Part 6

He stayed near the countess. While talking with her, he continued his reflections. She did not look her age; one would have given her at most twenty-eight years; her eyes especially kept a flame of youth, which long eyelids drowned in a blue shadow. Raised in a divided household, spending one month near the Marquis de Chouard and one month near the marquise, she had married very young, upon her mother's death, pushed no doubt by her father, whom she inconvenienced. A terrible man, the marquis, and on whom strange stories were beginning to circulate, despite his deep piety! Fauchery asked if he would not have the honor of greeting him. Certainly, her father would come, but very late; he had so much work! The journalist, who believed he knew where the old man spent his evenings, remained grave. But a mark he noticed on the countess's left cheek, near the mouth, surprised him. Nana had the same, absolutely. It was funny. On the mark, little hairs curled; only, Nana's blond hairs were, on the other woman, jet black. No matter, this woman slept with no one.

— I have always wanted to know Queen Augusta, she was saying. They say she is so good, so pious... Do you believe she will accompany the king?

— It is not thought, madame, he answered.

She slept with no one, that was obvious. It sufficed to see her there, near her daughter, so null and so stiff on her stool. This sepulchral salon, exhaling a church smell, said enough under what iron hand, in the depths of what rigid existence she remained bent. She had put nothing of herself into this ancient dwelling, black with dampness. It was Muffat who imposed himself, who dominated, with his devout upbringing, his penances and his fasts. But the sight of the little old man, with bad teeth and a fine smile, whom he suddenly discovered in his armchair, behind the ladies, was for him an even more decisive argument. He knew the personage, Théophile Venot, a former attorney who had specialized in ecclesiastical suits; he had retired with a handsome fortune, he led a rather mysterious existence, received everywhere, bowed to very low, even a bit feared, as if he represented a great force, an occult force that one felt behind him. Besides, he showed himself very humble, he was a warden at the Madeleine, and had simply accepted a position as deputy mayor of the ninth arrondissement, to occupy his leisure, he said. Good Lord! The countess was well surrounded; nothing to be done with her.

— You are right, one is stifling here, said Fauchery to his cousin, when he had escaped from the circle of ladies. We are going to slip away.

But Steiner, whom Count Muffat and the deputy had just left, was advancing furiously, sweating, grumbling half aloud:

— Well! let them say nothing, if they want to say nothing... I will find those who will talk.

Then, pushing the journalist into a corner and changing his voice, with a victorious air:

— Eh! it is for tomorrow... I am in on it, old fellow!

— Ah! murmured Fauchery, surprised.

— You did not know... Oh! I had such trouble finding her at home! Besides, Mignon would not let go of me.

— But they are in on it, the Mignons.

— Yes, she told me... Finally, she did receive me, and she invited me... Midnight sharp, after the theatre.

The banker was radiant. He blinked, he added, giving the words a particular value:

— It is done, you?

— What? said Fauchery, who affected not to understand. She wanted to thank me for my article. So, she came to my place.

— Yes, yes... You are lucky, you others. You are rewarded... By the way, who is paying tomorrow?

The journalist opened his arms, as if to declare that one had never been able to know. But Vandeuvres was calling Steiner, who knew M. de Bismarck. Madame Du Joncquoy was almost convinced. She concluded with these words:

— He made a bad impression on me, I find his face wicked... But I am willing to believe he has a great deal of wit. That explains his successes.

— No doubt, said the banker with a pale smile, a Jew from Frankfurt.

Meanwhile, La Faloise this time dared to question his cousin, pursuing him, whispering in his ear:

— So we are supping at a woman's, tomorrow evening?... Whose, eh? whose?

