Part 36

XIV

Nana suddenly disappeared; a fresh plunge, a flitting, a flight into bizarre lands. Before her departure, she had treated herself to the excitement of a sale, sweeping away everything—the hotel, the furniture, the jewels, down to her dresses and her linen. Figures were quoted; the five sessions produced more than six hundred thousand francs. For the last time, Paris had seen her in a fairy spectacle: Mélusine, at the Théâtre de la Gaîté, which Bordenave, penniless, had just taken over with a stroke of audacity; she found herself there again with Prullière and Fontan, her part was mere walk-on, but a real 'showstopper', three plastic poses of a powerful and silent fairy. Then, in the midst of this great success, when Bordenave, frantic for publicity, was setting Paris ablaze with colossal posters, it was learned one fine morning that she must have left the previous day for Cairo; a simple disagreement with her manager, a word that had not pleased her, the whim of a woman too rich to let herself be bothered. Besides, it was her craze: for a long time she had dreamed of going to the Turks.

Months went by. She was forgotten. When her name came up again, among those gentlemen and ladies, the strangest stories were circulating, each giving contradictory and prodigious information. She had conquered the viceroy, she reigned at the back of a palace, over two hundred slaves whose heads she cut off, just to laugh a little. Not at all, she had ruined herself with a big negro, a filthy passion that left her without a shirt, in the vile debauchery of Cairo. Fifteen days later, there was astonishment, someone swore he had met her in Russia. A legend was forming, she was the mistress of a prince, they spoke of her diamonds. Soon all the women knew them, from the descriptions going around, without anyone being able to cite an exact source: rings, earrings, bracelets, a rivière two fingers wide, a queen's diadem topped with a central brilliant as big as a thumb. In the remoteness of those distant countries, she took on the mysterious radiance of an idol laden with precious stones. Now they named her seriously, with the dreamy respect due to a fortune made among barbarians.

One evening in July, around eight o'clock, Lucy, driving down the rue du Faubourg-Saint-Honoré, caught sight of Caroline Héquet, who had come out on foot to place an order with a nearby supplier. She called to her, and at once:

'You've dined, you're free?... Oh! then, my dear, come with me... Nana is back.'

Thereupon the other got in. Lucy went on:

'And, you know, my dear, she may be dead, while we're chatting.'

'Dead! what an idea!' cried Caroline, stupefied. 'And where? and of what?'

'At the Grand Hôtel... of smallpox... oh! a story!'

Lucy had told her coachman to drive briskly. So, at the quick trot of the horses, along the rue Royale and the boulevards, she told the tale of Nana, in broken words, without drawing breath.

'You can't imagine... Nana lands from Russia, I don't know why, a tiff with her prince... She leaves her luggage at the station, goes down to her aunt's, you remember, that old woman... Well, she falls upon her baby who had smallpox; the baby dies the next day, and she falls out with the aunt, over the money she was supposed to send, and of which the other never saw a sou... Seems the child died of that; anyway a neglected child, not looked after... Very well! Nana slips away, goes to a hotel, then meets Mignon, just as she was thinking of her luggage... She goes all queer, she has shivers, fits of vomiting, and Mignon takes her home, promising to keep an eye on her things... Eh? is it funny, is it staged! But here's the best part: Rose hears of Nana's illness, is indignant to know her alone in a furnished room, rushes to nurse her in tears... You remember how they detested each other; two real furies! Well! my dear, Rose had Nana moved to the Grand Hôtel, so she might at least die in a smart place, and she has already spent three nights there, risking dying of it herself afterwards... It's Labordette who told me that. So I wanted to see...'

'Yes, yes,' interrupted Caroline, very excited. 'We'll go up.'

They had arrived. On the boulevard, the coachman had had to check his horses, amid a jam of carriages and pedestrians. During the day, the Corps législatif had just voted for war; a crowd was pouring down every street, flowing along the pavements, invading the roadway. Towards the Madeleine, the sun had set behind a blood-red cloud, whose fiery reflection set the tall windows ablaze. A dusk was falling, a heavy and melancholy hour, with the already dark recesses of the avenues, not yet pricked by the bright sparks of the gaslights. And, amid this marching populace, distant voices swelled, glances shone in pale faces, while a great breath of anguish and stupor, spreading, carried away every head.

