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

after advertisement, kept firing the Parisian

imagination with colossal posters, it became known that she must

have started for Cairo the previous day. She had simply had a few

words with her manager. Something had been said which did not

please her; the whole thing was the caprice of a woman who is too

rich to let herself be annoyed. Besides, she had indulged an old

infatuation, for she had long meditated visiting the Turks.

 

Months passed—she began to be forgotten. When her name was

mentioned among the ladies and gentlemen, the strangest stories were

told, and everybody gave the most contradictory and at the same time

prodigious information. She had made a conquest of the viceroy; she

was reigning, in the recesses of a palace, over two hundred slaves

whose heads she now and then cut off for the sake of a little

amusement. No, not at all! She had ruined herself with a great big

nigger! A filthy passion this, which had left her wallowing without

a chemise to her back in the crapulous debauchery of Cairo. A

fortnight later much astonishment was produced when someone swore to

having met her in Russia. A legend began to be formed: she was the

mistress of a prince, and her diamonds were mentioned. All the

women were soon acquainted with them from the current descriptions,

but nobody could cite the precise source of all this information.

There were finger rings, earrings, bracelets, a REVIERE of

phenomenal width, a queenly diadem surmounted by a central brilliant

the size of one’s thumb. In the retirement of those faraway

countries she began to gleam forth as mysteriously as a gem-laden

idol. People now mentioned her without laughing, for they were full

of meditative respect for this fortune acquired among the

barbarians.

 

One evening in July toward eight o’clock, Lucy, while getting out of

her carriage in the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honore, noticed Caroline

Hequet, who had come out on foot to order something at a neighboring

tradesman’s. Lucy called her and at once burst out with:

 

“Have you dined? Are you disengaged? Oh, then come with me, my

dear. Nana’s back.”

 

The other got in at once, and Lucy continued:

 

“And you know, my dear, she may be dead while we’re gossiping.”

 

“Dead! What an idea!” cried Caroline in stupefaction. “And where

is she? And what’s it of?”

 

“At the Grand Hotel, of smallpox. Oh, it’s a long story!”

 

Lucy had bidden her coachman drive fast, and while the horses

trotted rapidly along the Rue Royale and the boulevards, she told

what had happened to Nana in jerky, breathless sentences.

 

“You can’t imagine it. Nana plumps down out of Russia. I don’t

know why—some dispute with her prince. She leaves her traps at the

station; she lands at her aunt’s—you remember the old thing. Well,

and then she finds her baby dying of smallpox. The baby dies next

day, and she has a row with the aunt about some money she ought to

have sent, of which the other one has never seen a sou. Seems the

child died of that: in fact, it was neglected and badly cared for.

Very well; Nana slopes, goes to a hotel, then meets Mignon just as

she was thinking of her traps. She has all sorts of queer feelings,

shivers, wants to be sick, and Mignon takes her back to her place

and promises to look after her affairs. Isn’t it odd, eh? Doesn’t

it all happen pat? But this is the best part of the story: Rose

finds out about Nana’s illness and gets indignant at the idea of her

being alone in furnished apartments. So she rushes off, crying, to

look after her. You remember how they used to detest one another—

like regular furies! Well then, my dear, Rose has had Nana

transported to the Grand Hotel, so that she should, at any rate, die

in a smart place, and now she’s already passed three nights there

and is free to die of it after. It’s Labordette who told me all

about it. Accordingly I wanted to see for myself—”

 

“Yes, yes,” interrupted Caroline in great excitement “We’ll go up to

her.”

 

They had arrived at their destination. On the boulevard the

coachman had had to rein in his horses amid a block of carriages and

people on foot. During the day the Corps Legislatif had voted for

war, and now a crowd was streaming down all the streets, flowing

along all the pavements, invading the middle of the roadway. Beyond

the Madeleine the sun had set behind a blood-red cloud, which cast a

reflection as of a great fire and set the lofty windows flaming.

Twilight was falling, and the hour was oppressively melancholy, for

now the avenues were darkening away into the distance but were not

as yet dotted over by the bright sparks of the gas lamps. And among

the marching crowds distant voices swelled and grew ever louder, and

eyes gleamed from pale faces, while a great spreading wind of

anguish and stupor set every head whirling.

 

“Here’s Mignon,” said Lucy. “He’ll give us news.”

 

Mignon was standing under the vast porch of the Grand Hotel. He

looked nervous and was gazing at the crowd. After Lucy’s first few

questions he grew impatient and cried out:

 

“How should I know? These last two days I haven’t been able to tear

Rose away from up there. It’s getting stupid, when all’s said, for

her to be risking her life like that! She’ll be charming if she

gets over it, with holes in her face! It’ll suit us to a tee!”

 

The idea that Rose might lose her beauty was exasperating him. He

was giving up Nana in the most downright fashion, and he could not

in the least understand these stupid feminine devotions. But

Fauchery was crossing the boulevard, and he, too, came up anxiously

and asked for news. The two men egged each other on. They

addressed one another familiarly in these days.

