CHAPTER IX

They were rehearsing the “Little Duchess” at the Variety Theatre. The first act had just been gone through, and they were about to commence the second. In two old arm-chairs placed close to the footlights, Fauchery and Bordenave were arguing together; whilst the prompter, old Cossard, a little hunchback, was seated on a rush-bottomed chair, a pencil between his lips, turning over the leaves of the manuscript.

“Well! what are you all waiting for?” suddenly exclaimed Bordenave, thumping furiously on the boards with his heavy walking-stick. “Barillot, why don’t you begin?”

“It’s M. Bosc—he’s disappeared,” replied Barillot, who was acting as assistant stage-manager.

Then there was quite a storm of shouts. Every one called Bosc. Bordenave cursed and swore.

“Damn it all! it’s always the same. One may ring and call—they’re always where they oughtn’t to be; and then they grumble when they’re kept after four o’clock.”

Bosc, however, arrived with a serene coolness.

“Eh? what? who wants me? Ah! it’s time for my entrance! Then why didn’t you say so. Good! Simone, give me my cue, ‘There are the guests arriving,’ and I enter. How am I to enter?”

“Why, through the door, of course,” shouted Fauchery, losing patience.

“Yes, but where is the door?”

This time Bordenave attacked Barillot, cursing and swearing again, and banging his stick on the boards sufficient to split them.

“Damn it all! I said a chair was to be placed there to represent the door. Every day I have to repeat the same thing. Barillot! where’s Barillot? There’s another! they all bolt off!”

Barillot, however, bowing beneath the tempest, came and placed the chair without saying a word; and the rehearsal continued. Simone, with her bonnet on, and enveloped in her fur cloak, assumed the airs of a servant arranging some furniture. She interrupted herself to say,

“You know, I’m not very warm, so I shall keep my hands in my muff.” Then changing her voice, she greeted Bosc with a faint cry, and said, “Why! it’s the count. You are the first, sir, and madame will be very pleased.”

Bosc had on a muddy pair of trousers, a big drab overcoat, and an immense muffler rolled round his neck. With his hands in his pockets, and an old hat on his head, he said in a hollow voice, without any acting but merely dragging himself along,

“Do not disturb your mistress, Isabella; I wish to give her a surprise. ”

The rehearsal went on. Bordenave, scowling, and buried in his arm-chair, listened with an air of fatigue. Fauchery, nervous and constantly changing his position, was seized every minute with a desire to interrupt, which, however, he repressed. But he heard whispering behind him in the dark and empty house.

“Is she there?” he asked, leaning towards Bordenave.

The latter nodded his head. Before accepting the part of Géraldine which he had offered her, Nana had wished to see the piece; for she hesitated before agreeing to act the part of a gay woman. What she longed for was to appear on the stage as a lady. She was half hidden in the shadow of a box with Labordette, who was exerting himself with Bordenave for her. Fauchery glanced round at her, and then again gave all his attention to the rehearsal.

Only the front of the stage was lighted up. A large jet of gas issuing from a pipe erected at the junction of the footlights, and the glare of which was disseminated by means of a powerful reflector, looked like a great yellow eye in the semi-obscurity, where it blazed with a sort of dubious sadness. Against the slender gas-pipe stood Cossard, holding up the manuscript close to the light, which vividly exposed the outline of his hump. Then more in the shadow were Fauchery and Bordenave. In the midst of the enormous structure, this light, which illumined the distance of a few yards only, looked like the glimmer of a lantern fixed to a post at some railway station, the actors appearing like so many strange phantoms, with their shadows dancing before them. The rest of the stage, full of a kind of fine dust similar to that which hangs about houses in the course of demolition, resembled a gigantic nave undergoing repair, with its ladders, its frame-works, and its side-scenes, the faded paint on which imitated heaps of rubbish; and the drop-scenes suspended up aloft had an appearance of frippery hanging to the beams of some vast rag warehouse, whilst a ray of sunshine, which had penetrated through some window, intersected the darkness above like a bar of gold.