'There's Mignon,' said Lucy. 'He'll give us news.'

Mignon was standing under the vast porch of the Grand Hôtel, looking nervous, watching the crowd. At Lucy's first questions, he flew into a rage, shouting:

'How should I know! It's two days since I could drag Rose away from up there... It's stupid, risking one's skin like that! She'll be a pretty sight, if she goes too, with holes in her face! That'll suit us nicely.'

The idea that Rose might lose her beauty exasperated him. He abandoned Nana outright, understanding nothing of women's foolish devotions. But Fauchery was crossing the boulevard, and when he came up, anxious too, asking for news, the two of them shoved each other. Now they used the familiar 'tu'.

'Always the same, old chap,' declared Mignon. 'You ought to go up, you'd make her follow you.'

'Come now! you're a fine one!' said the journalist. 'Why don't you go up yourself?'

Then, as Lucy asked the room number, they begged her to bring Rose down; otherwise they would end by quarrelling. Yet Lucy and Caroline did not go up at once. They had spotted Fontan, hands in pockets, loafing about, much amused by the funny faces of the crowd. When he heard Nana was up above, ill, he said with feigned feeling:

'Poor girl!... I'm going to shake her hand... What's the matter with her?'

'Smallpox,' answered Mignon.

The actor had already taken a step towards the courtyard; but he came back, murmuring simply, with a shudder:

'Ah! good Lord!'

It wasn't funny, smallpox. Fontan had nearly had it at the age of five. Mignon told the story of one of his nieces who had died of it. As for Fauchery, he could speak from experience, he still bore the marks, three spots at the bridge of the nose, which he showed; and as Mignon pushed him again, on the pretext one never caught it twice, he violently combated this theory, citing cases and calling the doctors brutes. But Lucy and Caroline interrupted them, surprised by the growing throng.

'Look! look! what a crowd.'

Night was deepening, gaslights in the distance were lighting up one by one. Meanwhile, at the windows, curious faces could be made out, while under the trees the human flood swelled minute by minute, in an enormous stream, from the Madeleine to the Bastille. Carriages rolled slowly. A rumbling arose from this compact mass, still mute, come together by a need to huddle and stamping, heated by a common fever. But a great movement made the crowd surge back. In the midst of the jostling, among groups drawing aside, a band of men in caps and white blouses had appeared, throwing this cry, to the rhythm of hammers beating the anvil:

'To Berlin! to Berlin! to Berlin!'

And the crowd looked on, in sullen distrust, yet already won over and stirred by heroic images, as at the passing of a military band.

'Yes, yes, go get your faces smashed!' murmured Mignon, seized by a fit of philosophy.

But Fontan thought it very fine. He talked of enlisting. When the enemy was at the frontiers, all citizens must rise to defend the fatherland; and he struck a Bonaparte-at-Austerlitz pose.

'Come, are you coming up with us?' Lucy asked him.

'Ah! no!' he said. 'To catch something!'

Before the Grand Hôtel, on a bench, a man hid his face in a handkerchief. Fauchery, on arriving, had pointed him out to Mignon with a wink. Well, he was still there; yes, he was still there. And the journalist held the two women back again to show him to them. As he raised his head, they recognised him and gave a cry of exclamation. It was Count Muffat, who threw a glance upward, at one of the windows.

'You know he's been sitting there since this morning,' Mignon related. 'I saw him at six, he hasn't moved... At Labordette's first words, he came there, with his handkerchief over his face... Every half-hour, he drags himself here to ask if the person upstairs is better, and goes back to sit down... Lord! it's not healthy, that room; however much you love people, you don't want to croak.'

The count, eyes raised, did not seem conscious of what was happening around him. He was ignorant, no doubt, of the declaration of war; he did not feel, he did not hear the crowd.

