CHAPTER VIII

It was in the Rue Véron, at Montmartre, in a little apartment on the fourth floor. Nana and Fontan had invited a few friends to partake of their Twelfth Night cake.^aq They had only got settled three days before, and intended having a house-warming.

Everything had been done hastily, in the first ardour of their honeymoon, without any fixed intention of their living together. On the morrow of her grand brawl, when she had so energetically sent the count and the banker about their business, Nana felt that she had got herself into a fine mess. She saw her position at a glance. The creditors would invade her anteroom, interfere in her love affairs, and talk of selling her up if she was not reasonable. There would be endless quarrels and constant worries, just to keep a few sticks of furniture from their grasp. She preferred to let all go. Besides, she was sick of her apartment in the Boulevard Haussmann. It was unbearable with its great gilded rooms. In her infatuation for Fontan, her dream of her girlhood returned to her—of the days when she was apprenticed to the artificial flower-maker, and longed for nothing more than a pretty bright little room, with a wardrobe of violet ebony with a glass door, and a bed hung with blue rep.^ar In two days she sold everything that she could safely remove—nick-nacks, jewels, and the like—and disappeared with about ten thousand francs, without saying a word to the landlord—a perfect header, and not a trace remaining behind. That accomplished, there was no fear of having any men dangling about her petticoats. Fontan was very nice. He didn’t say “no,” he let her do as she liked—in fact, he behaved altogether like a regular chum. He possessed about seven thousand francs, and agreed to put them with Nana’s ten thousand, although he had the reputation of being miserly. That seemed to them something solid to start housekeeping on. And they commenced thus, each taking what he or she required out of the common fund, furnishing the two rooms in the Rue Véron, and sharing everything alike. At the beginning this kind of life was simply delicious.

On Twelfth Night, Madame Lerat was the first to arrive, with little Louis. As Fontan had not returned, she ventured to express her fears, for she trembled to see her niece renouncing fortune.

“Oh! aunt, I love him so much!” cried Nana, pressing her hands prettily across her breast.

These words produced an extraordinary effect on Madame Lerat. Her eyes moistened.

“That’s right,” said she in a convincing manner; “love before everything.”

And she praised the prettiness of the rooms. Nana showed her everything in the bedroom and the dining-room, and even in the kitchen. Well! they were not large, but they had been newly painted and papered; and the sun shone there so brilliantly. Then Madame Lerat kept the young woman in the bedroom, whilst little Louis went and installed himself in the kitchen, behind the charwoman, in order to see her put a chicken down to roast. If she ventured to make any remarks, it was because Zoé had been to see her only a short time before. Zoé was so devoted to madame that she bravely remained at the breach. Madame would pay her some time or other—she had no anxiety on that score. And in the downfall of the establishment of the Boulevard Haussmann, she coped with the creditors, operating a masterly retreat, saving waifs from the wreck, and telling every one that madame was travelling, but without ever giving an address; and for fear, too, of being followed, she denied herself the pleasure of calling on madame. However, that very morning she had hastened to Madame Lerat, because there was something new in the wind. The day before several creditors had called—the upholsterer, the coal merchant, the milliner—and they had offered to give time, proposing even to advance a considerable sum of money to madame, if madame would return to her apartment, and consent to act like a sensible being. The aunt repeated Zoé’s very words. There was no doubt some gentleman at the bottom of all that.

“Never!” declared Nana indignantly. “Well! they’re a dirty lot—those tradespeople! Do they think that I’m going to sell myself, just for the sake of seeing their bills paid? Listen to me now, I’d sooner die of hunger than deceive Fontan.”

“That’s just what I answered,” said Madame Lerat. “I told her that you would only obey the dictates of your heart.”

Nana, however, was very annoyed to hear that La Mignotte had been sold, and that Labordette had purchased it for a most ridiculous sum for Caroline Héquet. That put her in a rage against the clique. They were nothing better than street-walkers, in spite of their grand airs. Ah, yes! by Jove! she was worth more than the whole lot of them!

“They may laugh,” she wound up by saying. “Money will never give them real happiness. And then, look you, aunt, I no longer know even whether these people are in existence. I am too happy to give them a thought.”

Just then Madame Maloir entered, with one of those extraordinary bonnets which she alone had the science of making. It was quite a happy meeting. Madame Maloir explained that greatness intimidated her, but that now she would call occasionally to have a game at bezique. For the second time they went over the apartments; and in the kitchen, in the presence of the charwoman who was basting the chicken, Nana talked of how economical she was going to be, saying that a servant would cost too much and that she intended to do the house-work herself, whilst little Louis greedily watched the chicken roasting. But there was a sound of voices. It was Fontan, with Bosc and Prullière. The dinner could be served at once, and the soup was already on the table, when Nana, for the third time, showed her guests over the rooms.

“Ah, children! how comfortable you must be here!” Bosc kept saying, simply to please the friends who stood him a dinner, for in reality the question of the nest, as he called it, did not affect him in the least. In the bedroom he seemed scarcely able to find sufficient words to express his admiration. Usually he alluded to women as being no better than animals, and the idea that a man could embarrass himself with one of the dirty hussies raised in him the only indignation of which he was capable, in the drunken disdain with which he enveloped the world.

“Ah! the lucky ones! he continued, blinking his eyes, ”they’ve done it all on the sly. Well! really, you’re right. It’ll be charming, and we’ll come and see you—I’m blowed if we won’t! ”

But as little Louis just then galloped in, riding on a broom-handle, Prullière said, with a malicious giggle:

“What! you’ve already got that big baby?”

They all thought it very funny. Madame Lerat and Madame Maloir nearly split their sides with laughing. Nana, far from feeling offended, smiled in a loving sort of way, saying that unfortunately it was not the case; she would have liked it to have been so for the little one’s sake and her own, but perhaps they would have one all the same. Fontan, acting the kind-hearted man, took little Louis in his arms, playing with him, and stuttering :

“All the same, you love your papa; don’t you? Call me papa, you little monkey!”

“Papa—papa!” lisped the child.

Everyone caressed and fondled him. Bosc, taking no real interest in the matter, moved that they should go to dinner—that was the only thing worth living for. Nana asked to be allowed to have little Louis beside her. The meal was a very merry one. Bosc, however, did not get on very well on account of the child’s proximity to him, and his time was taken up in defending his plate from the youngster’s attacks. Madame Lerat disturbed him also. She became very tender, and whispered in his ear most mysterious things—stories of gentlemen very well off who still followed her about, and on two separate occasions he was obliged to move his knee, for she kept pushing hers against it, looking at him most lovingly the while. Prullière behaved most shamefully to Madame Maloir, not helping her to a single thing. He was occupied solely with Nana, greatly annoyed at seeing her with Fontan. The turtle doves, too, were becoming a nuisance, kissing each other at every moment. In spite of all the usages, they had persisted in sitting side by side.

“Do leave off and eat your dinners!” Bosc kept on saying, with his mouth full. “You will have plenty of time to cuddle each other afterwards. Wait till we have gone.”

But Nana could not restrain herself. She was all wrapped up in her love, as rosy as a virgin, and full of endearing smiles and glances. With her eyes fixed on Fontan, she called him all the pretty names she could think of—ducky, darling, cherub, and whenever he handed her anything, the water or the salt, she leant forward and kissed him on whatever part of his head her lips encountered—on his eyes, his nose, or his ears; then, if the others scolded her, she retired again to her seat with most wary tactics, and the humility and suppleness of a cat that had just been whipped, though at the same time slyly taking hold of his hand beneath the table, to kiss it again at the first opportunity. She must touch some part of him. Fontan assumed an important air, and condescendingly allowed himself to be adored. His big nose quivered with a sensual joy; his goatish physiognomy, his ugliness suggestive of some ridiculous monster, seemed to expand beneath the devout adoration of that superb girl, so plump and white. Occasionally he would return her kiss, like a man who, though having the best of it, still wishes to act nicely.

“Look here, you two, you are really unbearable!” exclaimed Prullière at length. “Get out of there, you!”

And he turned Fontan out of his seat, changing the plates and glasses, and took the place beside Nana. This called forth no end of exclamations, outbursts of applause, and some rather indecent remarks. Fontan pretended to be in despair, and assumed his comical look of Vulcan crying for Venus. Prulliere at once made himself very attentive; but Nana, whose foot he tried to touch under the table, gave him a kick to force him to leave off. No, she would certainly not have anything to do with him. The month before she had been slightly smitten with his handsome head, but now she detested him. If he pinched her again when pretending to pick up his napkin, she would throw her glass in his face.