At the back of the stage some of the actors were conversing together while waiting for their cues. They had gradually raised their voices.

“I say there! will you keep quiet?” yelled Bordenave, who sprung from his chair in a rage. “I can’t hear a word. Go outside if you want to talk; we’re working. Barillot, if any one talks again, I’ll fine the whole lot!”

They held their tongues for a short time. They formed a little group, seated on a bench and some rustic chairs in a bit of a garden—the first scene for the evening which was placed there, ready to be fixed. Fontan and Prullière were listening to Rose Mignon, who had just received a splendid offer from the manager of the Folies-Dramatiques Theatre. But a voice called out,

“The duchess! Saint-Firmin! Now then, the duchess and Saint-Firmin!”

Prullière did not recollect till the second call that he was Saint-Firmin. Rose, who played the part of the Duchess Hélène, was waiting for him to make their entrance. Slowly dragging his feet over the vacant, sonorous boards, old Bosc returned to sit down. Then Clarisse offered him half the bench.

“What does he yell about like that for?” asked she, speaking of Bordenave. “It will be getting unbearable soon. He can’t bring out a new piece now without giving vent to his feelings in that way.”

Bosc shrugged his shoulders; he was above all those shindies. Fontan whispered:

“He smells a failure. I think it’s a most idiotic piece.” Then, returning to Rose’s story, he said to Clarisse, “Do you believe it, eh? Three hundred francs a night, and a hundred performances guaranteed. Why not a country house into the bargain? If his wife was offered three hundred francs, Mignon would chuck up Bordenave, and without warning too!”

Clarisse believed in the truth of the offer. Fontan was always running his comrades down! But Simone interrupted them. She was shivering. All well buttoned up and with scarves round their necks, looked up at the sunbeam which shone without descending into the mournful coldness that hung about the stage. Outside it was freezing beneath a clear November sky.

“And there’s no fire in the green-room!” said Simone. “It’s disgusting; he’s becoming beastly miserly! I’ve a good mind to go home, I don’t want to be ill.”

“Silence there!” cried Bordenave again, in a voice of thunder.

Then for a few minutes nothing was heard but the confused voices of the actors. They scarcely indicated the gestures, and spoke in a quiet voice so as not to tire themselves. However, when they intended to score a point, they glanced at the auditorium. It appeared to them like an enormous hole in which floated a vague shadow, similar to a fine dust confined in a big loft without windows. The house, which was in darkness except for the feeble light transmitted from the stage, seemed wrapped in a troubled and melancholy sleep. The paintings on the ceiling were veiled in obscurity. From the top to the bottom of the stage-boxes, on the right and left, hung immense breadths of coarse grey linen to protect the hangings; and strips of the same material were thrown over the velvet of the balustrades, girdling the balconies with a double winding-sheet, staining, as it were, the gloom with their pale tint. In the general discolouration one could only distinguish the darker recesses of the boxes, which indicated the different storeys, and the breaks caused by the seats, the red velvet of which had a blackish look. The great crystal gasalier, lowered almost to the ground, filled the stalls with its pendants, and gave one the idea of a removal, of a departure of the public on a journey from which it would never return.

Rose, in her part of the little duchess lost at the house of some fast woman, just then advanced towards the footlights. She raised her hands and pouted adorably to that dark, empty house, which was as sad as though it were in mourning.

“Good heavens! what curious people!” said she, accentuating the phrase, certain of the effect.

At the back of the box in which she was seated, Nana, wrapped in a large shawl, was listening to the piece and devouring Rose with her eyes. She turned to Labordette and asked him in a low voice,

“You’re sure he’s coming?”

“Quite sure. No doubt he will come with Mignon, as a pretext. As soon as he arrives you must go up into Mathilde’s dressing-room, and I will bring him there to you.”