Fauchery signaled that they were being listened to; one had to be proper. Again, the door had just opened, and an old lady entered, followed by a young man, in whom the journalist recognized the runaway from school, who, on the evening of the Blonde Vénus, had launched the famous "very chic!" of which they were still talking. The arrival of this lady stirred the salon. Quickly, Countess Sabine had risen, to advance to meet her; and she had taken her two hands, she called her her dear Madame Hugon. Seeing his cousin looking curiously at this scene, La Faloise, in order to interest him, put him in the know, in a few brief words: Madame Hugon, widow of a notary, retired at Les Fondettes, an old family property near Orléans, kept a pied-à-terre in Paris, in a house she owned, on the rue de Richelieu; was spending at that moment some weeks there to install her youngest son, who was in his first year of law; had formerly been a great friend of the Marquise de Chouard and had seen the countess born, whom she kept for whole months at her house, before her marriage, and whom she still addressed with the familiar "tu."

— I have brought you Georges, said Madame Hugon to Sabine. He has grown, I hope!

The young man, with his clear eyes and his blond curls of a girl disguised as a boy, saluted the countess without embarrassment, reminded her of a game of shuttlecock they had played together, two years earlier, at Les Fondettes.

— Is Philippe not in Paris? asked Count Muffat.

— Oh! no, answered the old lady. He is still garrisoned at Bourges.

She had sat down, she spoke proudly of her eldest son, a big fellow who, after enlisting on a whim, had very quickly risen to the rank of lieutenant. All these ladies surrounded her with a respectful sympathy. The conversation resumed, more kindly and more delicate. And Fauchery, seeing there this respectable Madame Hugon, this maternal face lit by such a good smile, between her wide bands of white hair, found himself ridiculous for having suspected Countess Sabine for an instant.

Yet, the great chair of red padded silk, where the countess sat, had just attracted his attention. He found it of a brutal tone, of a troubling fancy, in this smoky salon. Surely, it was not the count who had introduced this piece of voluptuous laziness. One would have said an attempt, the beginning of a desire and of a enjoyment. Then, he forgot himself, dreaming, coming back all the same to that vague confidence, received one evening in the cabinet of a restaurant. He had desired to introduce himself into the Muffats' home, pushed by a sensual curiosity; since his friend had remained in Mexico, who knows? it had to be seen. It was a foolishness no doubt; only, the idea tormented him, he felt attracted, his vice awakened. The great chair had a crumpled look, a tipping back of the backrest that amused him now.

— Well! are we leaving? asked La Faloise, promising himself to obtain outside the name of the woman at whose house they were supping.

— In a moment, answered Fauchery.

And he no longer hurried, he gave himself as a pretext the invitation he had been charged to make and which was not easy to present. The ladies were talking of a taking of the veil, a very touching ceremony, of which worldly Paris had remained quite moved for three days. It was the eldest daughter of Baronne de Fougeray who had just entered the Carmelites, by an irresistible vocation. Madame Chantereau, a bit cousin to the Fougerays, related that the baroness had had to take to her bed the next day, so much did her tears stifle her.

— Myself, I was very well placed, declared Léonide. I found it curious.

Meanwhile, Madame Hugon pitied the poor mother. What grief to lose her daughter thus!

— I am accused of being devout, she said with her tranquil frankness; that does not prevent me from finding very cruel the children who persist in such a suicide.

— Yes, it is a terrible thing, murmured the countess, with a little shiver of one who is cold, curling up further into the depths of her great chair, before the fire.

Then, these ladies discussed. But their voices remained discreet, light laughs at moments cut the gravity of the conversation. The two lamps of the mantelpiece, covered with pink lace, lit them faintly; and there was, on distant furniture, only three other lamps, which left the vast salon in a soft shadow.

Steiner was bored. He was telling Fauchery an adventure of that little Madame de Chezelles, whom he called Léonide plainly; a strumpet, he said lowering his voice, behind the ladies' armchairs. Fauchery looked at her, in her great gown of pale blue satin, comically perched on a corner of her armchair, slim and bold as a boy, and he ended by being surprised to see her there; one was better off at Caroline Héquet's, whose mother had seriously set up the house. It was a whole subject for an article. What a singular world this Parisian world was! The most rigid salons were found invaded. Evidently, this silent Théophile Venot, who contented himself with smiling while showing his bad teeth, must be a legacy of the late countess, as well as the ladies of mature age, Madame Chantereau, Madame Du Joncquoy, and four or five old men, motionless in the corners. Count Muffat brought functionaries having that correctness of bearing which was liked in men at the Tuileries; among others, the chief of bureau, always alone in the middle of the room, his face shaved and his looks extinguished, laced into his coat, to the point of not being able to risk a gesture. Almost all the young men and some personages of high manners came from the Marquis de Chouard, who had kept up sustained relations in the legitimist party, after rallying upon entering the Council of State. There remained Léonide de Chezelles, Steiner, a whole shady corner, over which Madame Hugon stood out with her serenity of an old amiable woman. And Fauchery, who saw his article, called that the corner of Countess Sabine.

