Part 18

The moon had vanished, in an inky sky from which a freezing drizzle fell. Two o'clock struck at the Trinité. The Rue de Provence and the Rue Taitbout sank into darkness, with the bright spots of the gas jets, which drowned in the distance in a yellow haze. Muffat did not move. It was the bedroom; he remembered it, hung with red andrinople, with a Louis XIII bed at the back. The lamp must be to the right, on the mantelpiece. No doubt they were in bed, for not a shadow passed, the strip of light shone, motionless as the reflection of a night-light. And he, his eyes still raised, formed a plan: he would ring, he would go up despite the concierge's calls, burst the doors with his shoulder, fall upon them, in the bed, without giving them time to untwine their arms. For an instant, the thought that he had no weapon stopped him; then, he decided he would strangle them. He took up his plan again, perfected it, always waiting for something, a sign, to be certain. If a woman's shadow had appeared at that moment, he would have rung. But the thought that he might be mistaken froze him. What would he say? Doubts returned to him; his wife could not be in this man's house, it was monstrous and impossible. Yet he remained, gradually invaded by a numbness, slipping into a softness, in this long wait that the fixity of his gaze hallucinated.

A shower fell. Two city sergeants were approaching, and he had to leave the corner of the door where he had taken refuge. When they had lost themselves in the Rue de Provence, he came back, wet, shivering. The luminous strip still barred the window. This time, he was about to leave, when a shadow passed. It was so quick that he thought he had been mistaken. But, one after another, other patches ran, a whole agitation took place in the room. He, nailed again to the pavement, felt an intolerable burning sensation in his stomach, waiting now to understand. Profiles of arms and legs fled; an enormous hand traveled with the silhouette of a water jug. He distinguished nothing clearly; yet it seemed to him he recognized a woman's chignon. And he debated: it might have been Sabine's headdress, only the nape seemed too thick. At this hour, he no longer knew, he could no longer. His stomach made him suffer so much, in a dreadful anguish of uncertainty, that he pressed against the door, to calm himself, with the shivering of a poor wretch. Then, though he did not for all that turn his eyes from that window, his anger melted into a moralist's imagining: he saw himself a deputy, speaking to an Assembly, thundering against debauchery, announcing catastrophes; and he rewrote Fauchery's article on the poisoned fly, and staged himself, declaring that no society was possible any longer, with such Low-Empire morals. That did him good. But the shadows had disappeared. No doubt they had gone back to bed. He, still looking, waited again.

Three o'clock struck, then four o'clock. He could not leave. When showers fell, he sank into the corner of the door, his legs splashed. No one passed any more. At moments his eyes closed, as if burned by the strip of light, upon which they stubbornly fixed, fixedly, with an imbecilic obstinacy. On two further occasions, the shadows ran, repeating the same gestures, parading the same profile of a gigantic water jug; and twice calm was restored, the lamp cast its discreet night-light glow. These shadows increased his doubt. Besides, a sudden idea had just soothed him, putting off the hour of action: he had only to wait for the woman at her exit. He would recognize Sabine well enough. Nothing simpler, no scandal, and certainty. It sufficed to stay there. Of all the confused feelings that had agitated him, he now felt only a dull need to know. But boredom lulled him to sleep under that door; to distract himself, he tried to calculate the time he would have to wait. Sabine was to be at the station around nine o'clock. That gave him nearly four and a half hours. He was full of patience, he would not have stirred again, finding a charm in dreaming that his wait in the night would be eternal.

