Part 31

The doctor was a handsome man, still young, who had a splendid clientele in the demimonde. Very merry, laughing like a comrade with the ladies, but never sleeping with them, he had himself paid handsomely and with the utmost punctuality. Besides, he would turn out for the slightest call; Nana would send for him two or three times a week, always trembling at the thought of death, confiding to him with anxiety childish little ailments which he cured by amusing her with gossip and wild stories. All these ladies adored him. But this time the ailment was serious.

Muffat withdrew, much moved. He felt nothing now but tenderness at seeing his poor Nana so weak. As he was leaving, she called him back with a gesture, she held out her forehead; and, in a low voice, with an air of playful menace:

-- You know what I've allowed you... Go back to your wife, or no more of anything, I'll get angry!

Countess Sabine had wished her daughter's marriage contract to be signed on a Tuesday, to inaugurate with a party the restored mansion, where the paint was scarcely dry. Five hundred invitations had been sent out, somewhat into every circle. That very morning the upholsterers were still nailing hangings; and, at the moment of lighting the chandeliers, toward nine o'clock, the architect, accompanied by the countess, who was enthusiastic, was giving the final orders.

It was one of those spring parties, of so tender a charm. The warm evenings of June had allowed the two doors of the grand salon to be opened and the ball to be prolonged onto the garden gravel. When the first guests arrived, received at the door by the count and countess, they were dazzled. One had to recall the salon of former days, where passed the icy memory of Countess Muffat, that antique room, full of devout severity, with its solid mahogany Empire furniture, its yellow velvet hangings, its greenish, damp-soaked ceiling. Now, from the entrance, in the vestibule, mosaics heightened with gold shimmered beneath tall candelabra, while the marble staircase unrolled its finely chiseled banister. Then the salon blazed, draped in Genoa velvet, hung at the ceiling with a vast decoration by Boucher, which the architect had paid a hundred thousand francs for, at the sale of the château de Dampierre. The chandeliers, the crystal wall sconces lit there a luxury of mirrors and precious furniture. It seemed that Sabine's chaise longue, that single seat of red silk, whose softness had once astonished, had multiplied, widened, until it filled the whole mansion with a voluptuous laziness, an acute enjoyment, which burned with the violence of late fires.

Already they were dancing. The orchestra, placed in the garden, before one of the open windows, was playing a waltz, whose supple rhythm arrived softened, wafted into the open air. And the garden widened, in a transparent shadow, lit by Venetian lanterns, with a tent of purple planted on the edge of a lawn, where a buffet was installed. This waltz, precisely the roguish waltz of the *Blonde Venus*, which had the laugh of a dirty joke, penetrated the old mansion with a sonorous wave, a shiver heating the walls. It seemed as though it were some fleshly wind, come from the street, sweeping away a whole dead age in the haughty dwelling, carrying off the past of the Muffats, a century of honor and faith asleep beneath the ceilings.

Meanwhile, near the fireplace, in their habitual places, the old friends of the count's mother took refuge, disoriented, dazzled. They formed a small group, in the midst of the gradually invading crowd. Madame Du Joncquoy, no longer recognizing the rooms, had crossed the dining room. Madame Chantereau looked with a stupefied air at the garden, which seemed immense to her. Soon, in low voices, from this corner came all sorts of bitter reflections.

-- I say, murmured Madame Chantereau, if the countess were to come back... Eh? Can you picture her entrance, in the middle of this company. And all this gold, and this noise... It's scandalous!

-- Sabine is mad, answered Madame Du Joncquoy. Have you seen her at the door? Look, you can see her from here... She has all her diamonds on.

For an instant they rose to examine the countess and count from afar. Sabine, in a white gown trimmed with a marvelous point d'Angleterre, was triumphant in beauty, young, gay, with a touch of intoxication in her continual smile. Near her, Muffat, aged, a little pale, smiled too, with his calm and dignified air.