— Another time, continued Steiner lower, Léonide had her tenor come to Montauban. She lived at the château de Beaurecueil, two leagues further, and she arrived every day, in a calash drawn by two horses, to see him at the Lion-d'Or, where he had gone down... The carriage waited at the door, Léonide stayed for hours, while the world gathered and looked at the horses.

A silence had fallen, a few solemn seconds passed under the high ceiling. Two young men were whispering, but they too fell silent; and one heard no more than the muffled step of Count Muffat, who crossed the room. The lamps seemed to have paled, the fire was going out, a severe shadow drowned the old friends of the house, in the armchairs they had occupied there for forty years. It was as if, between two exchanged phrases, the guests had felt the count's mother return, with her great icy air. Already Countess Sabine was resuming:

— Finally, the rumor ran... The young man would be dead, and that would explain the entrance into religion of this poor child. It is said, besides, that Monsieur de Fougeray would never have consented to the marriage.

— They say many other things, cried Léonide heedlessly.

She began to laugh, while refusing to speak. Sabine, won over by this gaiety, raised her handkerchief to her lips. And these laughs, in the solemnity of the vast room, took a sound that struck Fauchery; they rang like crystal that breaks. Certainly, there was there a beginning of a crack. All the voices started up again; Madame Du Joncquoy protested, Madame Chantereau knew that a marriage had been planned, but that things had stopped there; the men themselves risked their opinion. It was, for some minutes, a confusion of judgments where the diverse elements of the salon, the Bonapartists and the legitimists mingled with the worldly skeptics, gave at once and jostled each other. Estelle had rung for wood to be put on the fire, the valet turned up the lamps, one would have said an awakening. Fauchery smiled, as if set at ease.

— Well! they marry God, when they could not marry their cousin, said between his teeth Vandeuvres, whom this question bored, and who came to rejoin Fauchery. My dear, have you ever seen a loved woman make herself a nun?

He did not wait for the answer, he had had enough; and, half aloud:

— Say, how many shall we be tomorrow?... There will be the Mignons, Steiner, you, Blanche and me... Who else?

— Caroline, I think... Simonne... Gaga no doubt... One never knows exactly, isn't that so? On these occasions, one believes oneself twenty and one is thirty.

Vandeuvres, who was looking at the ladies, suddenly jumped to another subject.

— She must have been very fine, that Madame Du Joncquoy, fifteen years ago... Poor Estelle has stretched out again. There is a pretty plank to put in a bed!

But he interrupted himself, he came back to the supper of the next day.

— What is annoying in these machines, is that they are always the same women... We would need something new. Try to invite one... Look! an idea! I am going to ask that fat man to bring the woman he was walking with, the other evening, at the Variétés.

He was speaking of the chief of bureau, dozing in the middle of the salon. Fauchery amused himself from afar following this delicate negotiation. Vandeuvres had sat down near the fat man, who remained very dignified. Both seemed for an instant to discuss with measure the pending question, that of knowing what true sentiment pushed a young girl to enter religion. Then, the count came back, saying:

— It is not possible. He swears she is virtuous. She would refuse... Yet I would have bet having seen her at Laure's.

— How! you go to Laure's! murmured Fauchery laughing. You risk yourself in such places!... I thought there were only us, poor devils...

— Eh! my dear, one must know everything.