Suddenly, the strip of light faded. This very simple fact was for him an unexpected catastrophe, something unpleasant and troubling. Evidently they had just extinguished the lamp, they were going to sleep. At this hour, it was reasonable. But he grew irritated at it, because this black window, now, no longer interested him. He looked at it a quarter of an hour more, then it tired him, he left the door and took a few steps on the pavement. Until five o'clock, he walked, going and coming, raising his eyes from time to time. The window remained dead; at moments he asked himself if he had not dreamed that shadows danced there, on those panes. An immense fatigue overwhelmed him, a stupor in which he forgot what he was waiting for at that street corner, stumbling against the cobbles, waking with a start with the icy shiver of a man who no longer knows where he is. Nothing was worth the trouble one gave oneself. Since these people were sleeping, they must be left to sleep. What was the good of meddling in their affairs? It was very dark, no one would ever know these things. And then all in him, even his curiosity, departed, swept away in a wish to have done with it, to seek somewhere a relief. The cold increased, the street became unbearable to him; twice he moved away, came back dragging his feet, to move away further. It was over, there was nothing more, he went down as far as the boulevard and did not return.

It was a gloomy wandering through the streets. He walked slowly, always with the same step, following the walls. His heels rang, he saw only his shadow turn, growing large and shrinking, at each gas jet. That rocked him, occupied him mechanically. Later, never did he know where he had been; it seemed to him he had dragged himself for hours, in a circle, in an arena. A single memory remained with him, very clear. Without being able to explain how, he found himself face pressed to the grating of the Passage des Panoramas, holding the bars with both hands. He did not shake them, he simply tried to see into the passage, seized by an emotion with which all his heart was swollen. But he distinguished nothing, a flood of darkness flowed along the deserted gallery, the wind that rushed in by the Rue Saint-Marc blew upon his face a cellar dampness. And he persisted. Then, coming out of a dream, he remained astonished, he asked himself what he was seeking at that hour, pressed against that grating, with such passion that the bars had entered his face. Then, he had taken up his walk again, in despair, his heart filled with a final sadness, as though betrayed and alone henceforth in all that shadow.

Day at last broke, that dirty little daylight of winter nights, so melancholy upon the muddy pavement of Paris. Muffat had come back to the wide streets under construction that lined the building sites of the new Opéra. Soaked by the showers, broken up by the carts, the plastery ground was changed into a lake of mire. And, without looking where he set his feet, he walked on, slipping, catching himself. The waking of Paris, the gangs of sweepers and the first bands of workmen, brought him a new unease, as the day grew. They looked at him with surprise, his hat drowned in water, mud-splashed, wild-eyed. For a long time he took refuge against the hoardings, among the scaffolding. In his empty being, a single idea remained, that he was truly miserable.

Then he thought of God. This sudden idea of a divine help, of a superhuman consolation, surprised him, as something unexpected and singular; it awoke in him the image of M. Venot, he saw his little fat face, his decayed teeth. Certainly M. Venot, whom he had been distressing for months, by avoiding seeing him, would be very happy, if he went to knock at his door, to weep between his arms. Formerly, God kept all His mercies for him. At the least sorrow, at the least obstacle barring his life, he entered a church, knelt, humbled his nothingness before the sovereign power; and he came out strengthened by prayer, ready for the renunciations of the goods of this world, with the unique desire of the eternity of his salvation. But today he practiced only in fits and starts, at the hours when the terror of hell took him again; all sorts of softness had invaded him, Nana troubled his duties. And the idea of God astonished him. Why had he not thought of God at once, in this frightful crisis, where his weak humanity cracked and collapsed?

