Nana - Émile Zola (good books to read for young adults txt) 📗

getting enamored of him since the beginning of supper,

and if Mignon was not pleased it would teach him greater wisdom!

 

“You are not going to fight?” said Vandeuvres, coming over to Lucy

Stewart.

 

“No, don’t be afraid of that! Only she must mind and keep quiet, or

I let the cat out of the bag!”

 

Then signing imperiously to Fauchery:

 

“I’ve got your slippers at home, my little man. I’ll get them taken

to your porter’s lodge for you tomorrow.”

 

He wanted to joke about it, but she swept off, looking like a queen.

Clarisse, who had propped herself against a wall in order to drink a

quiet glass of kirsch, was seen to shrug her shoulders. A pleasant

business for a man! Wasn’t it true that the moment two women were

together in the presence of their lovers their first idea was to do

one another out of them? It was a law of nature! As to herself,

why, in heaven’s name, if she had wanted to she would have torn out

Gaga’s eyes on Hector’s account! But la, she despised him! Then as

La Faloise passed by, she contented herself by remarking to him:

 

“Listen, my friend, you like ‘em well advanced, you do! You don’t

want ‘em ripe; you want ‘em mildewed!”

 

La Faloise seemed much annoyed and not a little anxious. Seeing

Clarisse making game of him, he grew suspicious of her.

 

“No humbug, I say,” he muttered. “You’ve taken my handkerchief.

Well then, give it back!”

 

“He’s dreeing us with that handkerchief of his!” she cried. “Why,

you ass, why should I have taken it from you?”

 

“Why should you?” he said suspiciously. “Why, that you may send it

to my people and compromise me.”

 

In the meantime Foucarmont was diligently attacking the liqueurs.

He continued to gaze sneeringly at Labordette, who was drinking his

coffee in the midst of the ladies. And occasionally he gave vent to

fragmentary assertions, as thus: “He’s the son of a horse dealer;

some say the illegitimate child of a countess. Never a penny of

income, yet always got twenty-five louis in his pocket! Footboy to

the ladies of the town! A big lubber, who never goes with any of

‘em! Never, never, never!” he repeated, growing furious. “No, by

Jove! I must box his ears.”

 

He drained a glass of chartreuse. The chartreuse had not the

slightest effect upon him; it didn’t affect him “even to that

extent,” and he clicked his thumbnail against the edge of his teeth.

But suddenly, just as he was advancing upon Labordette, he grew ashy

white and fell down in a heap in front of the sideboard. He was

dead drunk. Louise Violaine was beside herself. She had been quite

right to prophesy that matters would end badly, and now she would

have her work cut out for the remainder of the night. Gaga

reassured her. She examined the officer with the eye of a woman of

experience and declared that there was nothing much the matter and

that the gentleman would sleep like that for at least a dozen or

fifteen hours without any serious consequences. Foucarmont was

carried off.

 

“Well, where’s Nana gone to?” asked Vandeuvres.

 

Yes, she had certainly flown away somewhere on leaving the table.

The company suddenly recollected her, and everybody asked for her.

Steiner, who for some seconds had been uneasy on her account, asked

Vandeuvres about the old gentleman, for he, too, had disappeared.

But the count reassured him—he had just brought the old gentleman

back. He was a stranger, whose name it was useless to mention.

Suffice it to say that he was a very rich man who was quite pleased

to pay for suppers! Then as Nana was once more being forgotten,

Vandeuvres saw Daguenet looking out of an open door and beckoning to

him. And in the bedroom he found the mistress of the house sitting

up, white-lipped and rigid, while Daguenet and Georges stood gazing

at her with an alarmed expression.

 

“What IS the matter with you?” he asked in some surprise.

 

She neither answered nor turned her head, and he repeated his

question.

 

“Why, this is what’s the matter with me,” she cried out at length;

“I won’t let them make bloody sport of me!”

 

Thereupon she gave vent to any expression that occurred to her.

Yes, oh yes, SHE wasn’t a ninny—she could see clearly enough. They

had been making devilish light of her during supper and saying all

sorts of frightful things to show that they thought nothing of her!

A pack of sluts who weren’t fit to black her boots! Catch her

bothering herself again just to be badgered for it after! She

really didn’t know what kept her from chucking all that dirty lot

out of the house! And with this, rage choked her and her voice

broke down in sobs.

 

“Come, come, my lass, you’re drunk,” said Vandeuvres, growing

familiar. “You must be reasonable.”

 

No, she would give her refusal now; she would stay where she was.

 

“I am drunk—it’s quite likely! But I want people to respect me!”

 

For a quarter of an hour past Daguenet and Georges had been vainly

beseeching her to return to the drawing room. She was obstinate,

however; her guests might do what they liked; she despised them too

much to come back among them.

 

No, she never would, never. They might tear her in pieces before

she would leave her room!

 

“I ought to have had my suspicions,” she resumed.

 

“It’s that cat of a Rose who’s got the plot up! I’m certain Rose’ll

have stopped that respectable woman coming whom I was expecting

tonight.”