-- And to think he was the master, resumed Madame Chantereau, that not a little bench would have come in without his permission!... Ah well! she has changed that, he is hers now, at this hour... Do you remember, when she wouldn't redo her salon? It's the whole mansion she has redone.

But they fell silent, Madame de Chezelles was entering, followed by a band of young gentlemen, rhapsodizing, approving with light exclamations.

-- Oh! delicious!... exquisite!... it's in such good taste!

And she threw to them from afar:

-- What did I tell you! There's nothing like these old hovels, once they're fixed up... It takes on such style! Doesn't it? quite grand siècle... At last, she can receive.

The two old ladies had sat down again, lowering their voices, talking of the marriage, which astonished many people. Estelle had just passed, in a pink silk dress, still thin and flat, with her silent face of a virgin. She had accepted Daguenet calmly; she showed neither joy nor sadness, as cold, as white as the winter evenings when she put logs on the fire. All this party given for her, these lights, these flowers, this music, left her without an emotion.

-- An adventurer, said Madame Du Joncquoy. I, for my part, have never seen him.

-- Take care, here he comes, murmured Madame Chantereau.

Daguenet, who had caught sight of Madame Hugon with her sons, had hastened to offer her his arm; and he laughed, he testified to her a burst of tenderness, as if she had worked in some part for his stroke of fortune.

-- I thank you, she said, sitting near the fireplace. You see, this is my old corner.

-- Do you know him? asked Madame Du Joncquoy, when Daguenet had gone.

-- Certainly, a charming young man. Georges loves him very much... Oh! a most honorable family.

And the good lady defended him against a sullen hostility she felt. His father, much esteemed by Louis-Philippe, had held a prefecture until his death. He himself had perhaps sown a few wild oats. He was said to be ruined. In any case, one of his uncles, a great landowner, was to leave him his fortune. But these ladies shook their heads, while Madame Hugon, herself ill at ease, kept coming back to the respectability of the family. She was very tired, she complained of her legs. For a month she had been living in her house on the rue Richelieu, on account of a heap of business, she said. A shadow of sadness veiled her maternal smile.

-- All the same, concluded Madame Chantereau, Estelle could have aspired to much better.

There was a fanfare. It was a quadrille, the company flowed back to the two sides of the salon, to leave the space free. Light dresses passed, mingled, amid the dark patches of the men's clothes; while the great light put, on the swell of the heads, flashes of jewels, a trembling of white feathers, a flowering of lilac and roses. It was already warm, a penetrating perfume rose from these light tulles, these crumplings of satin and silk, where the naked shoulders paled, beneath the bright notes of the orchestra. Through the open doors, at the back of the neighboring rooms, one saw rows of seated women, with the discreet glow of their smile, a gleam of the eyes, a pout of the mouth, stirred by the breath of fans. And guests kept arriving, a footman flung out names, while, slowly, amid the groups, gentlemen tried to place ladies, embarrassed on their arms, rising on tiptoe, seeking a free chair from afar. But the mansion filled up, the skirts packed together with a little noise, there were corners where a spread of lace, of bows, of puffed trimmings blocked the passage, in the polite resignation of all, accustomed to these dazzling crowds, keeping their grace. Meanwhile, at the back of the garden, beneath the rosy glow of the Venetian lanterns, couples sank in, escaped from the stuffiness of the grand salon, shadows of dresses slid along the edge of the lawn, as if rhythmized by the music of the quadrille, which took, behind the trees, a distant softness.

Steiner had just met there Foucarmont and La Faloise, drinking a glass of champagne, before the buffet.

-- It's rotten with style, said La Faloise, examining the purple tent, held up on gilded lances. You'd think you were at the gingerbread fair... Eh? that's it! the gingerbread fair!

Now he affected a continual jesting, posing as the young man who had abused of everything and found nothing more worthy of being taken seriously.

-- That's poor Vandeuvres who would be surprised, if he came back, murmured Foucarmont. You remember, when he was dying of boredom there, in front of the fireplace. Good Lord! you couldn't have laughed.