Yet, in his painful walking, he sought a church. He no longer remembered, the morning hour changed the streets for him. Then, as he turned a corner of the Rue de la Chaussée-d'Antin, he caught sight at the end of the Trinité, a vague tower, melted into the fog. The white statues, dominating the stripped garden, seemed to set shivering Venuses, among the yellowed leaves of a park. Under the porch, he breathed a moment, tired by the ascent of the wide flight of steps. Then he entered. The church was very cold, with its stove extinguished from the eve, its high vaults filled with a fine mist that had filtered through the stained glass. A shadow drowned the side aisles, not a soul was there, one heard only, at the back of that murky night, a slipper noise, some beadle dragging his feet in the sulkiness of waking. He, however, after bumping into a scattered heap of chairs, lost, his heart big with tears, had fallen to his knees against the grating of a small chapel, near a holy-water font. He had joined his hands, he sought prayers, all his being aspired to give itself in a surge. But his lips alone stammered words, always his mind fled, returned outside, set off again along the streets, without rest, as under the lash of an implacable necessity. And he repeated: 'O my God, come to my aid! O my God, do not abandon Your creature who abandons himself to Your justice! O my God, I adore You, will You let me perish beneath the blows of Your enemies!' Nothing answered, the shadow and the cold fell upon his shoulders, the noise of slippers, far off, continued and kept him from praying. He heard always only that irritating noise, in the deserted church, where the morning sweep was not even given, before the slight warming of the first masses. Then, aiding himself with a chair, he rose, with a cracking of the knees. God was not there yet. Why would he have wept between the arms of M. Venot? That man could do nothing.

And, mechanically, he went back to Nana's. Outside, having slipped, he felt tears come to his eyes, without anger against fate, simply weak and ill. At last, he was too weary, he had received too much rain, he suffered too much from the cold. The idea of returning to his dark hôtel in the Rue Miromesnil froze him. At Nana's, the door was not open, he had to wait for the concierge to appear. As he went up, he smiled, already penetrated by the soft warmth of that den, where he would be able to stretch himself and sleep.

When Zoé opened to him, she gave a gesture of stupor and unease. Madame, taken with an abominable migraine, had not closed an eye. At least, she could still see if madame had not fallen asleep. And she slipped into the bedroom, while he dropped into an armchair in the salon. But, almost at once, Nana appeared. She was leaping from the bed, she had barely had time to put on a petticoat, barefoot, hair astray, her chemise crumpled and torn, in the disorder of a night of love.

'What! it's you again!' she cried, all red.

She came running, under the lash of anger, to fling him herself to the door. But seeing him so wretched, so finished, she felt a last pity.

'Well! you're a sight, my poor dog!' she resumed with more softness. 'What is it then?... Eh? you watched them, you worked yourself up?'

He did not answer, he looked like a beaten beast. However, she understood that he still lacked proofs; and, to set him right:

'You see, I was mistaken. Your wife is honest, word of honor!... Now, my little one, you must go home and get to bed. You need it.'

He did not stir.

'Come, go away. I can't keep you here... You don't perhaps expect to stay, at this hour?'

'Yes, let's go to bed,' he stammered.

She repressed a gesture of violence. Patience was leaving her. Was he becoming an idiot?

'Come, go away,' she said a second time.

'No.'

Then she burst out, exasperated, revolted.

'But it's disgusting!... Understand then, I'm sick of you, go find your wife who makes a cuckold of you... Yes, she makes a cuckold of you; it's me telling you, now... There! have you had enough? will you finish by leaving me alone?'

Muffat's eyes filled with tears. He joined his hands.

'Let's go to bed.'

Thereupon Nana lost her head, herself strangled by nervous sobs. They were abusing her, at last! Did these stories concern her? Certainly, she had used all possible tact to instruct him, out of kindness. And they wanted to make her pay for the broken pots! No, indeed! She had a good heart, but not that good.

'Damned name! I've had enough!' she swore, hammering the furniture with her fist. 'Ah well! me who held myself in check, me who wanted to be faithful... But, my dear, tomorrow I'd be rich, if I said a word.'

He raised his head, surprised. Never had he thought of this question of money. If she testified a desire, at once he would fulfill it. His whole fortune was hers.

'No, it's too late,' she replied furiously. 'I love men who give without being asked... No, see, a million for a single time, I'd refuse. It's over, I have something else here... Go away, or I answer for nothing more. I'd make a scandal.'

She advanced toward him, threatening. And, in this exasperation of a good girl pushed to the limit, convinced of her right and her superiority over the honest folk who were crushing her, suddenly the door opened and Steiner presented himself. That was the last straw. She gave a terrible exclamation.