But everything went off well. They naturally talked of the Variety Theatre. That rogue, Bordenave, would never die, it seemed. His foul diseases had broken out again, and he was in such a state that one could scarcely touch him with a pair of tongs. The day before he had done nothing but blackguard Simone all through the rehearsal. Nobody would weep for him over-much! Nana said that if he dared to offer her another part she would send him to the devil. Besides, she didn’t think she would go upon the stage again; she preferred being at home to being at the theatre. Fontan, who was not in the new piece, nor yet in the one they were rehearsing, also exaggerated the sweets of liberty, and the felicity of spending his evenings with his little darling, his legs stretched out before the fire. And the others called them lucky creatures, pretending to envy their happiness.

They had cut the Twelfth Night cake. The bean had fallen to Madame Lerat, who at once put it in Bosc’s glass. Then they all shouted: “The king drinks! the king drinks!” Nana took advantage of this outburst of gaiety to put her arms round Fontan’s neck and kiss him, and whisper in his ear. But Prulliere, with the vexed laugh of a handsome fellow who finds his good looks are not appreciated, cried out that it was not fair. Little Louis had been put to sleep on two chairs; and the party did not break up till one in the morning, the guests calling out “good-night” as they descended the stairs.

And for three weeks the life of the two lovers was sweet indeed. Nana thought herself back again at the commencement of her career, when her first silk dress had caused her so much pleasure. She went out but little, affecting solitude and simplicity. One morning early, when going to buy some fish at the Rochefoucauld market, she was astonished to find herself face to face with Francis, the hairdresser. He was dressed with his habitual correctness, fine clean linen, and an irreproachable overcoat; and she was ashamed at being seen by him in the street in a dirty morning gown, her hair all in disorder, and with a pair of old shoes upon her feet. But he had the tact to be even more exaggerated in his politeness. He did not ask a question, but pretended to think that madame had been abroad. Ah! madame had broken a great many hearts by going away! It was a loss for all the world. The young woman, however, seized with a curiosity which ended by dispelling her first embarrassment, could not refrain from questioning him. As the crowd kept jostling against them, she drew him into a doorway, and stood in front of him, with her little basket in her hand. What was being said about her little escapade? Well! really, the ladies at whose houses he called said this and that; in short, it had caused quite a commotion and was undoubtedly a tremendous success. And Steiner? M. Steiner had fallen very low; he would end badly, unless he succeeded in some fresh speculation. And Daguenet? Oh! he was doing very well; M. Daguenet was settling down. Nana, excited by her reminiscences, was on the point of asking some fresh question, but she felt a restraint in uttering Muffat’s name. Then Francis smilingly alluded to him. As for the count, it was shocking to see him, he had suffered so much after madame’s departure; he looked like the ghost of some unburied corpse, as he wandered about the various places that madame used to frequent. However, M. Mignon, having come across him, had taken him home. This news made Nana laugh, but in a constrained manner.

“Ah! so he’s with Rose now,” said she. “Well, you know, Francis, I don’t care a hang! The old hypocrite! He’s got into such habits, he can’t even abstain from them for a few days! And he swore that he would never have anything to do with any woman after me!” Though outwardly calm, she was in reality greatly enraged. “It’s my leavings,” she resumed. “Rose has treated herself to a queer fish! Oh! I see it all; she wanted to have her revenge for my carrying off that old beast Steiner from her. She’s done a smart thing in taking a man into her house that I turned out of mine!”

“M. Mignon tells a different story,” said the hairdresser. “According to him, it was the count who turned you out—yes, and in a rather unpleasant way, too, with a kick behind.”

On hearing this, Nana became deadly pale.

“Eh? what?” exclaimed she. “A kick behind? Well, that’s too much, that is! Why, my boy, it was I who chucked him downstairs, the cuckold! for he is a cuckold, as I daresay you know—his countess has no end of lovers, even that filthy Fauchery. And that Mignon, who walks the streets for his monkey-faced wife, whom no one will touch, because she’s so skinny! What a beastly world! what a beastly world!” She was choking. She stopped to take breath. “Ah! so they say that? Well, my little Francis, I’ll just go and seek them out. Shall we go together, at once? Yes, I’ll go, and we’ll see if they’ll have the cheek to talk then about kicks behind. Kicks! why I have never submitted to be kicked by any one. And I’ll never be beaten, either; because, look you, I’d kill the man who laid a finger on me.”

But she gradually quieted down. After all, they could say what they liked. She thought no more of them than of the mud on her shoes. It would defile her to pay the least attention to such people. She had her conscience, and that was enough for her. And Francis became more familiar, seeing her expose her inmost feelings as she stood there in her dirty old gown, and he ventured to give her some advice. She was foolish to sacrifice everything simply for an infatuation; infatuations spoilt life. She listened to him, holding down her head, whilst he spoke in a sad tone of voice, like a connoisseur who grieved to see so lovely a girl throw herself away in such a manner.

“That’s my business,” she ended by saying. “But thanks all the same, old fellow.”

She squeezed his hand, which was always a trifle greasy, in spite of his perfect get-up; then she left him and went to buy her fish. During the day the story of the kick behind occupied her a great deal. She even spoke of it to Fontan, again affecting the style of a strong-minded woman who would not submit to an insult from any one. Fontan, like the superior being he was, declared that all those grand gentlemen were muffs, and that they should despise them. And from that moment Nana was filled with a real disdain.

It happened that evening that they went to the Bouffes Theatre to see a little woman, whom Fontan knew, make her first appearance in a part of ten lines. It was nearly one o‘clock in the morning when they at last got back to Montmartre on foot. In the Rue de la Chaussée d’Antin they had stopped to buy a cake, a mocha; and they ate it in bed, because the night was cold, and it was not worth while lighting a fire. Sitting up in bed, side by side, with the clothes well over them, and the pillows piled up behind, they talked of the little woman as they supped. Nana thought her ugly and quite without go. Fontan, who slept on the outside of the bed, passed the slices of cake, which stood on the night-table between a box of matches and the candle. But they ended by quarrelling.

“Oh! is it possible to talk so?” cried Nana. “Her eyes are like gimlet holes, and her hair is the colour of tow.”

“Shut up!” replied Fontan. “She has beautiful hair, and her eyes are full of fire. It’s funny that you women always pull each other to pieces!” He seemed greatly annoyed. “There, that’s enough!” he said at length, in a rough tone of voice. “You know I don’t like wrangling. We’ll go to sleep, or there’ll be a row.”

And he blew out the candle. Nana was furious, and continued talking. She was not going to be spoken to like that; she was in the habit of being respected. As he no longer answered, she was obliged to leave off; but she could not go to sleep—she kept turning over and turning over.

“Damn it all! have you finished moving about?” he asked suddenly, jumping up in a sitting posture.

“It’s not my fault if there are crumbs in the bed,” said she sharply.

And there were indeed crumbs in the bed. She even felt them under her legs, they were all about her. The smallest crumb irritated her, and made her scratch herself till her flesh bled. Besides, when one eats anything in bed, one should always shake the clothes afterwards. Fontan, in a towering rage, lit the candle. They both got out; and in their night-dresses, and with their feet bare, they uncovered the bed and swept the crumbs away with their hands. He, who was shivering all the time, hastily got back into bed, and told her to go to the devil, because she asked him to wipe his feet. Then she returned to her place; but she had scarcely lain down again before she recommenced her dance. There were still some crumbs left.

“Of course! I knew it,” said she. “You brought them back again on your feet. I can’t go to sleep like this! I tell you I can’t! ”

And she rose in bed, as though about to step over him. Then, unable to stand it any longer, and wishing to go to sleep, Fontan thrust out his arm and slapped her. The blow was given with such force that Nana at once found herself lying down in bed again, with her head on the pillow. She lay still as though stunned.

“Oh!” said she simply, sighing like a child.

He threatened her with another smack if she moved again. Then, blowing out the candle, he turned on his back, and soon began to snore. She buried her face in her pillow to smother her sobs. It was cowardly to take advantage of her inferior strength. But she was dreadfully frightened, Fontan’s usually funny face had looked so terrible. And her anger disappeared, as though the smack had appeased it. She respected him; she squeezed up against the wall to leave him all the room. With her cheek tingling, her eyes full of tears, she even ended by falling asleep in such a delicious dejection of spirits, in such a wearied state of submission, that she no longer felt the crumbs. In the morning, when she awoke, she had her arms round Fontan, holding him very tightly. He would never do it again, would he now? She loved him too much. Still it was even nice to be beaten by him.