-- Vandeuvres, leave him be, a failure! resumed La Faloise disdainfully. There's one who put his finger in his eye, if he thought he'd bowl us over with his roasting! Nobody even talks about it anymore. Shaved, finished, buried, Vandeuvres! To someone else!

Then, as Steiner shook their hands:

-- You know, Nana has just arrived... Oh! an entrance, my boys! something pharamineux!... First, she kissed the countess. Then, when the children came up, she blessed them, saying to Daguenet: 'Listen, Paul, if you give her any tails, it's me you'll have to deal with...' What! you didn't see that! Oh! such style! such a success!

The other two listened, mouths agape. At last they began to laugh. He, enchanted, thought himself very clever.

-- Eh? you thought it had happened... Well! since it's Nana who made the marriage. Besides, she's family.

The Hugon sons were passing, Philippe made him shut up. Then, among men, they talked of the marriage. Georges got angry with La Faloise, who was telling the story. Nana had indeed stuck one of her old flames on Muffat as a son-in-law; only, it was false that, the evening before, she had still slept with Daguenet. Foucarmont permitted himself to shrug his shoulders. Did one ever know when Nana slept with someone? But Georges, carried away, answered with a 'I, sir, I know!' which set them all laughing. At last, as Steiner said, it always made a queer stew.

Little by little, they invaded the buffet. They gave up the place, without leaving one another. La Faloise looked at the women shamelessly, as if he thought himself at Mabille. At the end of an alley, it was a surprise, the band found M. Venot in deep conference with Daguenet; and easy jokes cheered them, he was confessing him, he was giving him advice for the first night. Then, they came back before one of the salon doors, where a polka was carrying off couples, in a swaying that left a wake amid the men left standing. Beneath the breaths come from outside, the candles burned very high. When a dress passed, with the light clackings of the cadence, it refreshed with a little gust of wind the brazier-like heat falling from the chandeliers.

-- Good Lord! they're not cold in there! murmured La Faloise.

Their eyes blinked, at the return of the mysterious shadows of the garden; and they pointed out to one another the Marquis de Chouard, isolated, towering with his tall figure over the naked shoulders that surrounded him. He had a pale face, very severe, an air of haughty dignity, beneath his crown of sparse white hairs. Scandalized by Count Muffat's conduct, he had just broken publicly, he affected no longer to set foot in the mansion. If he had consented to appear there that evening, it was at the insistence of his granddaughter, whose marriage he disapproved of, moreover, with indignant words against the disorganization of the ruling classes by the shameful compromises of modern debauchery.

-- Ah! it's the end, said Madame Du Joncquoy near the fireplace at Madame Chantereau's ear. That girl has bewitched this unhappy man... We who knew him so believing, so noble!

-- It seems he is ruining himself, continued Madame Chantereau. My husband had a bill in his hands... He now lives in that mansion on the avenue de Villiers. All Paris is talking... My God! I don't excuse Sabine; yet admit he gives her plenty of cause for complaint, and, well! if she too throws money out the windows...

-- She throws more than money out them, interrupted the other. In short, the two of them will go faster... A drowning in the mud, my dear.

But a soft voice interrupted them. It was M. Venot. He had come to sit behind them, as if desirous of disappearing; and, leaning over, he murmured:

-- Why despair? God manifests Himself, when all seems lost.

He, peacefully attended the collapse of this house he once governed. Since his stay at Les Fondettes, he had let the panic grow, with the very clear consciousness of his powerlessness. He had accepted everything, the count's raging passion for Nana, the presence of Fauchery near the countess, even the marriage of Estelle and Daguenet. What did these things matter! And he showed himself more supple, more mysterious, nourishing the idea of seizing the young couple as well as the estranged couple, knowing well that great disorders lead to great devotions. Providence would have its hour.

-- Our friend, he continued in a low voice, is still animated by the best religious sentiments... He has given me the sweetest proofs of it.