'Well! there's the other!'

Steiner, dumbfounded by the loudness of her voice, had stopped. The unforeseen presence of Muffat embarrassed him, for he feared an explanation, before which he had recoiled for three months. His blinking eyes, he swayed with an embarrassed air, avoiding looking at the count. And he puffed, with the red and decomposed face of a man who has run all over Paris to bring good news, and who feels himself falling into a catastrophe.

'What do you want, you?' Nana asked roughly, using the familiar 'tu', mocking the count.

'Me... me...' he stammered. 'I have to give you what you know.'

'What?'

He hesitated. The day before yesterday, she had signified that, if he did not find her a thousand francs, to pay a bill, she would receive him no more. For two days he had beaten the pavement. At last, he had just completed the sum, that very morning.

'The thousand francs,' he finished by saying, drawing an envelope from his pocket.

Nana had forgotten.

'The thousand francs!' she cried. 'Do I ask for charity?... Here! that's what I think of your thousand francs!'

And, taking the envelope, she threw it in his face. As a prudent Jew, he picked it up, painfully. He looked at the young woman, stupefied. Muffat exchanged with him a glance of despair, while she put her fists on her hips to cry louder.

'Ah! now, have you finished insulting me soon!... You, my dear, I'm glad you came too, because, see, the sweeping is going to be complete... Come, hop! outside.'

Then, as they did not hurry, paralyzed:

'Eh? you say I'm making a fool of myself? Maybe! But you've bored me too much!... And the hell with it! I've had enough of being nice! If I die of it, it's my pleasure.'

They wanted to calm her, they begged her.

'One, two, you refuse to leave?... Well! see this. I have company.'

With a brusque gesture, she opened wide the bedroom door. Then, the two men, in the midst of the disordered bed, caught sight of Fontan. He did not expect to be shown thus, and he had his legs in the air, his shirt flying, sprawled like a he-goat amid the crumpled laces, with his black skin. Besides, he was not troubled, accustomed to the surprises of the boards. After the first start of amazement, he found a play of features to get out of it with honor, he made the rabbit as he said, advancing his mouth, wrinkling his nose, in a movement of the whole muzzle. His rogue faun's head sweated vice. It was Fontan whom, for a week, Nana had been fetching from the Variétés, seized with the raging fancy of girls for the grimacing ugliness of comics.

'There!' she said, showing him, with a tragedienne's gesture.

Muffat, who had accepted everything, rebelled under this affront.

'Whore!' he stammered.

But Nana, already in the bedroom, came back, to have the last word.

'What, whore! And your wife?'

And, going off, slamming the door, she noisily shot the bolt. The two men, left alone, looked at each other in silence. Zoé had just come in. But she did not hustle them, she spoke to them very reasonably. As a sensible person, she found madame's foolishness a bit strong. Yet she defended her: it wouldn't last with that ham actor, one had to let this fit of rage pass. The two men withdrew. They had not said a word. On the pavement, moved by a brotherhood, they gave each other a silent handshake; and, turning their backs, they moved away, dragging the leg, each his own way.

When Muffat at last returned to his hôtel in the Rue Miromesnil, his wife was just arriving. The two met on the vast staircase, whose dark walls let fall an icy shiver. They raised their eyes and saw each other. The count still had his muddy clothes, his frightened pallor of a man who returns from vice. The countess, as though broken by a night on the train, slept standing, badly combed and with bruised eyelids.

VIII

It was in the Rue Véron, at Montmartre, in a small lodging, on the fourth floor. Nana and Fontan had invited some friends to draw the Kings' cake. They were hanging the housewarming, installed only three days.