'Look!' said Fauchery. 'There he goes, you'll see.'

Indeed, the count had left the bench and was entering under the high doorway. But the concierge, who was coming to know him, did not let him put his question.

'Monsieur, she is dead, this very moment.'

Nana dead! It was a blow to everyone. Muffat, without a word, went back to the bench, face in his handkerchief. The others exclaimed. But they were cut short, a fresh band was passing, howling:

'To Berlin! to Berlin! to Berlin!'

Nana dead! Upon my word, such a beautiful girl! Mignon sighed with relief; at last Rose would come down. There was an awkward silence. Fontan, who dreamed of a tragic role, had assumed an expression of grief, mouth corners drawn down, eyes rolled back under the lids; while Fauchery, genuinely touched in his little journalist's joking, chewed his cigar nervously. Yet the two women went on exclaiming. The last time Lucy had seen her was at the Gaîté; Blanche too, in Mélusine. Oh! stunning, my dear, when she appeared at the back of the crystal grotto! These gentlemen remembered her very well. Fontan played Prince Cocorico. And, their memories awakened, there were endless details. Eh? in the crystal grotto, what style, with her rich nature! She didn't say a word, even the authors had cut a line of hers, because it got in the way; no, nothing at all, it was grander, and she turned her audience round, just by showing herself. A body such as one would never see again, shoulders, legs, and a waist! Wasn't it funny she was dead! You know she had simply, over her tights, a gold belt that barely hid her behind and her front. Around her, the grotto, all mirror, made a brightness; cascades of diamonds unrolled, necklaces of white pearls streamed among the stalactites of the vault; and, in that transparency, in that spring water, crossed by a broad electric ray, she seemed a sun, with her skin and her flame-coloured hair. Paris would always see her like that, lit up in the midst of the crystal, in the air, like a god. No, it was too stupid to let herself die, in such a position! Now she must be pretty, up there!

'And what pleasure gone to waste!' said Mignon in a melancholy voice, like a man who disliked seeing useful and good things lost.

He felt Lucy and Caroline to see if they were going up all the same. Of course they were going up; their curiosity had grown. Just then Blanche arrived, out of breath, exasperated against the crowd blocking the pavements; and when she heard the news, the exclamations began again, the ladies made for the staircase, with a great rustling of skirts. Mignon followed, crying:

'Tell Rose I'm waiting... Right away, won't you?'

'We don't know exactly if the contagion is to be feared at the start or towards the end,' Fontan was explaining to Fauchery. 'An intern friend of mine even assured me that the hours following death are especially dangerous... Miasmas escape... Ah! I regret this abrupt ending; I should have been so happy to shake her hand one last time.'

'Now, what's the use?' said the journalist.

'Yes, what's the use?' repeated the other two.

The crowd kept growing. In the light from the shops, under the dancing veils of gas, one could make out the double current of the pavements, carrying hats along. At this hour, the fever spread from near to far, people threw themselves after the bands in blouses, a continuous push swept the roadway; and the cry returned, came from every breast, jerky, stubborn:

'To Berlin! to Berlin! to Berlin!'

Upstairs, on the fourth floor, the room cost twelve francs a day, Rose having wanted something decent, without luxury however, for one has no need of luxury to suffer. Hung with Louis XIII cretonne with big flowers, the room had the mahogany furniture of all hotels, with a red carpet strewn with black foliage. A heavy silence reigned, broken by a whispering, when voices rose in the corridor.

'I tell you we're lost. The boy said turn to the right... What a barracks!'

'Wait, we must see... Room 401, room 401...'

