Part 10

-- Oh! you don't know? she said, turning back to Steiner, you are going to take me to the Bois de Boulogne, and we will drink some milk.

A childlike joy made her clap her hands. Without waiting for the banker's reply, who naturally consented, bored at heart and dreaming of something else, she ran to throw a pelisse over her shoulders. In the salon, there were no longer, with Steiner, any but the band of young men; but, having drained the piano to the bottom of the glasses, they were talking of leaving, when one of them came running triumphantly, holding in his hand a last bottle, which he was bringing back from the pantry.

-- Wait! wait! he cried, a bottle of chartreuse!... There, he needed chartreuse; that will set him right... And now, my children, let's bolt. We are idiots.

In the dressing room, Nana had to wake Zoé, who had dozed off on a chair. The gas was burning. Zoé shivered, helped madame put on her hat and pelisse.

-- At last, that's done, I did what you wanted, said Nana, who used the familiar tu with her, in a burst of expansiveness, relieved at having taken a course. You were right, the banker is as good as another.

The maid was sulky, still drowsy. She grumbled that madame should have decided the first evening. Then, as she followed her into the bedroom, she asked what she should do with those two. Bordenave was still snoring. Georges, who had come slyly to bury his head in a pillow, had ended by falling asleep there, with his light breath of a cherub. Nana answered that they should be left to sleep. But she softened again, on seeing Daguenet come in; he had been watching for her from the kitchen, he looked very sad.

-- Come now, my Mimi, be reasonable, said she, taking him in her arms, kissing him with all sorts of caresses. Nothing is changed, you know it is always my Mimi that I adore... Isn't it so? it had to be... I swear to you, it will be even nicer. Come tomorrow, we will settle the hours... Quick, kiss me as you love me... Oh! harder, harder than that!

And she escaped, she rejoined Steiner, happy, seized again by her idea of drinking milk. In the empty apartment, Count de Vandeuvres remained alone with the decorated man who had recited the Sacrifice of Abraham, both nailed to the gaming table, no longer knowing where they were, not seeing the full daylight; while Blanche had taken it upon herself to lie down on a sofa, to try to sleep.

-- Ah! Blanche is in on it! cried Nana. We are going to drink milk, my dear... Do come, you will find Vandeuvres here.

Blanche rose lazily. This time, the congested face of the banker paled with annoyance, at the idea of taking along that stout girl who would be in his way. But the two women already held him, repeating:

-- You know, we want it drawn in front of us.

V

They were giving, at the Variétés, the thirty-fourth performance of the Blonde Venus. The first act had just finished. In the artists' foyer, Simonne, as a little washerwoman, was standing before the console surmounted by a mirror, between the two corner doors, opening at a chamfered angle onto the corridor of the dressing rooms. All alone, she studied herself and passed a finger under her eyes, to correct her makeup; while gas jets, on either side of the mirror, warmed her with a crude burst of light.

-- Has he arrived? asked Prullière, who came in, in his costume of Swiss Admiral, with his great sabre, his enormous boots, his immense plume.

-- Who? said Simonne without stirring, laughing at the mirror, to see her lips.

-- The prince.

-- I don't know, I'm going down... Ah! he must be coming. He comes every day, doesn't he!

Prullière had approached the fireplace, which faced the console, and where a coke fire was burning; two other gas jets flamed there, broadly. He raised his eyes, looked at the clock and the barometer, to left and right, which were accompanied by gilded sphinxes, Empire style. Then, he stretched out in a vast winged armchair, whose green velvet, worn by four generations of actors, had taken on yellow tones; and he remained there, motionless, eyes vague, in the weary and resigned attitude of artists accustomed to waiting for their entrance.

Old Bosc had just appeared in his turn, dragging his feet, coughing, wrapped in an old yellow carrick, one flap of which, slipped from a shoulder, left visible the gold-laced jacket of King Dagobert. For an instant, after having set his crown upon the piano, without saying a word, he shuffled about, sulky, looking a good fellow nevertheless, with his hands which a beginning of alcoholism agitated; while a long white beard gave a venerable aspect to his face, inflamed by drink. Then, in the silence, as a sudden shower lashed the panes of the large square window, which opened onto the courtyard, he made a disgusted gesture.