 

She referred to Mme Robert. Vandeuvres gave her his word of honor

that Mme Robert had given a spontaneous refusal. He listened and he

argued with much gravity, for he was well accustomed to similar

scenes and knew how women in such a state ought to be treated. But

the moment he tried to take hold of her hands in order to lift her

up from her chair and draw her away with him she struggled free of

his clasp, and her wrath redoubled. Now, just look at that! They

would never get her to believe that Fauchery had not put the Count

Muffat off coming! A regular snake was that Fauchery, an envious

sort, a fellow capable of growing mad against a woman and of

destroying her whole happiness. For she knew this—the count had

become madly devoted to her! She could have had him!

 

“Him, my dear, never!” cried Vandeuvres, forgetting himself and

laughing loud.

 

“Why not?” she asked, looking serious and slightly sobered.

 

“Because he’s thoroughly in the hands of the priests, and if he were

only to touch you with the tips of his fingers he would go and

confess it the day after. Now listen to a bit of good advice.

Don’t let the other man escape you!”

 

She was silent and thoughtful for a moment or two. Then she got up

and went and bathed her eyes. Yet when they wanted to take her into

the dining room she still shouted “No!” furiously. Vandeuvres left

the bedroom, smiling and without further pressing her, and the

moment he was gone she had an access of melting tenderness, threw

herself into Daguenet’s arms and cried out:

 

“Ah, my sweetie, there’s only you in the world. I love you! YES, I

love you from the bottom of my heart! Oh, it would be too nice if

we could always live together. My God! How unfortunate women are!”

 

Then her eye fell upon Georges, who, seeing them kiss, was growing

very red, and she kissed him too. Sweetie could not be jealous of a

baby! She wanted Paul and Georges always to agree, because it would

be so nice for them all three to stay like that, knowing all the

time that they loved one another very much. But an extraordinary

noise disturbed them: someone was snoring in the room. Whereupon

after some searching they perceived Bordenave, who, since taking his

coffee, must have comfortably installed himself there. He was

sleeping on two chairs, his head propped on the edge of the bed and

his leg stretched out in front. Nana thought him so funny with his

open mouth and his nose moving with each successive snore that she

was shaken with a mad fit of laughter. She left the room, followed

by Daguenet and Georges, crossed the dining room, entered the

drawing room, her merriment increasing at every step.

 

“Oh, my dear, you’ve no idea!” she cried, almost throwing herself

into Rose’s arms. “Come and see it.”

 

All the women had to follow her. She took their hands coaxingly and

drew them along with her willy-nilly, accompanying her action with

so frank an outburst of mirth that they all of them began laughing

on trust. The band vanished and returned after standing

breathlessly for a second or two round Bordenave’s lordly,

outstretched form. And then there was a burst of laughter, and when

one of them told the rest to be quiet Bordenave’s distant snorings

became audible.

 

It was close on four o’clock. In the dining room a card table had

just been set out, at which Vandeuvres, Steiner, Mignon and

Labordette had taken their seats. Behind them Lucy and Caroline

stood making bets, while Blanche, nodding with sleep and

dissatisfied about her night, kept asking Vandeuvres at intervals of

five minutes if they weren’t going soon. In the drawing room there

was an attempt at dancing. Daguenet was at the piano or “chest of

drawers,” as Nana called it. She did not want a “thumper,” for Mimi

would play as many waltzes and polkas as the company desired. But

the dance was languishing, and the ladies were chatting drowsily

together in the corners of sofas. Suddenly, however, there was an

outburst of noise. A band of eleven young men had arrived and were

laughing loudly in the anteroom and crowding to the drawing room.

They had just come from the ball at the Ministry of the Interior and

were in evening dress and wore various unknown orders. Nana was

annoyed at this riotous entry, called to the waiters who still

remained in the kitchen and ordered them to throw these individuals

out of doors. She vowed that she had never seen any of them before.

Fauchery, Labordette, Daguenet and the rest of the men had all come

forward in order to enforce respectful behavior toward their

hostess. Big words flew about; arms were outstretched, and for some

seconds a general exchange of fisticuffs was imminent.

Notwithstanding this, however, a little sickly looking light-haired

man kept insistently repeating:

 

“Come, come, Nana, you saw us the other evening at Peters’ in the

great red saloon! Pray remember, you invited us.”

 

The other evening at Peters’? She did not remember it all. To

begin with, what evening?

 

And when the little light-haired man had mentioned the day, which

was Wednesday, she distinctly remembered having supped at Peters’ on

the Wednesday, but she had given no invitation to anyone; she was

almost sure of that.

 

“However, suppose you HAVE invited them, my good girl,” murmured

Labordette, who was beginning to have his doubts. “Perhaps you were

a little elevated.”

 

Then Nana fell a-laughing. It was quite possible; she really didn’t

know. So then, since these gentlemen were on the spot, they had her

leave to come in. Everything was quietly arranged; several of the

newcomers found friends in the drawing room, and the scene ended in

handshakings. The little sickly looking light-haired man bore one

of the greatest names in France. Furthermore, the eleven announced

that others were to follow them, and,