-- Well! said Madame Du Joncquoy, he should first make it up with his wife.

-- No doubt... Precisely, I have hope that this reconciliation will not be long in coming.

Then the two old ladies questioned him. But he became very humble again, one must let heaven act. All his desire, in bringing the count and countess together, was to avoid a public scandal. Religion tolerated many weaknesses, when one kept up appearances.

-- In short, resumed Madame Du Joncquoy, you should have prevented this marriage with that adventurer...

The little old man had taken an air of profound astonishment.

-- You are mistaken, Monsieur Daguenet is a young man of the greatest merit... I know his ideas. He wants to make people forget the errors of his youth. Estelle will bring him back, be sure of it.

-- Oh! Estelle! murmured Madame Chantereau disdainfully, I believe the dear little thing incapable of a will of her own. She is so insignificant!

This opinion made M. Venot smile. Besides, he did not explain himself on the young bride. Closing his eyelids, as if to disinterest himself, he lost himself again behind the skirts, in his corner. Madame Hugon, in the midst of her distracted weariness, had caught a few words. She intervened, she concluded with her air of tolerance, addressing the Marquis de Chouard, who bowed to her:

-- These ladies are too severe. Existence is so unkind to everyone... Isn't it, my friend, one must forgive much to others, when one wishes to be oneself worthy of forgiveness?

The marquis remained a few seconds embarrassed, fearing an allusion. But the good lady had such a sad smile, that he recovered at once, saying:

-- No, no pardon for certain faults... It is with such complaisance that a society goes to the abyss.

The ball had grown livelier still. A new quadrille gave the salon floor a slight swaying, as if the old dwelling had bent beneath the swing of the feast. At moments, in the muddled pallor of the heads, stood out a woman's face, carried off by the dance, with brilliant eyes, parted lips, with the chandelier's light upon the white skin. Madame Du Joncquoy declared there was no sense to it. It was madness to pile five hundred people into an apartment where one could barely have held two hundred. Then, why not sign the contract in the Place du Carrousel? Effect of the new morals, said Madame Chantereau; formerly, such solemnities took place in the family; today, one needed crowds, the street entering freely, a crush without which the evening seemed cold. One flaunted one's luxury, one introduced into one's home the scum of Paris; and nothing more natural if such promiscuities then rotted the hearth. These ladies complained of not recognizing more than fifty people. Where did all this come from? Young girls, décolleté, showed their shoulders. One woman had a golden dagger planted in her chignon, while a embroidery of jet beads clad her in a coat of mail. One followed another, smiling, so singular did the boldness of her clinging skirts seem. All the luxury of that end of winter was there, the world of pleasure with its tolerances, what a mistress of a house gathers among her liaisons of a day, a society where great names and great shames jostled, in the same appetite for enjoyment. The heat increased, the quadrille unrolled the cadenced symmetry of its figures, amid the overfull salons.

-- Very stylish, the countess! resumed La Faloise at the garden door, she's ten years younger than her daughter... By the way, Foucarmont, you're going to tell us this: Vandeuvres bet she had no thighs.

This pose of cynicism bored these gentlemen. Foucarmont contented himself with answering:

-- Ask your cousin, my dear. There he is, just in time.

-- Why! that's an idea, cried La Faloise. I bet ten louis she has thighs.

Fauchery was indeed arriving. As a habitué of the house, he had made the round by the dining room, to avoid the crowding of the doors. Taken back by Rose at the beginning of winter, he divided himself between the singer and the countess, very tired, not knowing how to drop one of the two. Sabine flattered his vanity, but Rose amused him more. Besides, on the latter's part it was a true passion, a tenderness of conjugal fidelity, which desolated Mignon.

-- Listen, a piece of information, repeated La Faloise, squeezing his cousin's arm. You see that lady in white silk?

Since his inheritance gave him an insolent assurance, he affected to mock Fauchery, having an old grudge to satisfy, wanting to avenge the railleries of former days, when he had landed from his province.