-- What beastly weather! he grumbled.

Simonne and Prullière did not move. Four or five pictures, landscapes, a portrait of the actor Vernet, yellowed in the heat of the gas. Upon a column shaft, a bust of Potier, one of the former glories of the Variétés, looked on with empty eyes. But there was a burst of voice. It was Fontan, in his second-act costume, as a dandy, all dressed in yellow, gloved in yellow.

-- I say! he cried, gesticulating, you don't know? it's my name day, today.

-- Well! asked Simonne, who approached with a smile, as if attracted by his great nose and his widely split comic mouth, so your name is Achille?

-- Exactly!... And I'm going to have madame Bron send up some champagne, after the second.

For some moments, a bell had been tinkling in the distance. The prolonged sound weakened, then returned; and, when the bell had ceased, a cry ran, went up and down the stairs, was lost in the corridors: "On stage for the second!... On stage for the second!..." This cry drew near, a small pallid man passed before the foyer doors, where he threw with all the power of his shrill voice: "On stage for the second!"

-- Zounds! champagne! said Prullière, without seeming to have heard this uproar, you're doing well!

-- Me, in your place, I'd have it brought from the café, declared slowly old Bosc, who had seated himself on a green velvet bench, head leaning against the wall.

But Simonne said one must respect madame Bron's small profits. She clapped her hands, flushed, devouring Fontan with her eyes, whose goat-snout mask moved, in a continual play of eyes, nose and mouth.

-- Oh! that Fontan! she murmured, there is none but him, there is none but him!

The two foyer doors remained wide open onto the corridor leading to the wings. Along the yellow wall, vividly lit by a gas lantern that was not seen, rapid silhouettes flitted, costumed men, half-naked women, wrapped in shawls, all the supers of the second act, the ragamuffins of the Black Ball dance-hall; and one heard, at the end of the corridor, the tumble of feet stamping the five wooden steps that descended to the stage. As big Clarisse passed running, Simonne called her; but she answered she would come right back. And she reappeared almost at once indeed, shivering under the thin tunic and sash of Iris.

-- Good Lord! she said, it isn't warm; and me who left my fur in my dressing room!

Then, standing before the fireplace, grilling her legs, whose tights shimmered bright pink, she resumed:

-- The prince has arrived.

-- Ah! cried the others curiously.

-- Yes, I was running for that, I wanted to see... He is in the first right stage box, the same as Thursday. Eh? that's the third time he's come in a week. Hasn't that Nana luck!... Me, I bet he wouldn't come again.

Simonne opened her mouth. But her words were drowned by a new cry, which burst near the foyer. The sharp voice of the call-boy launched into the corridor, at full cry: "It's struck!"

-- That begins to be pretty, three times, said Simonne, when she could speak. You know he doesn't want to go to her place; he's taking her to his. And it seems it costs him plenty.

-- Of course! when you go into high society! murmured spitefully Prullière, rising to throw a glance of a handsome man adored in the dressing rooms into the mirror.

-- It's struck! it's struck! repeated the voice of the call-boy, ever more lost, running the floors and corridors.

Then, Fontan, who knew how it had happened the first time between the prince and Nana, told the story to the two women pressed against him, laughing very loud, when he bent down, to give certain details. Old Bosc had not moved, full of indifference. Those machines no longer interested him. He was stroking a big red cat, lying curled on the bench, beatifically; and he ended by taking it in his arms, with the tender good-nature of a dotard king. The cat arched its back; then, after having long sniffed the great white beard, repelled no doubt by the smell of paste, it went back to sleep curled on the bench. Bosc remained grave and absorbed.

-- It doesn't matter, me, in your place, I'd take the champagne at the café, it's better, he said suddenly to Fontan, as the latter finished his story.

