never let you do that!"
And in her feeble voice she showed him decisively how useless and
scandalous a duel and a trial would be. He would be a nine days'
newspaper sensation; his whole existence would be at stake, his
peace of mind, his high situation at court, the honor of his name,
and all for what? That he might have the laughers against him.
"What will it matter?" he cried. "I shall have had my revenge."
"My pet," she said, "in a business of that kind one never has one's
revenge if one doesn't take it directly."
He paused and stammered. He was certainly no poltroon, but he felt
that she was right. An uneasy feeling was growing momentarily
stronger within him, a poor, shameful feeling which softened his
anger now that it was at its hottest. Moreover, in her frank desire
to tell him everything, she dealt him a fresh blow.
"And d'you want to know what's annoying you, dearest? Why, that you
are deceiving your wife yourself. You don't sleep away from home
for nothing, eh? Your wife must have her suspicions. Well then,
how can you blame her? She'll tell you that you've set her the
example, and that'll shut you up. There, now, that's why you're
stamping about here instead of being at home murdering both of 'em."
Muffat had again sunk down on the chair; he was overwhelmed by these
home thrusts. She broke off and took breath, and then in a low
voice:
"Oh, I'm a wreck! Do help me sit up a bit. I keep slipping down,
and my head's too low."
When he had helped her she sighed and felt more comfortable. And
with that she harked back to the subject. What a pretty sight a
divorce suit would be! Couldn't he imagine the advocate of the
countess amusing Paris with his remarks about Nana? Everything
would have come out--her fiasco at the Varietes, her house, her
manner of life. Oh dear, no! She had no wish for all that amount
of advertising. Some dirty women might, perhaps, have driven him to
it for the sake of getting a thundering big advertisement, but she--
she desired his happiness before all else. She had drawn him down
toward her and, after passing her arm around his neck, was nursing
his head close to hers on the edge of the pillow. And with that she
whispered softly:
"Listen, my pet, you shall make it up with your wife."
But he rebelled at this. It could never be! His heart was nigh
breaking at the thought; it was too shameful. Nevertheless, she
kept tenderly insisting.
"You shall make it up with your wife. Come, come, you don't want to
hear all the world saying that I've tempted you away from your home?
I should have too vile a reputation! What would people think of me?
Only swear that you'll always love me, because the moment you go
with another woman--"
Tears choked her utterance, and he intervened with kisses and said:
"You're beside yourself; it's impossible!"
"Yes, yes," she rejoined, "you must. But I'll be reasonable. After
all, she's your wife, and it isn't as if you were to play me false
with the firstcomer."
And she continued in this strain, giving him the most excellent
advice. She even spoke of God, and the count thought he was
listening to M. Venot, when that old gentleman endeavored to
sermonize him out of the grasp of sin. Nana, however, did not speak
of breaking it off entirely: she preached indulgent good nature and
suggested that, as became a dear, nice old fellow, he should divide
his attentions between his wife and his mistress, so that they would
all enjoy a quiet life, devoid of any kind of annoyance, something,
in fact, in the nature of a happy slumber amid the inevitable
miseries of existence. Their life would be nowise changed: he would
still be the little man of her heart. Only he would come to her a
bit less often and would give the countess the nights not passed
with her. She had got to the end of her strength and left off,
speaking under her breath:
"After that I shall feel I've done a good action, and you'll love me
all the more."
Silence reigned. She had closed her eyes and lay wan upon her
pillow. The count was patiently listening to her, not wishing her
to tire herself. A whole minute went by before she reopened her
eyes and murmured:
"Besides, how about the money? Where would you get the money from
if you must grow angry and go to law? Labordette came for the bill
yesterday. As for me, I'm out of everything; I have nothing to put
on now."
Then she shut her eyes again and looked like one dead. A shadow of
deep anguish had passed over Muffat's brow. Under the present
stroke he had since yesterday forgotten the money troubles from
which he knew not how to escape. Despite formal promises to the
contrary, the bill for a hundred thousand francs had been put in
circulation after being once renewed, and Labordette, pretending to
be very miserable about it, threw all the blame on Francis,
declaring that he would never again mix himself up in such a matter
with an uneducated man. It was necessary to pay, for the count
would never have allowed his signature to be protested. Then in
addition to Nana's novel demands, his home expenses were
extraordinarily confused. On their return from Les Fondettes the
countess had suddenly manifested a taste for luxury, a longing for
worldly pleasures, which was devouring their fortune. Her ruinous
caprices began to be talked about. Their whole household management
was altered, and five hundred thousand francs were squandered in
utterly transforming the old house in the Rue Miromesnil. Then
there were extravagantly magnificent gowns and large sums
disappeared, squandered or perhaps given away, without her ever
dreaming of accounting for them. Twice Muffat ventured to mention
this, for he was anxious to know how the money went, but on these
occasions she had smiled and gazed at him with so singular an
expression that he dared not interrogate her further for fear of a
too-unmistakable answer. If he were taking Daguenet as son-in-law
as a gift from Nana it was chiefly with the hope of being able to
reduce Estelle's dower to two hundred thousand francs and of then
being free to make any arrangements he chose about the remainder
with a young man who was still rejoicing in this unexpected match.
Nevertheless, for the last week, under the immediate necessity of
finding Labordette's hundred thousand francs, Muffat had been able
to hit on but one expedient, from which he recoiled. This was that
he should sell the Bordes, a magnificent property valued at half a
million, which an uncle had recently left the countess. However,
her signature was necessary, and she herself, according to the terms
of the deed, could not alienate the property without the count's
authorization. The day before he had indeed resolved to talk to his
wife about this signature. And now everything was ruined; at such a
moment he would never accept of such a compromise. This reflection
added bitterness to the frightful disgrace of the adultery. He
fully understood what Nana was asking for, since in that ever-
growing self-abandonment which prompted him to put her in
possession of all his secrets, he had complained to her of his
position and had confided to her the tiresome difficulty he was in
with regard to the signature of the countess.