 

“Always the same business, my sonny,” declared Mignon. “You ought

to go upstairs; you would force her to follow you.”

 

“Come now, you’re kind, you are!” said the journalist. “Why don’t

you go upstairs yourself?”

 

Then as Lucy began asking for Nana’s number, they besought her to

make Rose come down; otherwise they would end by getting angry.

 

Nevertheless, Lucy and Caroline did not go up at once. They had

caught sight of Fontan strolling about with his hands in his pockets

and greatly amused by the quaint expressions of the mob. When he

became aware that Nana was lying ill upstairs he affected sentiment

and remarked:

 

“The poor girl! I’ll go and shake her by the hand. What’s the

matter with her, eh?”

 

“Smallpox,” replied Mignon.

 

The actor had already taken a step or two in the direction of the

court, but he came back and simply murmured with a shiver:

 

“Oh, damn it!”

 

The smallpox was no joke. Fontan had been near having it when he

was five years old, while Mignon gave them an account of one of his

nieces who had died of it. As to Fauchery, he could speak of it

from personal experience, for he still bore marks of it in the shape

of three little lumps at the base of his nose, which he showed them.

And when Mignon again egged him on to the ascent, on the pretext

that you never had it twice, he violently combated this theory and

with infinite abuse of the doctors instanced various cases. But

Lucy and Caroline interrupted them, for the growing multitude filled

them with astonishment.

 

“Just look! Just look what a lot of people!” The night was

deepening, and in the distance the gas lamps were being lit one by

one. Meanwhile interested spectators became visible at windows,

while under the trees the human flood grew every minute more dense,

till it ran in one enormous stream from the Madeleine to the

Bastille. Carriages rolled slowly along. A roaring sound went up

from this compact and as yet inarticulate mass. Each member of it

had come out, impelled by the desire to form a crowd, and was now

trampling along, steeping himself in the pervading fever. But a

great movement caused the mob to flow asunder. Among the jostling,

scattering groups a band of men in workmen’s caps and white blouses

had come in sight, uttering a rhythmical cry which suggested the

beat of hammers upon an anvil.

 

“To Ber-lin! To Ber-lin! To Ber-lin!” And the crowd stared in

gloomy distrust yet felt themselves already possessed and inspired

by heroic imaginings, as though a military band were passing.

 

“Oh yes, go and get your throats cut!” muttered Mignon, overcome by

an access of philosophy.

 

But Fontan thought it very fine, indeed, and spoke of enlisting.

When the enemy was on the frontier all citizens ought to rise up in

defense of the fatherland! And with that he assumed an attitude

suggestive of Bonaparte at Austerlitz.

 

“Look here, are you coining up with us?” Lucy asked him.

 

“Oh dear, no! To catch something horrid?” he said.

 

On a bench in front of the Grand Hotel a man sat hiding his face in

a handkerchief. On arriving Fauchery had indicated him to Mignon

with a wink of the eye. Well, he was still there; yes, he was

always there. And the journalist detained the two women also in

order to point him out to them. When the man lifted his head they

recognized him; an exclamation escaped them. It was the Count

Muffat, and he was giving an upward glance at one of the windows.

 

“You know, he’s been waiting there since this morning,” Mignon

informed them. “I saw him at six o’clock, and he hasn’t moved

since. Directly Labordette spoke about it he came there with his

handkerchief up to his face. Every half-hour he comes dragging

himself to where we’re standing to ask if the person upstairs is

doing better, and then he goes back and sits down. Hang it, that

room isn’t healthy! It’s all very well being fond of people, but

one doesn’t want to kick the bucket.”

 

The count sat with uplifted eyes and did not seem conscious of what

was going on around him. Doubtless he was ignorant of the

declaration of war, and he neither felt nor saw the crowd.

 

“Look, here he comes!” said Fauchery. “Now you’ll see.”

 

The count had, in fact, quitted his bench and was entering the lofty

porch. But the porter, who was getting to know his face at last,

did not give him time to put his question. He said sharply:

 

“She’s dead, monsieur, this very minute.”

 

Nana dead! It was a blow to them all. Without a word Muffat had

gone back to the bench, his face still buried in his handkerchief.

The others burst into exclamations, but they were cut short, for a

fresh band passed by, howling, “A BERLIN! A BERLIN! A BERLIN!”

Nana dead! Hang it, and such a fine girl too! Mignon sighed and

looked relieved, for at last Rose would come down. A chill fell on

the company. Fontan, meditating a tragic role, had assumed a look

of woe and was drawing down the corners of his mouth and rolling his

eyes askance, while Fauchery chewed his cigar nervously, for despite

his cheap journalistic chaff he was really touched. Nevertheless,

the two women continued to give vent to their feelings of surprise.

The last time Lucy had seen her was at the Gaite; Blanche, too, had

seen her in Melusine. Oh, how stunning it was, my dear, when she

appeared in the depths of the crystal grot! The gentlemen

remembered the occasion perfectly. Fontan had played