They were talking to Count Muffat. It was an interview on neutral ground, arranged by Labordette. He had had a serious talk with Bordenave, whom two successive failures had brought to a very low ebb. And Bordenave had hastened to lend his theatre and offer a part to Nana, wishing to get on good terms with the count, with the view of borrowing some money of him.

“And the part of Géraldine, what do you think of it?” resumed Labordette.

But Nana neither answered nor moved. After the first act, in which the author made the Duke de Beaurivage deceive his wife with the fair Géraldine, an operatic star, came the second act, where the Duchess Hélène went to the actress’s on the night of a masked ball, to learn by what magic power such creatures conquered and retained the husbands of better women. It was a cousin, the handsome Oscar de Saint-Firmin, who introduced her there, hoping to seduce her. And, to her great surprise, as a first lesson she heard Géraldine abusing the duke in the language of a navvie, whilst the latter seemed to be delighted; this sight drew from her the cry, “Ah, well! if that’s the way the men must be spoken to!” This was about the only scene Géraldine had in the act. As for the duchess, she was soon punished for her curiousity. An old beau, the Baron de Tardiveau, took her for one of the gay women and attacked her vigorously, whilst, on the other side, Beaurivage made it up with Géraldine, who was reclining in an easy chair, and kissed her. As the part of the latter was not filled up, old Cossard had risen to read it, and he accentuated certain passages in spite of himself, and acted in Bosc’s arms. They had reached this scene, the rehearsal dragged on tediously, when suddenly Fauchery jumped up from his chair. He had restrained himself till then, but his nerves had at length got the better of him.

“That isn’t it! he exclaimed.

The actors paused, their arms dangling beside them. Fontan, screwing up his nose, asked in a sneering way:

“What? What isn’t it?”

“You’re all wrong! it’s not that at all, not that at all!” resumed Fauchery, who marched about the stage gesticulating, and went through the scene. “Look here, Fontan, you must understand Tardiveau’s excitement; you lean forward like this, with this gesture, to seize hold of the duchess. And you, Rose, it’s then that you pass, quickly, like this, but not too soon, not till you hear the kiss—” He interrupted himself, and called to Cossard, in the heat of his explanations: “Géraldine, give the kiss—loud! so that it can be well heard!”

Old Cossard turned towards Bosc, and smacked his lips vigorously.

“Good! that’s the kiss,” said Fauchery jubilantly. “Give the kiss once more. Now you see, Rose, I’ve had time to pass, and then I utter a faint cry—‘Ah! she has kissed him!’ But, for that, Tardiveau must follow you towards the back of the stage. Do you hear, Fontan? you must follow her to the back of the stage. Now, try it over again, and all together!”

The actors went through the scene a second time, but Fontan played his part with such ill-will, that it was worse than ever. Twice again Fauchery gave his directions, acting the mimic each time with more warmth. They all listened to him in a mournful way, looked at one another for an instant, as though he had asked them to walk on their heads, and then awkwardly tried again, to stop almost directly with the rigidity of puppets whose strings have just been broken.

“No, it’s too much for me; I can’t understand it,” Fontan ended by saying in his insolent tone of voice.

During all this while, Bordenave had not opened his lips. Buried in the depths of his arm-chair, one could only see by the pale light of the gas-jet the top of his hat, which he had pulled over his eyes, and his immense stomach, in front of which was his walking-stick, abandoned between his legs; and one would have thought him asleep. Suddenly he rose up.

“My young friend, it’s absurd,” said he to Fauchery, in a quiet tone of voice.

