him, the baby! I can’t control myself; it’s stronger than I am. And then it can’t matter to you now. He is no longer here. You have what you wanted; you may be quite sure of never catching us together again.”
This last idea overwhelmed him with such regret that he ended by trying to console her. She must bear up. She was right; it was not her fault. But she stopped him to say,
“Listen, you must run and bring me news of him. At once! I insist! ”
He took his hat and went off to obtain news of George. When he returned, at the end of three quarters of an hour, he beheld Nana leaning out of the window anxiously awaiting him; and he called to her from the pavement that the little fellow was not dead, and that they even hoped to save his life. Then s
he changed at once to a great joy. She sang, danced, and thought life beautiful. Zoé, however, was not satisfied with her cleansing. She kept looking at the stain, and saying each time she passed,
“You know, madame, it hasn’t gone away.”
And in fact, as it dried, the stain appeared a pale red on one of the white ornaments of the carpet. It was on the very threshold of the room, like a line of blood barring the way.
“Bah!” said Nana, happy once more, “the footsteps will wear it away.”
By the morrow Count Muffat had also forgotten the incident. When in the cab on the way to the Rue Richelieu, he had sworn never to return to that woman. Heaven gave him a warning. He looked on Philippe’s and George’s calamity as foreboding his own ruin. But neither the spectacle of Madame Hugon in tears, nor the sight of the youth consumed with fever, had had the power to make him keep his oath; and from the short moment of emotion caused by the drama, all that remained to him was the secret joy of being rid of a rival, whose charming youth had always exasperated him. He now experienced an exclusive passion, one of those passions of men who have had no youth. He loved Nana with a necessity always to know that she was his alone—to hear her, to touch her, to be under the influence of her breath. It was an attachment which had got beyond the mere gratification of his senses, and had reached the purer feeling—an anxious affection, jealous of the past, dreaming at times of redemption, of pardon bestowed, both of them kneeling before God the Father. Each day religion regained some of its ascendeney over him. He again practised going to confession and communicating, struggling unceasingly, mingling his remorse with the joys of sin and of penitence. Then, his spiritual director having permitted him to wear out his passion, he had made a habit of that daily damnation, which he redeemed by bursts of faith, full of a devout humility. He very naively offered to heaven, as an expiatory suffering, the abominable torment he endured. This torment continued to increase. It raised his calvary of a believer, of a grave and profound heart, fallen into the mad sensuality of a courtesan. What caused him the most agony were the continual infidelities of that woman, for he could not accustom himself to share with others, failing to understand her stupid infatuations. He longed for an eternal love, ever the same. Yet, she had sworn to be faithful, and he paid her for that; but he felt that she lied, unable to guard herself, giving herself to her friends and the passersby, like some good animal born to live in a state of nakedness.