Then, they sniggered, their eyes shining, giving each other details on the table d'hôte of the rue des Martyrs, where the fat Laure Piédefer, for three francs, fed the little women in trouble. A pretty hole! All the little women kissed Laure on the mouth. And, as Countess Sabine turned her head, having caught a word in passing, they drew back, rubbing one against the other, gay, lit up. Near them, they had not noticed Georges Hugon, who was listening to them, blushing so hard that a pink flood went from his ears to his girl's neck. This baby was full of shame and rapture. Since his mother had let him loose in the salon, he was turning behind Madame de Chezelles, the only woman who seemed chic to him. And yet Nana beat her handsomely!

— Yesterday evening, said Madame Hugon, Georges took me to the theatre. Yes, to the Variétés, where I certainly had not set foot for ten years. This child adores music... Myself, it hardly amused me, but he was so happy!... They make singular plays, today. Besides, music little passions me, I confess.

— How! madame, you do not like music! cried Madame Du Joncquoy raising her eyes to heaven. Is it possible not to like music!

It was a general exclamation. No one opened their mouth about that piece at the Variétés, which the good Madame Hugon had not understood at all; these ladies knew it, but they did not speak of it. At once, they threw themselves into sentiment, into a refined and ecstatic admiration of the masters. Madame Du Joncquoy loved only Weber, Madame Chantereau held for the Italians. The voices of these ladies had become soft and languishing. One would have said, before the mantelpiece, a church recollection, the discreet and fainting canticle of a little chapel.

— Come, murmured Vandeuvres bringing Fauchery back to the middle of the salon, we must however invent a woman for tomorrow. If we asked Steiner?

— Oh! Steiner, said the journalist, when he has a woman, it is that Paris wants no more of her.

Vandeuvres, however, was looking around him.

— Wait, he resumed. I met the other day Foucarmont with a charming blonde. I am going to tell him to bring her.

And he called Foucarmont. Rapidly, they exchanged a few words. A complication must have presented itself, for both, walking with precaution, stepping over the ladies' skirts, went off to find another young man, with whom they continued the conversation, in the embrasure of a window. Fauchery, left alone, was deciding to approach the mantelpiece, at the moment when Madame Du Joncquoy declared that she could not hear Weber played without immediately seeing lakes, forests, sunrises over countrysides steeped in dew; but a hand touched him on the shoulder, while a voice said behind him:

— That is not nice.

— What? he asked turning and recognizing La Faloise.

— This supper, for tomorrow... You could well have had me invited.

Fauchery was about to finally answer, when Vandeuvres came back to tell him:

— It seems it is not a woman of Foucarmont's; it is the sticking of that gentleman, over there... She will not be able to come. What bad luck!... But I nonetheless picked up Foucarmont. He will try to have Louise, from the Palais-Royal.

— Monsieur de Vandeuvres, asked Madame Chantereau who raised her voice, is it not that they hissed Wagner, on Sunday?

— Oh! atrociously, madame, he answered advancing with his exquisite politeness.

Then, as no one kept him, he moved away, he continued at the journalist's ear:

— I am going to pick up some more... These young men must know little girls.

Then, one saw him, amiable, smiling, approach the men and talk in the four corners of the salon. He mixed with the groups, slipped a phrase in each one's neck, turned around with blinkings of the eyes and signs of intelligence. It was like a password that he distributed, with his easy air. The phrase ran, one made rendezvous; while the sentimental dissertations of the ladies on music covered the little feverish noise of this hiring.

— No, do not speak to me of your Germans, repeated Madame Chantereau. Singing, that is gaiety, that is light... Have you heard Patti in the Barber?

— Delicious! murmured Léonide, who only banged operetta airs on her piano.

Countess Sabine, however, had rung. When the visitors were few, on Tuesdays, tea was served in the salon itself. While having a valet clear a guéridon, the countess followed Count de Vandeuvres with her eyes. She kept that vague smile which showed a bit of the whiteness of her teeth. And, as the count passed, she questioned him.

— What are you plotting, Monsieur de Vandeuvres?

— I, madame? he answered tranquilly, I am plotting nothing.

— Ah!... I saw you so busy... Hold, you are going to make yourself useful.