-- It's begun! threw the long and torn voice of the call-boy. It's begun! it's begun!

The cry rolled an instant. A noise of rapid steps had run. By the abruptly opened corridor door, there came a gust of music, a distant murmur; and the door fell back, one heard the dull thud of the padded leaf.

Again, a heavy peace reigned in the artists' foyer, as if a hundred leagues from that hall, where a whole crowd applauded. Simonne and Clarisse were still on Nana. There was one who wasn't in any hurry! The evening before she had missed her entrance. But all fell silent, a tall girl had thrust her head, then, seeing she was mistaken, had slipped to the back of the corridor. It was Satin, with a hat and a veil, putting on the airs of a lady visiting. A pretty slut! murmured Prullière, who had met her for a year at the Variétés café. And Simonne told how Nana, having recognized Satin, an old school friend, had taken a fancy to her and was nagging Bordenave to have her debut.

-- Well! good evening, said Fontan, shaking hands with Mignon and Fauchery who entered.

Old Bosc himself held out his fingers, while the two women embraced Mignon.

-- A fine house tonight? asked Fauchery.

-- Oh! superb! answered Prullière. You should see how they swallow it!

-- I say, children, remarked Mignon, that must be your cue.

Yes, in a moment. They were only in the fourth scene. Alone, Bosc rose with the instinct of the old boards-burner who feels his line coming. Just then, the call-boy appeared at the door.

-- Monsieur Bosc! mademoiselle Simonne! he called.

Quickly, Simonne threw a furred pelisse over her shoulders and went out. Bosc, without hurrying, went to fetch his crown, which he set on his brow, with a slap; then, dragging his mantle, unsteady on his legs, he went off, grumbling, with the angry air of a man being disturbed.

-- You were very kind in your last chronicle, resumed Fontan, addressing Fauchery. Only, why do you say that actors are vain?

-- Yes, my little one, why do you say that? cried Mignon, who brought his enormous hands down on the slight shoulders of the journalist, whose waist bent.

Prullière and Clarisse suppressed a burst of laughter. For some time, the whole theatre had been amusing itself with a comedy played in the wings. Mignon, furious at his wife's caprice, vexed to see this Fauchery bring to the household only a questionable publicity, had imagined taking revenge by overwhelming him with marks of friendship; each evening, when he met him on stage, he stuffed him with blows, as carried away by an excess of tenderness; and Fauchery, frail beside this colossus, had to accept the slaps smiling with a constrained air, so as not to quarrel with Rose's husband.

-- Ah! my lad, you insult Fontan! resumed Mignon, pushing the farce. On guard! One, two, and wham in the chest!

He had lunged, he had delivered such a kick to the young man, that the latter remained an instant very pale, his speech cut off. But, with a blink of the eyelid, Clarisse showed the others Rose Mignon, standing on the threshold of the foyer. Rose had seen the scene. She walked straight toward the journalist, as if she did not perceive her husband; and, rising on tiptoe, bare-armed, in her Bébé costume, she presented her forehead, with a pouting air of childish caress.

-- Good evening, baby, said Fauchery, who, familiarly, kissed her.

Those were his compensations. Mignon did not even seem to notice this kiss; everybody kissed his wife at the theatre. But he laughed, throwing a thin glance at the journalist; surely the latter was going to pay dearly for Rose's bravado.

In the corridor, the padded door opened and fell back, blowing as far as the foyer a storm of applause. Simonne was returning after her scene.

-- Oh! old Bosc made an effect! she cried. The prince was wriggling with laughter, and he applauded with the others, as if they'd paid him... I say, do you know the tall gentleman who is next to the prince, in the box? A handsome man, very dignified air, superb side-whiskers.

-- It is Count Muffat, answered Fauchery. I know that the prince, day before yesterday, at the empress's, had invited him to dinner for tonight... He must have debauched him afterward.

-- Well! Count Muffat, we know his father-in-law, don't we, Auguste? said Rose, addressing Mignon. You know, the Marquis de Chouard, at whose house I went to sing?... Just so, he is also in the house. I caught sight of him at the back of a box. There's an old one...