'Eh! this way... 405, 403... We must be there... Ah! at last, 401!... Come in, hush! hush!' The voices fell silent. They coughed, collected themselves a moment. Then, the door opened slowly, Lucy entered, followed by Caroline and Blanche. But they stopped, there were already five women in the room. Gaga was stretched out at the back of the only armchair, a red velvet Voltaire. Before the fireplace, Simonne and Clarisse stood talking with Léa de Horn, seated on a chair; while, before the bed, to the left of the door, Rose Mignon, perched on the edge of the wood-box, stared fixedly at the body lost in the shadow of the curtains. All had their hats and gloves on, like visiting ladies; and she alone, bare-handed, dishevelled, pale from the fatigue of three sleepless nights, remained stupid and swollen with sadness, facing this so sudden death. At the corner of the chest of drawers, a lamp, fitted with a shade, lit Gaga with a vivid beam.

'Eh? what a misfortune!' murmured Lucy, shaking Rose's hand. 'We wanted to say farewell to her.'

And she turned her head, to try to see her; but the lamp was too far, she did not dare bring it closer. On the bed, a grey mass lay stretched, one could only make out the red chignon, with a wan patch that must be the face. Lucy added:

'For my part, I hadn't seen her since the Gaîté, at the back of the grotto...'

Then Rose, coming out of her stupor, had a smile, repeating:

'Ah! she is changed, she is changed...'

Then she fell back into her contemplation, without a gesture, without a word. Perhaps they could look at her later; and the three women joined the others before the fireplace. Simonne and Clarisse were discussing the dead woman's diamonds, in low voices. So, did they exist, those diamonds? nobody had seen them, it must be a joke. But Léa de Horn knew someone who knew them; oh! monstrous stones! Besides, that wasn't all, she had brought back many other riches from Russia, embroidered stuffs, precious knick-knacks, a dinner service in gold, even furniture; yes, my dear, fifty-two packages, enormous crates, enough to load three wagons. That remained at the station. Eh? no luck, to die without even time to unpack one's things; and add that she had money besides, something like a million. Lucy asked who inherited. Distant relations, the aunt no doubt. A pretty windfall for that old woman. She knew nothing yet, the sick woman had stubbornly refused to have her told, bearing her a grudge for the death of her little one. Then all pitied the little one, remembering having glimpsed him at the races: a sickly baby, who looked so old and so sad; in short one of those poor mites who never asked to be born.

'He is happier under the earth,' said Blanche.

'Bah! so is she,' added Caroline. 'Life isn't so funny.'

Black thoughts invaded them, in the severity of that room. They were afraid, it was silly to talk there so long; but a need to see nailed them to the carpet. It was very warm, the lamp glass threw a moon-round on the ceiling, in the moist shadow with which the room was flooded. Under the bed, a deep plate full of phenol gave off a faint odour. And, at moments, breaths swelled the window curtains, open over the boulevard, from which rose a dull rumbling.

'Did she suffer much?' asked Lucy, who had been absorbed before the clock subject, the three Graces, naked, with dancers' smiles.

Gaga seemed to wake.

'Ah! yes, I should think so!... I was there, when she passed. I can tell you it's nothing beautiful... See, she was taken with a convulsion...'

But she could not continue her explanation, a cry arose:

'To Berlin! to Berlin! to Berlin!'

And Lucy, who was stifling, opened the window wide and leaned on the sill. There, it was pleasant, a coolness fell from the starry sky. Opposite, windows flamed, gas reflections danced in the gold letters of the signs. Then, below, it was very amusing, one saw the streams of the crowd roll like a torrent over the pavements and roadway, amid a confusion of carriages, in great moving shadows where shone the sparks of lanterns and gaslights. But the band arriving with shouts had torches; a red glow came from the Madeleine, cut the throng with a trail of fire, spread far off over the heads like a sheet of conflagration. Lucy called Blanche and Caroline, forgetting herself, crying:

'Do come... You can see very well from this window.'

All three leaned out, much interested. The trees bothered them, at moments the torches disappeared under the leaves. They tried to catch sight of the gentlemen below; but the projection of a balcony hid the door; and they still made out only Count Muffat, flung on the bench like a dark bundle, face in his handkerchief. A carriage had stopped, Lucy recognised Maria Blond; another one come running. She was not alone, a stout man got down behind her.