From that night their life entirely changed. For a “yes” or a “no” Fontan struck her. She, getting used to it, submitted. Occasionally she cried out or menaced him; but he forced her against the wall, and talked of strangling her, and that made her yield. More frequently she fell on to a chair and sobbed for five minutes. Then she forgot all about it, becoming very gay, and singing and laughing and skipping about the room. The worst was that Fontan now disappeared all day and never came home before midnight; he frequented the cafés where he was likely to meet his friends. Nana tremblingly and caressingly submitted to everything, not daring to utter a reproach for fear of never seeing him again. But some days, when she had neither Madame Maloir nor her aunt with little Louis to help her pass away the time, she felt very wretched indeed. Therefore, one Sunday, when she had gone to the Rochefoucauld market to purchase some pigeons, she was delighted to come across Satin, who was buying a bunch of radishes. Ever since the evening when the prince had partaken of Fontan’s champagne, they had lost sight of each other.

“What! it’s you! you live in this neighbourhood?” asked Satin, amazed at seeing her out of doors in her slippers at that time of day. “Ah! my poor girl, you must be down in your luck! ”

Nana frowned at her to make her leave off, because there were some other women there, women in dressing-gowns, and who did not appear to have any underclothes on, whose hair was all dishevelled and whose faces were smothered with powder. Every morning all the loose women of the neighbourhood, having scarcely got rid of the men picked up the night before, came to make their purchases, dragging their old shoes over the pavement, their eyes heavy with want of sleep, and in the bad temper caused by the fatigue of a night of dissipation. Down every street leading to the market they could be seen coming, all looking very pale, some quite young girls most seductive in appearance, others regular old hags, both fat and flabby, not minding in the least to be seen thus outside their business hours; whilst the passers-by might turn to look at them without even one of them deigning to smile, for they were all in too much of a hurry for that, and went about their errands with the disdainful airs of thrifty women who have no dealings with men whatever. Just as Satin was paying for her bunch of radishes, a young man, some clerk who was late, called to her as he passed, “Good-morning, darling.” She at once drew herself up with the dignity of an offended queen, saying,

“What’s the matter with that pig there?”

Then she thought she knew him. Three days before, as she was returning from the Boulevards about midnight, she had spoken to him for about half-an-hour at the corner of the Rue Labruyère before he would make up his mind. But the recollection only annoyed her the more.

“What fools men are to call out such things in the daytime,” she resumed. “When one goes out on one’s private business, one ought to be respected.”

Nana had at length selected her pigeons, though she had doubts as to their freshness. Then Satin wanted to show her where she lived; it was close by in the Rue Rochefoucauld. And, as soon as they were alone together, Nana related the story of her love for Fontan. When she reached her door, the little one stood with her radishes under her arm, interested by the final particulars given by the other, who was lying in her turn, saying that she had sent Count Muffat out of her place with a kick behind.

“Oh! that was grand, very grand!” observed Satin. “A kick behind—oh, splendid! And he didn’t dare say a word, did he? Men are such cowards! I should have liked to have been there to have seen his mug. My dear, you were right. Drat their money! I, when I’ve a fancy, I’d die for it. Well, you’ll come and see me, won’t you? The door on the left. Knock three times, for there are always a lot of people who come to bother me.”

After that day, whenever Nana felt dull, she went to see Satin. She was always certain of finding her in, for the little one never went out before six in the evening. Satin had two rooms, which a chemist had furnished for her so that she should be safe from the police; but, in less than thirteen months, she had broken the furniture, destroyed the seats of the chairs, soiled the curtains, and got everything into such a state of dirt and disorder that the rooms looked as though they were occupied by a troop of mad tabbies. The mornings when she herself, quite disgusted, started cleaning, legs of chairs and shreds of curtains remained in her hands, so hard was the battle she had to fight with the filth. On those days everything looked dirtier still and it was impossible to enter the rooms, for all manner of things were piled up in the doorways. At length she ended by neglecting her home altogether.

In the lamp-light the wardrobe with its mirror, the clock, and what remained of the curtains, looked sufficiently well to satisfy the men who came to see her. Besides, for six months past, her landlord had been threatening to turn her out; so why should she trouble herself by looking after the place? and for him, perhaps; not if she knew it! And whenever she got up in a bad temper she shouted out, “Gee up! gee up!” giving formidable kicks on the sides of the wardrobe and the chest of drawers, which were cracking all over.

Nana nearly always found her in bed. Even the days when Satin went out on her errands, she was always so tired on her return that she would fall asleep again on the edge of the bed. During the daytime she merely dragged herself about, dozing on the chairs, and never rousing from this state of languor till the evening when the gas-lamps were lit. And Nana always felt very comfortable there, sitting doing nothing in the midst of the untidy bed, of the basins full of dirty water, placed on the floor, and of the muddy skirts, cast off the night before, soiling the chairs on which they had been carelessly thrown. She would cackle and talk of her private affairs without ceasing, whilst Satin, in her shift and sprawling on the bed with her feet in the air, listened to her, and smoked cigarettes. Sometimes on the afternoons, when they had troubles which they wanted to forget, as they said, they treated each other to absinthe. Then, without going downstairs, or even putting on a petticoat, Satin would call over the balusters for what she wanted, to the concierge’s little girl, a youngster of ten, who looked at the lady’s naked legs when she brought up the absinthe in a glass. All the conversation of the two women had reference to men’s abominable ways. Nana was quite unendurable with her Fontan; she could not utter ten words without alluding to something he had said or done. But Satin good-naturedly listened to these eternal stories of watchings at the window, of quarrels about a burned stew, and of reconciliations in bed after hours of sulking. Through a hankering always to talk about him, Nana ended by recounting all the blows that he gave her. Only the previous week he had blackened her eye, and the evening before, not being able to find his slippers, he had given her a blow which had sent her reeling against the night-table. And the other expressed no surprise, quietly puffing her cigarette, and only interrupting Nana to say that for her part she always ducked, with the result of sending the gentleman and his blow to the other end of the room.

They both became deeply interested in these stories of beatings, feeling happy and diverted by the constant repetition of the same stupid incidents, and yielding over again to the warm and sluggish lassitude occasioned by the infamous thrashings of which they spoke. It was the enjoyment of discussing Fontan’s blows, of always talking about him, even to describing his way of taking off his boots, that brought Nana there every day, the more especially as Satin invariably sympathised with her. She told in return of things that happened to her which were even worse—of a pastry cook who would leave her on the ground for dead, and whom all the same she loved more than ever. Then came the days when Nana cried, and declared that she could not put up with it any longer. Satin accompanied her to her door, and waited an hour in the street to see if Fontan didn’t murder her; and, on the morrow, the two women enjoyed the afternoon, discussing the reconciliation, preferring, however, though without saying so, the days when there was a good row on because that impassioned them the more.

They became inseparable. Yet, Satin never went to Nana‘s, Fontan having declared that he would not have any strumpets in his place. They would walk out together, and it was thus that one day Satin took her to call on a woman, who turned out to be the Madame Robert whom Nana often thought about with a certain respect ever since she had declined to come to her supper. Madame Robert lived in the Rue Mosnier, one of the new and quiet streets near the Place de l’Europe, not containing a single shop, and the handsome houses of which, with their tiny suites of apartments, are entirely occupied by ladies. It was five o’clock; down the silent thoroughfare, amidst the aristocratic quietude of the tall white houses, the broughams of stock-jobbers and merchants awaited, whilst men hurried along the foot pavements, raising their eyes to the windows, where women in dressing-gowns seemed to be watching for them. Nana at first would not go upstairs, saying stiffly that she was not acquainted with the lady; but Satin insisted. One could always take a friend with one. She was merely paying a visit of politeness. Madame Robert, whom she had met the day before in a restaurant, had behaved very nicely to her, and had made her promise to come and see her. So Nana at length gave in. Upstairs, a little servant, half asleep, said that her mistress was out. However, she ushered them into the drawing-room, and left them there.

“By Jove! how handsome!” murmured Satin.

It was furnished in the severe style of the middle classes, and the hangings were of sombre hue, whilst the whole had that appearance of gentility usually to be seen in the surroundings of the Parisian shopkeeper who has retired on a fortune. Nana, drawing her own conclusions from all this, began to make a few broad remarks; but Satin got angry, and answered for Madame Robert’s virtue. She was always to be met in company with grave elderly gentlemen, with whom she walked arm-in-arm. Just now she had a retired chocolate manufacturer, who was of a most serious turn of mind. He was so delighted with the genteel appearance of the establishment, that, whenever he visited there, he always made the servant announce him, and addressed Madame Robert as his child.