-- Yes, that lady who has lace.

The journalist rose on tiptoe, not yet understanding.

-- The countess? he ended by saying.

-- Exactly, my good fellow... I've bet ten louis. Has she thighs?

And he began to laugh, enchanted at having nonetheless snubbed this fellow, who had so bowled him over formerly, when he asked him if the countess slept with nobody. But Fauchery, without the least astonishment, looked at him fixedly.

-- Idiot, go on! he let out at last, shrugging his shoulders.

Then he distributed handshakes to these gentlemen, while La Faloise, disconcerted, was no longer quite sure he had said something funny. They chatted. Since the races, the banker and Foucarmont had been part of the band, avenue de Villiers. Nana was much better, the count came every evening to inquire after her. However, Fauchery, who listened, seemed preoccupied. That morning, in a quarrel, Rose had plainly confessed the sending of the letter; yes, he could present himself at his lady of the world's, he would be well received. After long hesitations, he had come anyway, out of courage. But the imbecile pleasantry of La Faloise upset him, beneath his apparent calm.

-- What's the matter with you? Philippe asked him. You seem unwell.

-- Me, not at all... I've been working, which is why I arrive so late.

Then, coldly, with one of those unknown heroisms, which untie the vulgar tragedies of existence:

-- Yet I haven't greeted the masters of the house... One must be polite.

Even, he dared to jest, turning toward La Faloise.

-- Isn't it, idiot?

And he opened himself a passage amid the crowd. The footman's full voice no longer flung names at random. Yet, near the door, the count and countess were still talking, detained by ladies who entered. At last, he rejoined them, while these gentlemen, remained on the garden steps, rose on tiptoe, to see the scene. Nana must have chattered.

-- The count hasn't noticed him, murmured Georges. Attention! he's turning around... There, it's done.

The orchestra had just taken up again the waltz of the *Blonde Venus*. First, Fauchery had saluted the countess, who still smiled, in a ravished serenity. Then, he had remained an instant motionless, behind the count's back, waiting, very calm. The count, that night, kept his haughty gravity, the official head-bearing of the great dignitary. When he lowered his eyes at last upon the journalist, he exaggerated still his majestic attitude. For some seconds, the two men looked at one another. And it was Fauchery who, first, held out his hand. Muffat gave his. Their hands were in one another's, Countess Sabine smiled before them, her lashes lowered, while the waltz, continually, unrolled its rhythm of mocking roguishness.

-- But it's going all by itself! said Steiner.

-- Are their hands glued? asked Foucarmont, surprised at the length of the clasp.

An invincible memory brought a pink gleam to Fauchery's pale cheeks. He saw again the property shop, with its greenish light, its dusty bric-a-brac; and Muffat was there, holding the eggcup, abusing his doubts. At this hour, Muffat doubted no more, it was a last corner of dignity crumbling. Fauchery, relieved of his fear, seeing the countess's clear gaiety, was seized with a desire to laugh. It seemed comical to him.

-- Ah! this time, it's her! cried La Faloise, who never let go a pleasantry, when he thought it good. Nana, over there, do you see her coming in?

-- Do be quiet, idiot! murmured Philippe.

-- When I tell you!... They're playing her waltz, by God! she's arriving. And then, she's part of the reconciliation, the devil!... What! you don't see! She's pressing all three to her heart, my cousin, my cousin-in-law and her husband, calling them her little pussies. Me, those family scenes turn my stomach.

Estelle had approached. Fauchery was complimenting her, while, stiff in her pink dress, she looked at him with her astonished air of a silent child, casting glances at her father and mother. Daguenet, too, exchanged a warm handshake with the journalist. They made a smiling group; and, behind them, M. Venot slipped, brooding them with a beatific eye, enveloping them in his devout sweetness, happy at these last surrenders which prepared the ways of Providence.

“Stories of the world, in your language.”