“How! absurd!” exclaimed the author, turning very pale. “You are absurd yourself, my boy! ”

Bordenave at once flew into a passion. He repeated the word absurd, and seeking for something stronger, substituted imbecile and idiotic. It would be hissed, they would never be allowed to finish the act; and as Fauchery, exasperated though not particularly offended by his abuse, which occurred each time they rehearsed a new piece together, roundly called him a brute, Bordenave lost all control over himself. He twirled his stick in his hand, and breathing like a mad bull, exclaimed:

“Damnation! go to the deuce. There’s another quarter of an hour wasted in stupidity—yes, stupidity. There’s not the least particle of common sense in it. And yet it’s so simple! You, Fontan, you’re not to budge. You, Rose, you make a little movement like this, you know, but no more, and then you come forward. Now try it that way, off you go; Cossard, give the kiss. ”

The scene went no better. The confusion became greater. Then Bordenave also began to mimic with the gracefulness of an elephant, whilst Fauchery stood by sneering and shrugging his shoulders, in a pitying sort of way. Then Fontan mixed himself up in it, and even Bosc ventured to give his advice. Rose, quite tired out, had finished by sitting down on the chair which indicated the door. No one any longer knew what they were about. To crown the confusion, Simone, thinking she heard her cue, made her entrance too soon, in the midst of the disorder. This so enraged Bordenave, that whirling his stick round in a terrible manner, it alighted with great force on her posterior. He often struck the women, who had been his mistresses, during rehearsals. She rushed off, pursued by this furious cry:

“Take that home with you, and damn it all! I’ll shut up the show if I’m bothered any more!”

Fauchery had pressed his hat down on his head, and pretended to leave the theatre; but he remained standing at the back of the stage, and came forward again when he saw Bordenave return to his arm-chair in a frightful state of perspiration. He resumed his own seat. They remained a short time side by side, without stirring, whilst complete silence reigned throughout the house. The actors waited nearly two minutes. They all seemed to be in a state of the greatest dejection, as though they had just gone through a most fatiguing task.

“Well! continue,” said Bordenave at length in his ordinary tone of voice, and perfectly calm.

“Yes, continue,” repeated Fauchery. “We will arrange the scene to-morrow.”

And they stretched themselves out, and the rehearsal resumed its course of tediousness and supreme indifference. During the row between the manager and the author, Fontan and the others had had a most enjoyable time at the back, seated on the bench and the rustic chairs. They had laughed quietly among themselves, with numerous grunts and witty remarks; but when Simone returned with her whack behind, and her voice broken by sobs, they went in for tragedy, saying that in her place they would have strangled the old pig. She wiped her eyes, nodding her head the while. It was all over; she would leave him, more especially as Steiner, the day before, had offered to provide for her. Clarisse was lost in astonishment—the banker was without a sou; but Prullière laughed and reminded her of how the confounded Jew had advertised himself by means of Rose, when he had been working the shares of the Salt Works of the Landes. Just then he had another project—a tunnel under the Bosphorus. Simone listened very much interested. As for Clarisse, she had been in an awful rage for a week past. That beast La Faloise, whom she had flung into Gaga’s venerable arms, had just inherited the property of a very rich uncle! She had no luck; she was always warming the house for the next tenant. Then that brute Bordenave had only given her a wretched part of fifty lines, when she could very well have played Géraldine! She was longing for the part, and had great hopes that Nana would refuse it.

“Well! and I?” said Prullière indignantly; “I haven’t two hundred lines. I wished to decline the part. It’s an insult to ask me to play that Saint-Firmin; it’s as bad as being shelved. And what a piece, my friends! You know, it’ll be an awful fiasco.”

Here Simone, who had been talking with old Barillot, returned and said, all out of breath, “I say, Nana’s here!”

“Whereabouts?” asked Clarisse, rising quickly from her seat to see.

The news passed rapidly from one to the other. Every one leant forward to have a look. For an instant the rehearsal was interrupted; but Bordenave suddenly roused himself, and yelled,

“Well! what’s the matter? Finish the act, can’t you? And keep quiet you over there; the row you kick up is intolerable!”