“But look, that’s she!” said Satin, pointing to a photograph placed in front of the clock.

Nana studied the portrait for a minute. It represented a very dark woman, with a long face, and lips smiling discreetly. One would at once have said, a lady of fashion, but more reserved.

“It’s funny,” murmured she, at length, “I’ve certainly seen that face somewhere. Where, I no longer recollect; but it could not have been in a respectable place. Oh! no, it was decidedly not in a respectable place;” and she added, turning towards her friend, “So she made you promise to come and see her. What does she want with you?”

“What does she want with me? Why, to have a chat, no doubt; to be a little while together. It’s mere politeness.”

Nana looked at Satin straight in the eyes, then she slightly smacked her tongue. Well, it didn’t matter to her. However, as the lady was a long time in coming, she declared that she would not wait any further, and they both went away.

On the morrow, Fontan having told Nana that he would not be home to dinner, she started off early to find Satin, in order to treat her to a feast at a restaurant. The selection of the restaurant was a weighty affair. Satin suggested various places, all of which Nana thought abominable. At last she induced her to try Laure’s. It was an ordinary in the Rue des Martyrs, where the charge for dinner was three francs a-head. Tired of waiting until the time when it began, and not knowing how to occupy themselves in the streets, they went to Laure’s fully twenty minutes too soon. The three rooms were still empty. They seated themselves at a table in the room where Laure Piedefer sat throned behind a high counter. Laure was a person about fifty years old, of a most massive figure, which was kept in shape by the aid of tightly laced stays and waist-bands. A number of women quickly began to arrive, and, standing on tip-toe, and leaning over the piles of little salvers filled with lumps of sugar, they kissed Laure on the mouth with tender familiarity; whilst the fat monster, with moist eyes, tried to divide her attentions, so as not to occasion any jealousies. The maid who waited on the guests, unlike her mistress, was tall and scraggy, with an emaciated look about her, and black eyelids, beneath which her eyes were lighted up with a sombre fire.

The three rooms rapidly filled. There were about a hundred customers, disseminated according to the hazard of the tables, most of them about forty years old, enormous in size, overloaded with flesh, and with faces bloated by vice; and mingling with this assemblage of turgid breasts and stomachs, were a few slim, pretty girls, looking still ingenuous in spite of their brazen gestures—beginners, picked up at low dancing establishments, and brought by some of the customers to Laure’s, where the multitude of big, flabby women, thrown quite into a flutter by the sight of their youth, jostled one another, and formed a court around them, like a crowd of anxious old boys, while treating them to all sorts of dainties. As for the men, they were few in number—ten or fifteen at the most—and they all looked very humble amidst the overwhelming shoal of skirts, with the exception of four fellows, who had merely come to see the show, and who joked about it very much at their ease.

“It’s very good, their stew, isn’t it?” asked Satin.

Nana nodded her head with an air of satisfaction. It was a solid dinner, such as used to be given in country hotels—volau-vent, stewed fowl and rice, haricot beans with gravy, and iced vanilla cream. The ladies went in especially for the stewed fowl and rice, almost bursting in their stays, and slowly wiping their lips. At first, Nana was afraid of meeting some of her old acquaintances, who might have asked her stupid questions—but she grew more easy as she noticed no one she knew amongst that very mixed crowd, in which faded dresses and weather-beaten bonnets were to be seen side by side with the most elegant costumes in the fraternity of the same corruption. For a minute she was interested in a young man, with short, curly hair, and an impudent-looking face, who kept a whole table of women, bursting with fat, and bent on satisfying his every whim, in a breathless state of anxiety. But on the young man laughing, his breasts rose.

“Why, it’s a woman!” Nana exclaimed, with a smothered cry.

Satin, who was stuffing herself with fowl, raised her head, and then whispered,

“Ah! yes, I know her; she’s quite the go! They’re all after her.”

Nana pouted with disgust. She couldn’t understand that. Yet she said, in her reasonable sort of way, that it was no use arguing about tastes and colours, for one never knew what one might like some day; and she ate her ice cream with a philosophical air, perfectly aware of the sensation Satin was causing among the neighbouring tables with her big, blue, virgin-like eyes. She more especially noticed a large, fair-haired person seated near her, who was making herself most amiable. She gave such glances, and edged up so close, that Nana was on the point of interfering.

But just at that moment a woman entered the room, who caused her a great surprise. She had recognised Madame Robert. The latter, with her pretty look of a little brown mouse, nodded familiarly to the tall, scraggy maid, and then went and leaned against Laure’s counter, and they both kissed each other a long time. Nana thought this caress rather peculiar on the part of so lady-like a woman, the more especially as Madame Robert no longer had her modest look, but the contrary. She glanced about the room, as she conversed in a low tone of voice. Laure had just sat down again, once more throning herself with the majesty of an old idol of vice, with face worn and polished by the kisses of the faithful; and, from above the plates of viands, she reigned over her connection of big, bloated women, bulkier than even the most enormous of them, and enjoying the fortune that had rewarded forty years of labour.

Madame Robert, however, had caught sight of Satin. So leaving Laure, she hastened to her, and was most amiable, saying she regretted extremely having been out on the previous day; and as Satin, quite charmed, insisted on making room for her at the table, she declared that she had dined. She had merely come to look about. As she talked, standing up behind her new friend, she leant on her shoulders, and, in a smiling, wheedling way, kept saying,

“Well, when shall I see you? Do you happen to be free—”

Nana, unfortunately, was unable to hear more. The conversation annoyed her, and she was burning to give that respectable woman a bit of her mind; but the sight of a troop of people just arrived paralysed her. It consisted of some very stylish women, in gorgeous dresses and diamonds. Displaying their hundreds of francs’ worth of precious stones on their persons, and seized with an inclination to visit the old haunt, they had come in a party to Laure’s, whom they treated most familiarly, to dine there at three francs a head, amidst the jealous astonishment of the other poor, mud-bedabbled women. When they entered, with loud voices and clear, ringing laughter, bringing, as it were, a ray of sunshine from the outside, Nana quickly turned her head, greatly annoyed at seeing Lucy Stewart and Maria Blond amongst them. For close upon five minutes, during the whole time these ladies were conversing with Laure, before passing into the next room, she kept her face bent down, pretending to be very busy in rolling some bread crumbs over the cloth. Then, when she was at length able to turn round, she was aghast at seeing that the chair next to her was empty. Satin had disappeared.

“Whatever has become of her?” she unconsciously exclaimed aloud.

The big, fair-haired woman, who had been so attentive to Satin, laughed ill-humouredly; and as Nana, irritated by the laugh, gave her a menacing look, she said softly, in a drawling tone of voice,

“It’s certainly not I who’ve run away with her, it’s the other one.”

And Nana, understanding that she would only get laughed at, held her tongue. She even remained seated a short time longer, not wishing to show her annoyance. From the other room she could hear the voice of Lucy Stewart, who was standing treat to a whole table of girls, who had come from the dancing places of Montmartre and La Chapelle. It was very warm. The maid was removing piles of dirty plates, smelling strongly of the stewed fowl and rice, whilst the four gentlemen had ended by standing some strong wine to several different parties of women, in hope of making them drunk, and of hearing something smutty. What exasperated Nana was having to pay for Satin’s dinner. She was a nice hussy to allow herself to be well stuffed, and then to go off with the first who asked her, without even saying “Thank you!” It was, it is true, only three francs, but she thought it hard, all the same. It was such a dirty trick to play. She paid, however, banging her six francs down before Laure, whom she despised then more than the mud in the gutter.

In the Rue des Martyrs Nana’s rancour increased. She certainly wouldn’t go and run after Satin—she wouldn’t go near such a vile creature! But all the same her evening was spoilt, and she returned slowly towards Montmartre, feeling frightfully enraged with Madame Robert. That one certainly had a famous cheek to pretend she was a respectable woman. She was respectable enough for a dust-bin! Now she recollected perfectly of having seen her at the “Butterfly,” a foul dancing-place in the Rue des Poissonniers, where she used to sell herself for thirty sous. And she got hold of government officials by her modest ways, and she refused suppers, to which she had been honoured by an invitation, just to pretend that she was a virtuous person! Ah! she should have some virtue given her! It was always such prudes as she who got hold of the most shocking diseases, in ignoble holes that no one else knew of.