She put an album into his hands, begging him to carry it onto the piano. But he found means to learn under his breath to Fauchery that they would have Tatan Néné, the most beautiful bosom of the winter, and Maria Blond, she who had just debuted at the Folies-Dramatiques. Meanwhile, La Faloise stopped him at every step, awaiting an invitation. He ended by offering himself. Vandeuvres engaged him right away; only, he made him promise to bring Clarisse; and as La Faloise affected to show scruples, he reassured him saying:

— Since I invite you! That suffices.

La Faloise would however have liked to know the name of the woman. But the countess had recalled Vandeuvres, whom she was questioning on the way the English made tea. He went often to England, where his horses ran. According to him, only the Russians knew how to make tea; and he indicated their recipe. Then, as if he had continued a whole inner work while he spoke, he interrupted himself to ask:

— By the way, and the marquis? Were we not to see him?

— But yes, my father had formally promised me, answered the countess. I am beginning to be uneasy... His work will have detained him.

Vandeuvres had a discreet smile. He too seemed to suspect of what nature were the works of the Marquis de Chouard. He had thought of a fine person whom the marquis sometimes took to the country. Perhaps one could have her.

Meanwhile, Fauchery judged that the moment had come to risk the invitation to Count Muffat. The evening was advancing.

— Seriously? asked Vandeuvres, who believed it a joke.

— Very seriously... If I do not do my commission, she will tear my eyes out. A whim, you know.

— Then, I am going to help you, my dear.

Eleven o'clock was striking. The countess, aided by her daughter, served the tea. As there had hardly come but intimates, the cups and plates of little cakes circulated familiarly. Even the ladies did not leave their armchairs, before the fire, drinking in light swallows, crunching the cakes with the tips of their fingers. From music, the talk had fallen to the suppliers. There was only Boissier for the fondants and Catherine for the ices; however, Madame Chantereau upheld Latinville. The words became slower, a lassitude was putting the salon to sleep. Steiner had begun again to work sourly on the deputy, whom he held blocked in the corner of a causeuse. M. Venot, whose sweets must have spoiled his teeth, ate dry cakes, one after another, with a little mouse noise; while the chief of bureau, his nose in a cup, never finished. And the countess, without haste, went from one to the other, not insisting, remaining there a few seconds to look at the men with an air of mute interrogation, then smiling and passing. The great fire had made her all rosy, she seemed the sister of her daughter, so dry and so awkward near her. As she approached Fauchery, who was talking with her husband and Vandeuvres, she noticed that they were silent; and she did not stop, she gave further on, to Georges Hugon, the cup of tea she was offering.

— It is a lady who desires to have you to supper, resumed gaily the journalist, addressing Count Muffat.

He, whose face had remained gray all evening, seemed very surprised. What lady?

— Eh! Nana! said Vandeuvres, to brusque the invitation.

The count became graver. He had barely a flutter of the eyelids, while a discomfort, like a shadow of migraine, passed over his brow.

— But I do not know this lady, he murmured.

— Come, you went to her house, remarked Vandeuvres.

— How! I went to her house... Ah! yes, the other day, for the charity bureau. I no longer thought of it... No matter, I do not know her, I cannot accept.

He had taken an icy air, to make them understand that this joke seemed to him in bad taste. The place of a man of his rank was not at the table of one of those women. Vandeuvres objected: it was a matter of an artists' supper, talent excused all. But, without listening further to the arguments of Fauchery who related a dinner where the Prince of Scotland, a queen's son, had sat next to a former café-concert singer, the count accentuated his refusal. Even he let escape a gesture of irritation, despite his great politeness.

Georges and La Faloise, in the act of drinking their cup of tea, standing one before the other, had heard the few words exchanged near them.

— Well! it is at Nana's, murmured La Faloise, I should have suspected it!

Georges said nothing, but he flamed, his blond hair flown loose, his blue eyes shining like candles, so much did the vice into which he had been walking for some days light him and lift him. Finally, he was entering into all he had dreamed!

— It is that I do not know the address, resumed La Faloise.

— Boulevard Haussmann, between the rue de l'Arcade and the rue Pasquier, on the third floor, said Georges all in one breath.

“Stories of the world, in your language.”