Nana, however, did not seem to insist. She did not open her eyes
again, and, seeing her so pale, he grew frightened and made her
inhale a little ether. She gave a sigh and without mentioning
Daguenet asked him some questions.
"When is the marriage?"
"We sign the contract on Tuesday, in five days' time," he replied.
Then still keeping her eyelids closed, as though she were speaking
from the darkness and silence of her brain:
"Well then, pet, see to what you've got to do. As far as I'm
concerned, I want everybody to be happy and comfortable."
He took her hand and soothed her. Yes, he would see about it; the
important thing now was for her to rest. And the revolt within him
ceased, for this warm and slumberous sickroom, with its all-
pervading scent of ether, had ended by lulling him into a mere
longing for happiness and peace. All his manhood, erewhile maddened
by wrong, had departed out of him in the neighborhood of that warm
bed and that suffering woman, whom he was nursing under the
influence of her feverish heat and of remembered delights. He
leaned over her and pressed her in a close embrace, while despite
her unmoved features her lips wore a delicate, victorious smile.
But Dr Boutarel made his appearance.
"Well, and how's this dear child?" he said familiarly to Muffat,
whom he treated as her husband. "The deuce, but we've made her
talk!"
The doctor was a good-looking man and still young. He had a superb
practice among the gay world, and being very merry by nature and
ready to laugh and joke in the friendliest way with the demimonde
ladies with whom, however, he never went farther, he charged very
high fees and got them paid with the greatest punctuality.
Moreover, he would put himself out to visit them on the most trivial
occasions, and Nana, who was always trembling at the fear of death,
would send and fetch him two or three times a week and would
anxiously confide to him little infantile ills which he would cure
to an accompaniment of amusing gossip and harebrained anecdotes.
The ladies all adored him. But this time the little ill was
serious.
Muffat withdrew, deeply moved. Seeing his poor Nana so very weak,
his sole feeling was now one of tenderness. As he was leaving the
room she motioned him back and gave him her forehead to kiss. In a
low voice and with a playfully threatening look she said:
"You know what I've allowed you to do. Go back to your wife, or
it's all over and I shall grow angry!"
The Countess Sabine had been anxious that her daughter's wedding
contract should be signed on a Tuesday in order that the renovated
house, where the paint was still scarcely dry, might be reopened
with a grand entertainment. Five hundred invitations had been
issued to people in all kinds of sets. On the morning of the great
day the upholsterers were still nailing up hangings, and toward nine
at night, just when the lusters were going to be lit, the architect,
accompanied by the eager and interested countess, was given his
final orders.
It was one of those spring festivities which have a delicate charm
of their own. Owing to the warmth of the June nights, it had become
possible to open the two doors of the great drawing room and to
extend the dancing floor to the sanded paths of the garden. When
the first guests arrived and were welcomed at the door by the count
and the countess they were positively dazzled. One had only to
recall to mind the drawing room of the past, through which flitted
the icy, ghostly presence of the Countess Muffat, that antique room
full of an atmosphere of religious austerity with its massive First
Empire mahogany furniture, its yellow velvet hangings, its moldy
ceiling through which the damp had soaked. Now from the very
threshold of the entrance hall mosaics set off with gold were
glittering under the lights of lofty candelabras, while the marble
staircase unfurled, as it were, a delicately chiseled balustrade.
Then, too, the drawing room looked splendid; it was hung with Genoa
velvet, and a huge decorative design by Boucher covered the ceiling,
a design for which the architect had paid a hundred thousand francs
at the sale of the Chateau de Dampierre. The lusters and the
crystal ornaments lit up a luxurious display of mirrors and precious
furniture. It seemed as though Sabine's long chair, that solitary
red silk chair, whose soft contours were so marked in the old days,
had grown and spread till it filled the whole great house with
voluptuous idleness and a sense of tense enjoyment not less fierce
and hot than a fire which has been long in burning up.
People were already dancing. The band, which had been located in
the garden, in front of one of the open windows, was playing a
waltz, the supple rhythm of which came softly into the house through
the intervening night air. And the garden seemed to spread away and
away, bathed in transparent shadow and lit by Venetian lamps, while
in a purple tent pitched on the edge of a lawn a table for
refreshments had been established. The waltz, which was none other
than the quaint, vulgar one in the Blonde Venus, with its laughing,
blackguard lilt, penetrated the old hotel with sonorous waves of
sound and sent a feverish thrill along its walls. It was as though
some fleshly wind had come up out of the common street and were
sweeping the relics of a vanished epoch out of the proud old
dwelling, bearing away the Muffats' past, the age of honor and
religious faith which had long slumbered beneath the lofty ceilings.
Meanwhile near the hearth, in their accustomed places, the old
friends of the count's mother were taking refuge. They felt out of
their element--they were dazzled and they formed a little group amid
the slowly invading mob. Mme du Joncquoy, unable to recognize the
various rooms, had come in through the dining saloon. Mme
Chantereau was gazing with a stupefied expression at the garden,
which struck her as immense. Presently there was a sound of low
voices, and the corner gave vent to all sorts of bitter reflections.
"I declare," murmured Mme Chantereau, "just fancy if the countess
were to return to life. Why, can you not imagine her coming in
among all these crowds of people! And then there's all this gilding