However, Nana, while thinking of all these things, had at length arrived home in the Rue Véron. She was amazed to see a light in the windows. Fontan, having been left directly after dinner by the friend who had invited him, had come home in a very bad humour. He listened in a cold way to the explanations she hastened to give in her fear of being knocked about and her bewilderment at seeing him there when she had not expected him before one in the morning; she lied, for though she admitted spending six francs, she said she had been with Madame Maloir. He remained wrapt in his dignity, and handed her a letter, which he had coolly opened although addressed to her. It was a letter from George, who was still kept at Les Fondettes, and who gave vent to his feelings every week in several pages of the most impassioned language. Nana was delighted when anyone wrote to her, expecially letters full of vows of love. She read them to everyone. Fontan was acquainted with George’s style, and appreciated it. But that night she so feared a row that she affected the greatest indifference; she glanced through the letter in a sulky sort of way, and then threw it on one side. Fontan was beating the tattoo on a window pane, not wanting to go to bed so early, and not knowing what to do to while away the evening. Suddenly he turned round.

“Suppose we write an answer to the youngster at once,” said he.

It was usually he who wrote; he had a much finer style. And then he was pleased when Nana, full of admiration for his letter, which he would read out aloud, would kiss him and exclaim that only he could find such pretty things to say. And all that ended by exciting them, and they adored each other.

“As you like,” she replied. “I will make some tea. We can go to bed afterwards.”

Then Fontan made himself comfortable at the table, with a great display of pen, ink, and paper. He rounded his arms, and thrust out his chin.

“My heart,” he began, reading out loud.

And he worked away for more than an hour, reflecting occasionally about a sentence, his head buried in his hands, and laughing to himself whenever he thought of some expression exceptionally tender. Nana had already taken two cups of tea in silence. At length he read the letter as they read on the stage, just making a few gestures. He wrote, on five sides of paper, about the “delicious hours passed at La Mignotte, the memory of which would remain like subtile perfumes,” he swore “an eternal fidelity to that springtide of love,” and ended in declaring that his sole desire was “to recommence that happiness, if happiness can commence again.”

“You know,” he explained, “I say all that out of politeness. As it’s only for fun—well! I think it’ll do!”

He was delighted with himself. But Nana, still dreading a row, was foolish enough not to throw her arms round his neck and utter words of admiration. She thought the letter would do very well, but that was all. Then he was very much put out. If his letter did not please her she could write another one; and, instead of embracing each other, as they usually did after a great many protestations of love, they remained very cold on either side of the table. She had, however, poured him out a cup of tea.

“What muck!” he cried, as he wetted his lips with it. “You have been putting salt into it!” Nana unhappily shrugged her shoulders. He became furious. “Ah! everything’s going wrong this evening!”

And the quarrel started from that. It was only ten by the clock, so it was a way of killing time. He worked himself up, he flung all sorts of accusations at her, full of insults, without giving her time to answer them. She was dirty, she was idiotic, she had led a fine life! Then he raved about the money. Was he in the habit of spending six francs when he dined out? He had his dinners paid for, otherwise he would have taken pot-luck at home. And all for that old procuress Maloir, too—an old hag whom he would pitch downstairs if she dared show herself there again! Ah well! they would go far if every day they chucked six francs into the street in that style!

“First of all,” cried he, “I must have your accounts! Come, give me the money; let me see how we stand now!”

All his miserly instincts were awakened. Nana, subdued and terrified, hastened to fetch the money that was left from the drawer, and laid it before him. Until then the key had been left in the lock and they had each taken what they needed.

“What!” said he, after counting, “there are scarcely seven thousand francs remaining out of seventeen thousand, and we have only been living together for three months. It isn’t possible.”

He rushed from his seat and turned out the drawer by the light of the lamp. But there were really only six thousand eight hundred and a few odd francs. Then the row became a regular storm.

“Ten thousand francs in three months!” he bellowed. “Damnation! what have you done with them, eh? Answer me! It all goes to your old hag of an aunt, eh? or else you’ve been treating yourself—that’s very clear. Answer me at once!”

“Ah! you get in a passion instantly!” said Nana. “It’s very easy to make up the account. You forget all the furniture; then I am obliged to buy a lot of linen. Money soon goes when there is everything to buy.”

But though he demanded explanations, he would not listen to them.

“Yes, it goes a great deal too quickly,” resumed he in a calmer tone of voice; “and look here, young woman, I’ve had enough of this share and share alike business. These seven thousand francs, you know, are mine. Well! now I’ve got them, I intend to stick to them. As you’re so wasteful as all that, I’ll take care I’m not ruined. One has a right to one’s own”; and he magisterially put the money in his pocket, whilst Nana looked at him in amazement. Then he complaisantly continued, “You understand, I’m not such a fool as to keep aunts and children who are not mine. It pleased you to spend your money, and that was your business; but mine is sacred! When you cook a leg of mutton, I’ll pay half. Every night we’ll settle up!”

On hearing this, Nana revolted. She could not restrain a cry, “I say, that’s disgusting! You had your share of my ten thousand francs! ”

But he did not waste more time in discussion. Leaning across the table, he gave her a slap in the face with all his might, exclaiming, “Say that again!”

She did so, in spite of the slap, and then he fell upon her with kicks and blows. He soon put her into such a state that she ended, as usual, by undressing herself and going sobbing to bed. He puffed and blowed, and was also about to get into bed, when he noticed the letter he had written for George lying on the table. Then he folded it up with care, and turning towards the bed, said menacingly,

“The letter will do very well. I will post it myself, because I don’t intend to put up with any caprices. And don’t whine, for it annoys me.”

Nana, who was weeping bitterly, held her breath. When he got into bed, she felt as though choking, and throwing herself on his breast, sobbed aloud. Their battles always ended thus. She trembled at the thought of losing him. She felt a mean want of knowing he was all her own, in spite of everything. He twice pushed her away with a haughty gesture; but the warm embrace of the supplicating woman, with her large tearful eyes, resembling those of some faithful animal, kindled a flame of desire within him. And he acted the good prince, without, however, stooping to make any advances. He let himself be caressed, and, so to say, taken by force, in the style of a man whose forgiveness is worth winning. Then he was seized with anxiety. He feared that Nana had only been acting a little comedy to get possession of the cash again. He had blown out the candle, when he thought it necessary to assert once more his authority.

“You know, my girl, I meant what I said. I intend to keep the money.”

Nana, who was going to sleep with her arms round his neck, said sublimely, “Yes, never fear; I will work.”

But from that evening their life together became worse than ever. From one end of the week to the other the sound of slaps could be heard, just like the tick-tick of a pendulum which seemed to regulate their existence. Nana, through being beaten so frequently, became as supple as fine linen; and it made her skin so delicate, and so soft to the touch—her complexion so pink and white, so clear to the eye—that she was more beautiful than ever. And that was why Prullière was for ever dangling about her skirts, calling when he knew Fontan would not be there, and pushing her into corners and trying to kiss her; but she, at once becoming highly indignant, struggled and blushed with shame. She thought it disgusting of him to wish to deceive his friend. Then Prullière sneered with vexation. Really, she was becoming precious stupid! How could she stick to such a monkey? for Fontan was indeed a monkey, with his big nose for ever on the move—a disgusting pig! and a fellow, too, who was always knocking her about!

“That may be, but I love him as he is,” she replied one day, in the cool way of a woman owning to some most revolting taste.

Bosc contented himself with dining there as often as possible. He shrugged his shoulders behind Prullière; a handsome fellow, but not serious. He had often assisted at rows in the house. During dessert, when Fontan slapped Nana, he would continue chewing in a matter-of-fact way, thinking it the most natural thing in the world. By the way of paying for his dinners, he always pretended to be in raptures at the sight of their happiness. He proclaimed himself a philosopher; he had renounced everything, even glory. Prullière and Fontan, leaning back in their chairs, would sometimes forget themselves after the table had been cleared, and fall to relating their successes up to two o’clock in the morning, with their stage voices and gestures; whilst he, wrapt in thought, and only occasionally giving a little sniff of disdain, would silently finish the bottle of brandy. What was left of Talma? Nothing. Then they had better shut up, and not make such fools of themselves!

One night he found Nana in tears. She removed her bodice and showed him her back and arms covered with bruises. He looked at the skin, without being tempted to take advantage of the situation, as that fool Prullière would have been. Then he sententiously observed,

“My child, wherever there are women, there are slaps. It was Napoleon who said that, I think. Bathe yourself with salt water. Salt water is excellent for such trifles. Take my word for it, you will receive a great many more; and do not complain, so long as there is nothing broken. You know, I shall invite myself to dinner; I noticed a leg of mutton.”