Nana was still watching the piece from her box. Labordette had twice addressed her; but she had impatiently pushed him with her elbow to make him leave off. The second act was just about ending, when two figures appeared at the back of the stage. As they walked down to the front, on the tips of their toes, so as not to make any noise, Nana recognised Mignon and Count Muffat, who nodded in silence to Bordenave.

“Ah! there they are,” murmured she with a sigh of relief.

Rose Mignon gave the last cue. Then Bordenave said that they must go through the second act again, before touching the third one; and, leaving the rehearsal, he greeted the count with most exaggerated politeness, whilst Fauchery pretended to be wholly engaged with the actors around him.

Mignon whistled quietly to himself, with his hands behind his back, and looking tenderly at his wife, who seemed rather nervous.

“Well! shall we go up?” asked Labordette of Nana. “I will make you comfortable in the room, and then come back for him.”

Nana left the box at once. She had to feel her way along the passage which led to the boxes and stalls; but Bordenave guessed she was there, as she was hurrying along in the dark, and he caught her up at the end of the corridor which passed behind the stage—a narrow place where the gas was kept burning night and day. There, so as to get the matter settled quickly, he at once attacked her about the part of Géraldine.

“Eh! what a part! what go there is in it! It is exactly suited to you. Come to-morrow to rehearsal.”

Nana kept very cool. She wished to see the third act.

“Oh! the third act is superb! The duchess plays at being a fast woman in her own home, which disgusts Beaurivage and gives him a lesson. And then there’s a very funny imbroglio. Tardiveau arrives, and thinking he is at some dancer’s—”

“And what does Géraldine do in all that?” interrupted Nana.

“Géraldine?” repeated Bordenave slightly embarrassed. “She has a scene, not very long, but a capital one. The part is a splendid one for you, I tell you! Come and sign an agreement now. ”

For a few seconds she looked him straight in the face, and then replied, “We’ll talk it over by-and-by.”

And she joined Labordette, who was waiting for her on the stairs. Every one in the theatre had recognised her. They were all whispering together. Her return quite scandalised Prullière, and Clarisse was very uneasy about the part she was longing for. As for Fontan, he pretended supreme indifference. It was not for him to abuse a woman he had loved. In his heart—in his old infatuation now turned to hatred—he entertained a ferocious grudge against her on account of her devotion to him, of her beauty, and of that dual existence which he had severed through the perversion of his monster-like inclinations.

However, when Labordette returned and went up to the count, Rose Mignon, already put on her guard from the knowledge of Nana’s presence, suddenly understood what was going on. Muffat bored her immensely but the thought of being thrown over in that fashion was too much for her. She broke the silence she usually maintained with her husband on those matters, and said to him bluntly,

“You see what is going on? Well! I give you my word that if she tries on the Steiner dodge again, I will scratch her eyes out! ”

Mignon, calm and serene, shrugged his shoulders with the air of a man who sees everything.

“Be quiet, will you!” he murmured. “Just oblige me by holding your tongue!”

He knew what he was about. He had got pretty well all he could out of Muffat. He felt that on a sign from Nana the count was ready to lie down and be her footstool. It was impossible to fight with such a passion as his; and so, knowing what men are, his only thought was to get the most he could out of the situation. He must wait and see how things went. And he waited.

“Rose, it’s your scene!” cried Bordenave. “The second act over again. ^»

“Go!” resumed Mignon. “Leave me to manage this.”

Then in his bantering way he amused himself by complimenting Fauchery on his piece. It was a capital play, only why was his grand lady so extremely virtuous? It was not natural. And he jeeringly asked who was the original of the Duke de Beaurivage—the fool whom Géraldine did what she liked with. Fauchery, far from being annoyed, began to smile; but Bordenave, glancing in the direction of Muffat, seemed annoyed, and that made Mignon serious again, and set him thinking.

“Damn it all! are we ever going to begin?” yelled the manager. “Look sharp, Barillot! Eh? Bosc isn’t there? Does he think he’s going to make a fool of me any longer?”