Prullière, who had just put on his immense plume, turned round, to call her.

-- Eh! Rose, let's go.

She followed him running, without finishing her sentence. At that moment, the theatre concierge, madame Bron, passed before the door, with an enormous bouquet between her arms. Simonne asked playfully if it was for her; but the concierge, without answering, designated with her chin Nana's dressing room, at the back of the corridor. That Nana! they covered her with flowers. Then, as madame Bron came back, she handed a letter to Clarisse, who let escape a stifled oath. Again that bore La Faloise! there was a man who wouldn't let her go! And when she learned that the gentleman was waiting, at the concierge's, she cried:

-- Tell him I'm coming down after the act... I'm going to slap my hand in his face.

Fontan had precipitated himself, repeating:

-- Madame Bron, listen... Do listen, madame Bron... Send up six bottles of champagne at the interval.

But the call-boy had reappeared, out of breath, singing voice.

-- Everybody on stage!... You, Monsieur Fontan! Hurry! hurry!

-- Yes, yes, we're going, father Barillot, answered Fontan, dazed. And, running behind madame Bron, he resumed:

-- Eh? it's understood, six bottles of champagne, in the foyer, at the interval... It's my name day, it's me who pays...

Simonne and Clarisse had gone off, with a great noise of skirts. All engulfed itself; and, when the corridor door had fallen back dully, one heard, in the silence of the foyer, a new shower beating the window. Barillot, a small pallid old man, stagehand for thirty years, had familiarly approached Mignon, presenting his open snuffbox. This pinch offered and accepted gave him a minute of rest, in his continual runs through the stairs and dressing-room corridors. There was still madame Nana, as he named her; but that one did only as she pleased and didn't give a damn for fines; when she wanted to miss her entrance, she missed it. He stopped, astonished, murmuring:

-- Well! she is ready, here she comes... She must know the prince has arrived.

Nana, indeed, appeared in the corridor, dressed as a Fishwife, arms and face white, with two pink patches under the eyes. She did not enter, she simply sent a nod to Mignon and Fauchery.

-- Good day, all well?

Mignon alone shook the hand she held out. And Nana continued on her way, royally, followed by her dresser who, while stepping on her heels, bent to arrange the folds of her skirt. Then, behind the dresser, closing the procession, came Satin, trying to have a proper air and already bored to death.

-- And Steiner? asked Mignon abruptly.

-- Monsieur Steiner left yesterday for the Loiret, said Barillot, who was returning to the stage. I believe he is going to buy an estate there...

-- Ah! yes, I know, Nana's estate.

Mignon had become grave. That Steiner who had once promised Rose a hotel! Finally, one must quarrel with no one, it was an occasion to recover. Taken with reverie, but always superior, Mignon walked from the fireplace to the console. There were no longer but he and Fauchery in the foyer. The journalist, tired, had just stretched out at the back of the great armchair; and he remained very still, eyelids half-closed, under the glances the other threw as he passed. When they were alone, Mignon disdained to stuff him with slaps; what was the use? since no one would enjoy the scene. He was too disinterested to amuse himself with his joking-husband farces. Fauchery, happy at this respite of some minutes, languidly stretched his feet before the fire, eyes in the air, travelling from the barometer to the clock. In his walk, Mignon planted himself before the bust of Potier, looked at it without seeing it, then returned before the window, where the dark hole of the courtyard hollowed out. The rain had ceased, a deep silence had formed, still weighted by the heavy heat of the coke and the flaring of the gas jets. Not a sound rose from the wings. The staircase and corridors seemed dead. It was one of those stifled end-of-act peaces, when the whole troupe lifts on stage the deafening uproar of some finale, while the empty foyer falls asleep in a buzzing of asphyxia.

-- Ah! the camels! suddenly cried the hoarse voice of Bordenave.