But Madame Lerat was not gifted with similar philosophy. Each time Nana showed her a fresh bruise on her white skin, she complained loudly. Her niece was being murdered; it could not last. The truth was, Fontan had turned Madame Lerat out, and said that he would not have her in the place again; and, ever since that day, if she happened to be there when he returned home, she was obliged to take her departure by way of the kitchen, which humiliated her immensely. And so she never ceased abusing that unmannerly person. With the airs of a most well-bred woman, to whom no one could teach anything pertaining to a polite education, she reproached him with having been shockingly badly brought up.

“Oh! one can see that at a glance,” she would say to Nana. “He has no idea of even the slightest propriety. His mother must have been a very low woman. Don’t deny it, he shows it only too plainly! I do not say it on my own account, although a person of my age has a right to a certain respect; but you, really now, how do you manage to put up with his bad manners? for, without flattering myself, I always taught you how to behave yourself, and in your own home you received the very best advice. We were all very respectable in our family, were we not?”

Nana did not protest, she listened with her head bowed down.

“Then,” continued the aunt, “you have only been acquainted with well-to-do people. We were just talking about it last night at home with Zoé. She can’t understand either why you put up with all this. ‘How,’ said she, ‘can madame, who could do just as she pleased with the count’—for between ourselves you appear to have treated him as though he were a donkey—‘ how can madame allow herself to be massacred by that ugly clown?’ I added that slaps might even be borne, but that I would never have submitted to such a want of respect. In short, he has nothing whatever in his favour. I wouldn’t have his portrait in my room on any account. And you are ruining yourself for such a sorry bird as he is; yes, you are ruining yourself, my darling. You are going about in want of everything, when there are so many others, and far richer ones too, and gentlemen connected with the government. But that’s enough! it’s not I who ought to tell you all this. However, were I in your place, the very next time he treated me ill, I’d leave him to himself, with a ‘Sir, whom do you take me for?’ said in your grand style, you know, which would show him you were not going to be made a fool of any longer.”

Then Nana burst into tears, and sobbed: “Oh! aunt, I love him.”

The truth was Madame Lerat was feeling very anxious, seeing that it was only with the greatest difficulty that her niece managed to give her a twenty sous piece at distant intervals, to pay for little Louis’s board. Of course she would do her utmost, she would keep the child all the same, and wait for better times; but the idea that it was Fontan who was the cause why she, the child and its mother were not rolling in wealth enraged her to such a pitch, that she denied the existence of love. Accordingly she concluded with these harsh words:

“Listen; one day when he has skinned you alive, you will come and knock at my door, and I will let you in.”

The want of funds soon became Nana’s great care. The seven thousand francs Fontan had taken had quite disappeared. No doubt he had put them in some safe place, and she did not dare question him; for she was very timid with that sorry bird, as Madame Lerat styled him. She trembled lest he should think her capable of sticking to him for the sake of his money. He had promised to give something towards the housekeeping expenses, and he started by giving three francs every morning; but he expected all sorts of things for his money. He wanted everything for his three francs—butter, meat, early fruit, and vegetables; and if she hazarded an observation—if she insinuated that it was impossible to purchase all in the market for three twenty sous pieces—he fumed, he called her a good-for-nothing, an extravagant hussy, a stupid fool whom the market people robbed, and invariably wound up by threatening to get his meals elsewhere. Then after the expiration of a month, on some mornings he would forget to leave the three francs on the top of the chest of drawers. She ventured to ask him for them timidly, in a round-about way; but this had occasioned such quarrels—he made her life so miserable on the first pretext he could get hold of—that she preferred no longer to count on him. Whenever he had not left the money, and found all the same a good dinner ready for him, he was as gay as a lark, and most amiable, embracing Nana and waltzing about the room with the chairs. And this made her so happy that she reached the point of wishing not to find anything on the drawers, in spite of the difficulty she had in making both ends meet. One morning even she returned him his three francs, telling him a long rigmarole about having some money left from the previous day. As he had given nothing for two days he hesitated for a moment, fearing a lesson. But she looked at him with her eyes overflowing with love, she embraced him with a complete abandonment of her whole person; and he put the money back into his pocket, with the slight convulsive trepidation of a miser recovering an amount that had been in danger. From that day he ceased to trouble himself, never asking where the money came from, looking very black when there were only potatoes, and laughing fit to dislocate his jaws on beholding a turkey or a leg of mutton; without prejudice, however, to sundry cuffs with which he favoured Nana, even in his happiest moments, just to keep his hand in training.

Nana had therefore found means of supplying everything. On certain days the house was glutted with food. Bosc feasted there so sumptuously twice a week that he suffered from indigestion. One evening as Madame Lerat was leaving, angry at seeing before the fire an abundant dinner of which she was not to partake, she could not resist bluntly asking who it was who paid for it. Nana, taken by surprise, no longer knew what she was about and began to cry.

“Well! it’s a nice state of things,” said the aunt, who understood.

Nana had resigned herself for the sake of peace and quietness in her home. It was partly, too, the fault of old Tricon, whom she had met in the Rue de Laval one day when Fontan had gone off in a fury because there had been nothing but salt cod for dinner. So she had said “yes” to old Tricon, who happened to be in a difficulty. After that, as Fontan never came home before six in the evening, she was able to dispose of her afternoons, and often brought back as much as forty or sixty francs, and sometimes more. She might have made as much as ten and fifteen louis had she been entirely free; but still she was very glad to get enough to keep things going. At night-time she forgot all, when Bosc was almost bursting with food, and Fontan, with his elbows on the table, let her kiss his eyes with the self-satisfied air of a man who is loved for himself alone.

Then, whilst adoring her darling, her dear love, with a passion all the more blinding as it was she who now paid for all, Nana reverted again to the depravity of her early days. She walked the streets as she did when a young girl in quest of a five francs piece. One Sunday, at the Rochefoucauld market, she made it up with Satin, after flying at her and bullying her on account of Madame Robert. But Satin merely replied that when one did not like a thing, one had no right to seek to disgust others with it; and Nana, who was by no means narrow-minded, yielded to the philosophical idea that one never knows how one may end, and forgave her. And her curiosity being awakened, she even questioned her in regard to some details of vice, amazed at learning something fresh at her age, after all she knew. She laughed, and thought it very funny, yet feeling all the time a slight repugnance, for at heart she was rather conservative in her habits. She often went to Laure’s when Fontan dined out. She was amused with the stories she heard there, with the loves and the jealousies which had so much interest for the other customers, though they never caused them to lose a mouthful. However she was never mixed up with them, as she said. Stout Laure, with her maternal affection, often invited her to spend a few days at her villa at Asnieres—a country house where there were rooms for seven ladies. She declined—she was afraid; but Satin having declared to her that she was mistaken, that gentlemen from Paris would swing them and play at different games in the garden with them, she promised to come later on, as soon as she was able to get away.

At that time Nana was very worried, and was not much inclined for a spree. She was greatly in want of money. When old Tricon had nothing for her, and that occurred only too often, she did not know whom to go to. Then she would wander about with Satin all over Paris, amidst that degrading vice which prowls along the muddy by-streets, beneath the dim glimmer of the gas lamps. Nana returned to the low dancing places of the barriers, where she had first learned to hop about with her dirty skirts. She once more beheld the dark corners of the outer Boulevards, the posts against which men used to kiss her when only fifteen years old, whilst her father was seeking her to give her a hiding. They both hastened along, visiting all the balls and the cafés of a locality, crawling up stairs wet with saliva and spilt beer; or else they walked slowly, following street after street, and standing up every now and then in the doorways. Satin, who had first appeared in the Quartier Latin, took Nana there, to Bullier’s, and to the cafés of the Boulevard Saint-Michel. But it was vacation time, and the quarter was almost deserted; so they returned to the principal Boulevards. It was there that they met with most luck. From the heights of Montmartre to the plateau where the Observatory was situated, they thus rambled about the entire city. Rainy nights when their shoes would become trodden down at heel, warm nights which made their clothes adhere to their skin, long waits and endless wanderings, jostlings and quarrels, brutal abuse from a passer-by enticed into some obscure lodging, down the dirty stairs of which he retired swearing.