It had been done suddenly, without any settled idea of setting up together, in the first fire of their honeymoon. The day after her fine outburst, when she had so squarely flung the count and the banker to the door, Nana felt everything crumble around her. At a glance she judged the situation: the creditors were going to fall into her anteroom, meddle in her love affairs, talk of selling everything, if she was not reasonable; there would be quarrels, headaches without end, to dispute her four sticks of furniture with them. And she preferred to drop it all. Besides, the apartment on the Boulevard Haussmann crushed her. It was stupid, with its great gilded rooms. In her fit of tenderness for Fontan, she dreamed of a pretty little bright room, returning to her former ideal of a florist, when she saw no further than a rosewood wardrobe with a mirror and a bed hung with blue rep. In two days, she sold what she could get out, knickknacks, jewels, and disappeared with some ten thousand francs, without saying a word to the concierge; a plunge, a flit, not a trace. That way, the men would not come hang on her skirts. Fontan was very nice. He did not say no, he let her do it. Even he acted quite as a good comrade. On his side, he had near seven thousand francs, which he consented to join to the young woman's ten thousand, though he was accused of stinginess. That seemed to them a solid household fund. And they started from there, both drawing on their pooled hoards, renting and furnishing the two rooms in the Rue Véron, sharing everything as old friends. At the start, it was truly delicious.

On the eve of the Kings, Madame Lerat arrived first with Louiset. As Fontan had not come in, she permitted herself to express fears, for she trembled to see her niece renounce fortune.

'Oh! aunt, I love him so much!' cried Nana, clasping her two hands prettily on her breast.

This word produced an extraordinary effect on Madame Lerat. Her eyes grew moist.

'That, that's true,' she said with conviction, 'love above all.'

And she exclaimed at the niceness of the rooms. Nana made her visit the bedroom, the dining room, even the kitchen. Lord! it was not immense, but they had redone the paint, changed the papers; and the sun entered there gaily.

Then Madame Lerat kept the young woman in the bedroom, while Louiset installed himself in the kitchen, behind the charwoman, to watch a chicken roast. If she permitted herself remarks, it was that Zoé was out of her place. Zoé, bravely, remained at her post, out of devotion to madame. Later, madame would pay her; she was not worried. And, in the debacle of the Boulevard Haussmann apartment, she held her own against the creditors, she effected a dignified retreat, saving wreckage, answering that madame was traveling, never giving an address. Even, for fear of being followed, she deprived herself of the pleasure of visiting madame. However, that morning, she had run to Madame Lerat's, because something new was afoot. The day before, creditors had presented themselves, the upholsterer, the coal merchant, the linen draper, offering time, even proposing to advance a very large sum to madame, if madame would return to her apartment and behave as an intelligent person. The aunt repeated Zoé's words. There was no doubt a gentleman underneath.

'Never!' declared Nana, revolted. 'Well! they're clean, the suppliers! Do they think I'm for sale, to settle their accounts!... See, I'd rather die of hunger than cheat Fontan.'

'That's what I answered,' said Madame Lerat; 'my niece has too much heart.'

Nana, however, was very annoyed to learn that the Mignotte was being sold and that Labordette was buying it at a ridiculous price, for Caroline Héquet. That put her in a rage against that clique, true trash, despite their pose. Ah! yes, indeed, she was worth more than all of them!

'They can mock,' she concluded, 'money will never give them true happiness... And then, see, aunt, I don't even know if all that world exists any more. I'm too happy.'

Just then Madame Maloir entered, with one of those strange hats, of which she alone found the shape. It was a joy to meet again. Madame Maloir explained that grandeur intimidated her; now, from time to time, she would come back to play her bezique. They visited the lodging a second time; and, in the kitchen, before the charwoman who basted the chicken, Nana spoke of economies, said a maid would have cost too much and that she herself wanted to look after her home. Louiset looked stupidly at the roasting pan.

But there was an outburst of voices. It was Fontan, with Bosc and Prullière. They could sit down to table. The soup was already served, when Nana, for the third time, showed the lodging.

'Ah! children, how well you are here!' repeated Bosc, simply to please the comrades who paid for dinner, for at bottom the question of 'the den', as he called it, did not touch him.

“Stories of the world, in your language.”