'That's that thief Steiner,' said Caroline. 'What! they haven't sent him back to Cologne yet!... I want to see his face, when he comes in.'

They turned round. But, ten minutes later, when Maria Blond appeared, after twice taking the wrong staircase, she was alone. And as Lucy, surprised, questioned her:

'Him! ah well! my dear, if you think he's going to come up!... It's already fine that he accompanied me to the door... There are nearly a dozen of them smoking cigars.'

Indeed, all those gentlemen had reassembled. Come sauntering, to take a look at the boulevards, they called to one another, exclaimed over the death of that poor girl; then, they talked politics and strategy. Bordenave, Daguenet, Labordette, Prullière, others still had swelled the group. And they listened to Fontan, who explained his plan of campaign for taking Berlin in five days.

Meanwhile, Maria Blond, overcome before the bed, murmured like the others:

'Poor puss!... The last time I saw her, it was at the Gaîté, in the grotto...'

'Ah! she is changed, she is changed,' repeated Rose Mignon with her smile of dreary dejection.

Two more women arrived: Tatan Néné and Louise Violaine. Those two had been beating the Grand Hôtel for twenty minutes, sent from one boy to another; they had gone up and down more than thirty floors, amid a debacle of travellers hurrying to leave Paris, in the panic of war and of this excitement on the boulevards. So, on entering, they let themselves fall on chairs, too weary to bother about the dead woman. Just then a clamour came from the next room; trunks were being rolled, furniture knocked, with a whole noise of voices crunching barbarous syllables. It was a young Austrian couple. Gaga was telling how, during the death agony, the neighbours had played at chasing each other; and, as a mere bolted door separated the two rooms, one heard them laugh and kiss, when they caught each other.

'Come, we must go,' said Clarisse. 'We shan't bring her back to life... Are you coming, Simonne?'

All looked at the bed out of the corner of the eye, without moving. Yet they were getting ready, giving little pats to their skirts. At the window, Lucy had leaned out again, alone. A sadness gradually tightened her throat, as if a deep melancholy had risen from that howling crowd. Torches still passed, shaking off sparks; far off, the bands milled, stretched in the darkness, like herds driven by night to the slaughterhouse; and this dizziness, these confused masses, rolled by the flood, exhaled a terror, a great pity for future massacres. They were making themselves dizzy, the cries broke in the drunkenness of their fever hurling itself into the unknown, there, beyond the black wall of the horizon.

'To Berlin! to Berlin! to Berlin!'

Lucy turned, leaning against the window, and quite pale:

'My God! what is to become of us?'

Those ladies shook their heads. They were grave, very uneasy at the events.

'For my part,' said Caroline Héquet with her composed air, 'I leave the day after tomorrow for London... Mamma is already there fitting me up a hotel... Sure thing, I'm not going to let myself be massacred in Paris.'

Her mother, a prudent woman, had had all her fortune placed abroad. One never knows how a war may end. But Maria Blond grew angry; she was patriotic, she talked of following the army.

'What a runaway!... Yes, if they wanted me, I'd dress as a man to fire shots at those Prussian pigs!... When we'd all be dead afterwards? A fine thing, our skins!'

Blanche de Sivry was exasperated.

'Don't speak ill of the Prussians!... They're men like any others, and not always on top of women, like your Frenchmen... They've just expelled the little Prussian who was with me, a very rich boy, very gentle, incapable of harming anyone. It's an indignity, it ruins me... And, you know, I'm not to be bothered, or I'll go find him in Germany!'

Then, while they were at each other's throats, Gaga murmured in a doleful voice:

'It's over, I've no luck... Not a week ago, I finished paying for my little house at Juvisy, ah! God knows with what trouble! Lili had to help me... And here's war declared, the Prussians will come, they'll burn everything... How do they expect me to start again, at my age?'

'Bah!' said Clarisse. 'I don't care! I'll always find something.'

'Sure,' added Simonne. 'It's going to be funny... Maybe, on the contrary, it'll work out...'}

“Stories of the world, in your language.”