The summer was drawing to a close—a stormy summer, with sultry nights. They would start off together after dinner, about nine o‘clock. Along the pavements of the Rue Notre-Dame de Lorette, two lines of women, keeping close to the shops, holding up their skirts, their noses pointing to the ground, might be seen hastening towards the Boulevards, without bestowing a glance on the displays in the windows, and looking as though they had some most important business on hand. It was the famished onslaught of the Bréda quarter, which commenced with the first glimmer of the gas-light. Nana and Satin passed close to the church, and always went along the Rue le Peletier. Then, at a hundred yards from the Café Riche, having reached the exercising ground, they would let fall the trains of their dresses, which until that moment they had carefully held in their hands; and after then, regardless of the dust, sweeping the pavement and swinging their bodies, they would walk slowly along, moving slower still whenever they came into the flood of light of some large café. Holding their heads high, laughing loudly, and looking back after the men who turned to glance at them, they were in their element. Their whitened faces, spotted with the red of their lips and the black of their eye-lashes, assumed in the shadow the disturbing charm of some imitation Eastern bazaar held in the open street. Until twelve o’clock, in spite of the jostling of the crowd, they promenaded gaily along, merely muttering “stupid fool!” now and again behind the backs of the awkward fellows whose heels caught in their flounces. They exchanged familiar nods with the café waiters, lingered sometimes to talk at the tables, accepting drinks which they swallowed slowly, like persons happy at having the chance to sit down, while waiting till the people came out of the theatres. But, as the night advanced, if they had not made one or two trips to the Rue la Rochefoucauld, their pursuit became more eager—they no longer picked and chose. Beneath the trees of the now gloomy and almost deserted Boulevards, ferocious bargains were made, and occasionally the sound of oaths and blows would be heard; whilst fathers of families, with their wives and daughters, used to such encounters, would pass sedately by without hastening their footsteps.

Then, after having made the tour ten times from the Opera to the Gymnase Theatre, finding that the men avoided them, and hurried along all the faster in the increasing obscurity, Nana and Satin would adjourn to the Rue du Faubourg-Montmartre. There, up till two o’clock in the morning, the lights of the restaurants, of the beer saloons, and of the pork-butchers, blazed away, whilst quite a swarm of women hung about the doors of the cafés; it was the last bright and animated corner of nocturnal Paris, the last open market for the contracts of a night, where business was overtly transacted among the various groups, from one end of the street to the other, the same as in the spacious hall of some public building. And on the nights when they returned home unsuccessful, they wrangled with each other. The Rue Notre-Dame de Lorette appeared dark and deserted, with only the occasional shadow of some woman dragging herself along; it was the tardy return of the poor girls of the neighbourhood, exasperated by an evening of forced idleness, and pertinaciously striving for better luck as they argued in a hoarse voice with some drunkard who had lost his way, and whom they detained at the corner of the Rue Bréda or the Rue Fontaine.

However, they occasionally had some very good windfalls—louis given them by well-dressed gentlemen, who put their decorations in their pockets as they accompanied them. Satin especially scented them from afar. On wet nights, when dank Paris emitted the unsavoury smell of a vast alcove seldom cleansed, she knew that the dampness of the atmosphere, the fetidness of the low haunts, excited the men. And she watched for those that were the best off; she could see it in their pale eyes. It was like a stroke of carnal madness passing over the city. It is true that she was at times rather frightened, for she knew that the most gentlemanly-looking men were generally the most filthy-minded. All the polish vanished and the brute appeared beneath, exacting in his monstrous tastes and refined in his perversion. So Satin, therefore, had no respect for the great people in their carriages, but would say that their coachmen were far nicer, for they treated women as they should be treated, and did not half kill them with ideas worthy of hell.

This fall of well-to-do people into the crapulence of vice still astonished Nana, who had reserved certain prejudices of which Satin relieved her. When seriously discussing the subject she would ask, Was there, then, no virtue? From the highest to the lowest, all seemed to grovel in vice. Well! there were some pretty doings in Paris from nine in the evening till three in the morning; and then she would laugh aloud and exclaim that if one were only able to look into all the rooms, one would witness some very queer things—the lower classes going in for a regular treat, and here and there not a few of the upper classes poking their noses even more than the others into the beastly goings-on. She was completing her education.

One night, on calling for Satin, she recognised the Marquis de Chouard coming down the stairs, leaning heavily on the balustrade, his legs yielding beneath him, and his face ghastly pale. She took out her handkerchief and pretended to blow her nose; then, when she found Satin surrounded by the accustomed filth, the room not having been touched for more than a week past, basins and other utensils lying about on all sides, the bed in a most dirty condition, she expressed her astonishment that her friend should know the marquis. Ah, yes! she knew him; in fact, he had been an awful nuisance when she and her pastrycook were living together! Now, he came from time to time; but he pestered her immensely. He sniffed about in every dirty place he could find, even in her slippers.

“Yes, my dear, in my slippers. Oh! he’s a filthy beast! He’s always wanting things—”

What most troubled Nana was the sincerity of these low debaucheries. She recalled to mind her comedies of pleasure, during the days of her fast life; whilst she saw the girls about her losing their health at it day by day. Then Satin frightened her terribly with the police. She was full of stories about them. Once she used to keep up an acquaintance with one of the inspectors of public morals, so as to insure being left alone; on two occasions he had prevented her name from being entered in their books, and now she trembled, for she knew what to expect if they caught her a third time. It was shocking to hear her. The police arrested as many women as they possibly could, in order to get bribes, they seized all they came across, and silenced you with a slap in the mouth if you cried out, for they were certain of being upheld and rewarded, even though there happened to be a respectable girl among the number. In the summer they would start off, twelve or fifteen together, and make a round-up on the Boulevards, surrounding one of the footpaths, and securing as many as thirty women in an evening. Satin, however, knew their favourite spots. As soon as ever she caught a glimpse of a policeman, away she bolted, amidst the wild flight of the long trains, through the crowd. There was a dread of the law, a terror of the Prefecture of Police so great that many remained as though paralysed at the doors of the cafés, in spite of the advancing policemen, who swept the road before them. But Satin most dreaded being informed against; her pastry cook had been mean enough to threaten to denounce her when he left her. Yes, some men lived on their mistresses by those means, without counting the dirty women who would betray you through jealousy, if you were better looking than they.

Nana listened to all these stories which greatly increased her fears. She had always trembled at the name of the law—that unknown power, that vengance of men which could suppress her, without anyone in the world defending her. The prison of Saint-Lazare appeared to her like a tomb, an enormous black hole, in which women were buried alive, after having had their hair cut off. She would say to herself that she had only to give up Fontan to find no end of protectors; and Satin might tell her hundreds of times of certain lists of women, accompanied by their photographs, that the policemen had to consult, and be careful never to interfere with the originals. She was nevertheless dreadfully frightened, she was always seeing herself jostled and dragged off to be inspected on the morrow; and the idea of the inspection filled her with agony and shame, she who had so often thrown her chemise over the house-tops.

It so happened that one night towards the end of September, as she was walking with Satin along the Boulevard Poissonniere, the latter suddenly started off at full gallop. And as she asked her why she did so:

“The police!” panted her friend. “Hurry up! hurry up!”

There was a headlong rush through the crowd; skirts were torn in their flight—there were blows and cries, a woman fell to the ground. The mob laughingly looked on at the brutal onslaught of the police, who rapidly contracted their circle. Nana, however, had soon lost sight of Satin. She felt her legs failing her; she was on the point of being caught, when a man, taking her arm in his, led her off in the face of the infuriated policemen. It was Prullière, who had just at that moment recognised her. Without speaking, he turned with her down the Rue Rougemont, which was almost deserted, where she was able to take breath; but she felt so faint, that he had to support her. She did not even thank him.

“Well,” said he at length, “you had better come round to my place and rest yourself a bit.”

He lived close by, in the Rue Bergère. But she pulled herself together at once.

“No, I won’t.”

“But everyone does,” he roughly resumed. “Why won’t you?”

“Because—”

To her mind that said everything. She loved Fontan too much to deceive him with a friend. The others did not count, as it was from necessity and not pleasure that she listened to them. In the face of such stupid obstinacy, Prullière behaved with the meanness of a handsome man wounded in his pride.

“Well! please yourself,” said he. “Only I’m not going your way, my dear. Get out of the mess by yourself.”

And he walked off. All her fright came back again; she returned to Montmartre by a most roundabout way, keeping close to the shops, and turning pale every time a man came near her.

It was on the morrow that Nana, still feeling the shock of her terrors of the night before, suddenly found herself face to face with Labordette, in a quiet little street at Batignolles, as she was on her way to her aunt’s. At first they both seemed rather uneasy. He, though always most obliging, had some business which he kept to himself. However, he was the first to regain his composure, and express his pleasure at the meeting. Really, every one was still amazed at Nana’s total eclipse. She was inquired after everywhere, her old friends were all pining away. And, becoming paternal, he preached her a little sermon.