He was only just arriving, and was already bawling against two supers, who had nearly sprawled on stage, because they were playing the fools. When he caught sight of Mignon and Fauchery, he called them, to show them something: the prince had just asked to compliment Nana in her dressing room, during the interval. But, as he was taking them onto the stage, the stage manager passed.

-- Slap a fine on those hussies Fernande and Maria! said Bordenave furiously.

Then, calming himself, trying to catch a dignity of noble father, after passing his handkerchief over his face, he added:

-- I am going to receive His Highness.

The curtain fell, amid a prolonged volley of applause. At once, there was a scatter, in the half-darkness of the stage, which the footlights no longer lit; the actors and supers hurried to regain their dressing rooms, while the machinists rapidly removed the set. However, Simonne and Clarisse had remained at the back, talking in low voices. On stage, between two of their lines, they had just arranged an affair. Clarisse, all well examined, preferred not to see La Faloise, who no longer decided to leave her to set up with Gaga. Simonne would simply go explain to him that one didn't stick to a woman that way. Finally, she would execute him.

Then, Simonne, in opera-comique washerwoman, shoulders covered with her fur, descended the narrow winding stair, with greasy steps, damp walls, which led to the concierge's lodge. This lodge, placed between the artists' stair and the administration stair, closed right and left by wide glazed partitions, was like a great transparent lantern, where two gas flames burned violently. In a rack, letters, newspapers piled up. On the table, there were bouquets of flowers, which waited next to forgotten dirty plates and an old bodice whose buttonholes the concierge was redoing. And, in the midst of this disorder of a poorly kept attic, gentlemen of the world, gloved, correct, occupied the four old straw chairs, patient and submissive air, turning the head briskly, each time madame Bron came back down from the theatre with answers. She had just given a letter to a young man, who had hastened to open it in the vestibule, under the gas jet, and who had slightly paled, on finding this classic phrase, read so many times in this place: "Impossible this evening, my dear, I am taken." La Faloise was on one of the chairs, at the back, between the table and the stove; he seemed decided to spend the evening there, uneasy nevertheless, drawing in his long legs, because a whole litter of little black cats were worrying around him, while the cat, seated on her haunches, looked at him fixedly with her yellow eyes.

-- Well, it's you, mademoiselle Simonne, what do you want then? asked the concierge.

Simonne begged her to turn out La Faloise. But madame Bron could not satisfy her at once. She kept under the stair, in a sort of deep cupboard, a buffet where the supers went down to drink during the intervals; and as she had there five or six great devils, still dressed as ragamuffins of the Black Ball, dying of thirst and in a hurry, she lost her head a little. A gas flamed in the cupboard; one saw there a table covered with a sheet of tin and boards furnished with opened bottles. When one opened the door of this coal-hole, a violent breath of alcohol came out, which mixed with the smell of grease from the lodge and the penetrating perfume of the bouquets left on the table.

-- So, resumed the concierge when she had served the supers, it's that little dark one over there, that you want?

-- But no, none of that nonsense! said Simonne. It's the thin one, next to the stove, the one whose trousers your cat is smelling.

And she took La Faloise into the vestibule, while the other gentlemen resigned themselves, suffocating, seized by the throat, and the ragamuffins drank along the stair steps, giving each other slaps, with the husky gaieties of drunkards.

Above, on the stage, Bordenave was flying into a passion against the machinists, who never finished removing the set. It was done on purpose, the prince was going to receive some beam on the head.

-- Push! Push! cried the head of the crew.

Finally, the backdrop rose, the stage was clear. Mignon, who was watching Fauchery, seized the occasion to begin his buffets again. He seized him in his great arms, crying:

-- Do take care! that mast nearly crushed you.

And he carried him off, and he shook him, before setting him down on the ground. Before the exaggerated laughs of the machinists, Fauchery grew pale; his lips trembled, he was on the point of rebelling, while Mignon made himself a good fellow, giving him on the shoulder affectionate slaps to break him in two, repeating:

-- It's that I care about your health, me!... Zounds! I'd be fine looking, if any misfortune happened to you!

“Stories of the world, in your language.”