“Now, frankly, my dear, between ourselves, you are making a fool of yourself. One can understand a bit of infatuation, but not being reduced to the point you are, to be eaten up to that extent and then only to pocket kicks and blows! Are you going in for the prize of virtue?”

She listened to him in an embarrassed manner. But when he spoke to her of Rose, who was triumphing with her conquest of Count Muffat, her eyes sparkled. She murmured:

“Oh! if I choose—”

He at once offered his mediation, in his obliging way. But she refused. Then, he attacked her on another subject. He told her that Bordenave was going to bring out a new piece by Fauchery, in which there was a capital part that would suit her splendidly.

“What! a new piece with a part that would suit me!” she exclaimed in amazement; “but he is in it, and he never told me!”

She did not name Fontan. Besides, she became calm again almost directly. She would never return to the stage. No doubt Labordette was not convinced, for he insisted with a smile.

“You know you have nothing to fear with me. I will prepare Muffat, you will return to the theatre, and then I will lead him to you like a lamb.”

“No!” said she energetically.

And she left him. Her heroism caused her to bemoan her fate. A cad of a man would not have sacrificed himself like that without trumpeting it abroad. Yet one thing struck her: Labordette had given her exactly the same advice as Francis. That evening, when Fontan returned home she questioned him about Fauchery’s piece. He had been back at the Variety Theatre for two months past. Why had he not told her about the part?

“What part?” asked he in his cross voice. “Do you happen to mean the part of the grand lady? Really now, do you then think yourself a genius? But, my girl, you could no more play that part than fly. Upon my word, you make me laugh!”

Her feelings were dreadfully hurt. All night he chaffed her, calling her Mademoiselle Mars. And the more he ridiculed her, the more she stood up for herself, feeling a strange pleasure in that heroic defence of her whim, which, in her own eyes, made her appear very great and very loving. Ever since she had been consorting with other men, for the purpose of feeding him, she loved him the more, in spite of all the fatigue and the loathing which this existence caused her. He became her vice, for which she paid, and which, beneath the sting of the blows, she could not do without. He, seeing her as loving and obedient as an animal, ended by abusing his power. She irritated his nerves. He became seized with a ferocious hatred to such an extent, that he lost sight altogether of his own interests. Whenever Bosc made an observation on the subject, he exclaimed, exasperated without any one knowing why, that he did not care a curse for her or her good dinners, and that he would turn her out of the place, just for the sake of spending the seven thousand francs on another woman. And that was indeed the end of their intimacy.

One night Nana, on coming home about eleven o’clock, found the door bolted on the inside. She knocked a first time, no answer; a second time, still no answer. Yet she could see a light under the door, and Fontan was walking about inside. She knocked again and again without ceasing, and calling to him angrily. At length Fontan said in a slow, thick voice:

“Go to the devil!”

She knocked with both her fists.

“Go to the devil!”

She knocked louder, almost enough to break the panel.

“Go to the devil!”

And for a quarter of an hour the same words answered her like a jeering echo of the blows she hammered on the door. Then, seeing that she did not tire, he suddenly opened it, and standing on the threshold, with his arms crossed, said in the same cold brutal tone of voice:

“Damnation! have you nearly done? What is it you want? You had better let us go to sleep! You can see very well that I am not alone.”

And true enough he was not alone. Nana caught a glimpse of the little woman of the Bouffes Theatre, already in her nightdress, with her curly hair that looked like tow, and her eyes like gimlet holes, who was enjoying the fun in the midst of the furniture that Nana had paid for. Fontan stepped out on to the landing, looking terrible, and opening his big fingers said:

“Be off, or I’ll strangle you!”

Then Nana burst into nervous sobs. She was frightened and ran off. This time it was she who was turned out. In her anger she suddenly thought of Muffat, and of how she had treated him; but really it was not for Fontan to avenge him.

Outside, her first idea was to go and sleep with Satin, if no one else was with her. She met her outside her house, she having been also chucked out, but by her landlord, who had put a padlock on her door, against all legal right, as the furniture was hers. Satin cursed and swore, and talked of having him up before the commissary of police. However, as midnight was striking, the first thing to do was to obtain a bed somewhere. And Satin, thinking it best not to make the policeman acquainted with the state of her affairs, ended by taking Nana to a lady who kept a licensed lodging-house in the Rue de Laval. They obtained a small back room on the first floor overlooking the courtyard.

“I might have gone to Madame Robert’s,” said Satin. “There is always room there for me; but I couldn’t have taken you. She’s becoming most ridiculously jealous. The other night she beat me.”

When they had fastened themselves in, Nana, who up till then had not unbosomed herself, burst into tears, and related again and again the dirty trick that Fontan had played her. She listened complaisantly, consoled her, and became even more indignant than she, abusing the men heartily.

“Oh, the pigs! oh, the pigs! You should have nothing more to do with such pigs!”

Then she helped Nana to undress. She hovered around her like a gentle and obliging little woman, and kept saying, coaxingly,

“Let’s get into bed quickly, my dear. We shall be much better there. Ah! how silly you are to be worried! I tell you that they’re a foul set! Don’t think of them any more. You know I love you very much. Now leave off crying—do, for your little darling’s sake.”

And in bed she at once took Nana in her arms, so as to calm her. She would not hear Fontan’s name mentioned again. Each time that it came to her friend’s lips she stopped it with a kiss, prettily pouting with anger, her hair all loose, and looking childishly beautiful, and full of tenderness. Then, little by little, in this sweet embrace, Nana dried her tears. She was touched; she returned Satin’s caresses. When two o’clock struck the light was still burning. Both were laughing gently, and uttering words of love.

But suddenly a great noise was heard in the house. Satin, half naked, jumped out of bed and listened.

“The police!” said she, pale with fear. “Ah! damn it! we’ve no luck. We’re done for!”

She had told of the searches the policemen made in the hotels and lodging-houses fully twenty times, and yet, when they went to the Rue de Laval that night they had neither of them given the matter a thought. At the word police, Nana lost her wits entirely. She jumped out of bed, and, running across the room, opened the window, with the wild look of a mad woman about to jump out. But, fortunately, the little courtyard was covered in with glass, and over this was a wire net-work on a level with the window. She did not hesitate, but, stepping on to the sill, disappeared in the darkness, her chemise blowing about her, and her bare legs exposed to the keen night air.

“Stay here,” cried Satin, terrified. “You will kill yourself.”

Then, as they were knocking at the door, she good-naturedly closed the window, and threw her friend’s clothes into the bottom of a cupboard. She had already resigned herself to her fate, saying to herself that after all, if they did put her on their list, she would no more have occasion for that stupid fright. She pretended to be sound asleep, yawned, parleyed, and ended by opening the door to a big fellow with a dirty beard, who said:

“Show your hands. You’ve no needle marks on your fingers. You don’t work. Come, dress yourself.”

“But I’m not a needle-woman, I’m a burnisher,” declared Satin boldly.

But all the same, she quietly dressed herself, for she knew that it was no use arguing. Cries were heard about the house. One girl held on to the door, refusing to move. Another, who was in bed with her lover, and for whom he became responsible, acted the part of the grossly insulted respectable woman, and threatened to take proceedings against the Prefect of Police. For nearly an hour there was a noise of heavy boots on the stairs, of doors shaken by violent blows, of piercing shrieks ending in sobs, of women’s skirts grazing the walls—all the abrupt awakening and the terrified departure of a flock of women, brutally collared by three policemen, under the charge of a little, fair-haired, and very polite commissary of police. Then a great silence reigned throughout the house.

No one had betrayed her. Nana was saved. She crept back into the room, shivering and almost dead with fright. Her bare feet were bleeding from the scratches caused by the wire. For a long while she remained, listening, seated on the edge of the bed. Towards morning, however, she fell asleep; but at eight o’clock, when she awoke, she quickly left the house, and hastened to her aunt’s. When Madame Lerat, who happened to be just taking her breakfast with Zoé, saw her at that early hour, dressed in such a slovenly way, and with a scared look about her face, she understood it at once.

“Ah! and so it’s happened, has it?” she exclaimed. “I told you he would even want the skin of your body. Well, come in, you’re always welcome here.”

Zoé had risen, and murmured, with respectful familiarity, “At length madame is restored to us. I was expecting madame.”

But Madame Lerat wished Nana to kiss little Louis at once, because, said she, the child’s happiness consisted in his mother’s good sense. Little Louis was still sleeping, looking sickly through lack of blood; and when Nana leant over his white, scrofulous^as face, all her troubles of the last few months returned to her, and seemed to stick in her throat and almost strangle her.

“Oh! my poor little one, my poor little one!” she stuttered, in a last outburst of sobs.