But at that moment Bosc quietly appeared and took his place. The rehearsal recommenced just as Labordette went off with the count. The latter trembled at the thought of seeing Nana again. After their rupture he had felt himself alone in the world, he had allowed himself to be led to Rose, not know ing how to employ his time, and thinking he was merely suffering from the alteration in his habits. Besides, in the state of stupor in which he then was, he wished to be ignorant of everything, forbidding himself to seek Nana, and avoiding an explanation with the countess. It seemed to him that he owed that oblivion to his dignity. But there was a secret power at work, and Nana slowly reconquered him by his recollections, by the weaknesses of his flesh, and by new feelings, exclusive, tender, and almost paternal. The abominable scene in which he had taken part was forgotten; he no longer beheld Fontan, he no longer heard Nana ordering him out as she twitted him with his wife’s adultery. They were mere words which passed by as soon as they were uttered, whilst in his heart there remained a sting the pangs of which almost suffocated him. His thoughts at times became quite childish, he accused himself, imagining that she would not have deceived him had he really loved her. His agony became intolerable, and he was most unhappy. It was like the smart of an old wound, no longer that blind and impatient desire putting up with anything, but a jealous love of that woman, a need of her alone, of her hair, of her mouth, of her body, that haunted him. Whenever he recalled the sound of her voice a tremor ran through his limbs. He longed for her with the exigencies of a miser and infinite delicacy. And this love had seized upon him so grievously, that, at the first words Labordette uttered when sounding him respecting an interview, he threw himself into his arms by an irresistible movement, ashamed afterwards of having given way in a manner so ridiculous for a man of his rank. But Labordette knew how to see and forget. He gave another proof of his tact in leaving the count at the foot of the stairs, with these simple words quickly uttered:

“On the second floor, turn to the right, the door is only pushed to.”

Muffat found himself alone in this silent corner of the building. As he passed by the green-room he noticed, through the open doors, the dilapidation of the vast apartment, which, in the daylight, appeared in a disgraceful state through dirt and constant wear and tear. But what surprised him, on his leaving the noise and semi-obscurity of the stage, were the bright clear light, the intense quietude of that staircase, which he had seen one night smoky with gas and sonorous with the rush of women skurrying about from floor to floor. One could tell the dressing-rooms were unoccupied, the passages deserted, for there was not a soul, not a sound, whilst through the small square windows, on a level with the stairs, entered the pale November sun, in the yellow rays of which an infinitesimal dust disported itself, whilst a death-like peacefulness hung over all. He felt happy in this silence and calm. He mounted the stairs slowly, trying not to get out of breath; his heart bounded against his breast, and he was seized with the fear of acting like a child, with sighs and tears. Then, when he reached the first landing, he leant against the wall, certain of not being seen, and, holding his handkerchief to his mouth, he looked at the warped steps, at the iron hand-rail shining from the constant friction, at the soiled walls, at all that wretchedness which gave the place the look of some low brothel displayed in all its bareness at that drowsy hour of the afternoon when the girls are sleeping. When he arrived at the second landing he had to step over a big tortoise-shell cat curled up asleep on the top stair. With its eyes half closed, this cat watched all alone over the house, always in a state of somnolency from the cool and stuffy odours left behind there every night by the women.

In the passage on the right, the door of the dressing-room was, as Labordette had said, only pushed to. Nana was waiting there. That little slut of a Mathilde kept her dressing-room in a slovenly state; there were cracked pots scattered all about, a dirty wash-hand basin, and a chair stained with rouge, as though some one had been bleeding on the rush seat. The paper which covered the walls and the ceiling was splashed all over with soapy water. There was such a stench there, such a smell of lavender turned musty, that Nana opened the window. She stood there for a minute, breathing the fresh air, and leaning out to catch a glimpse of Madame Bron, whom she heard vigorously sweeping the green flagstones on the shady side of the narrow courtyard. A canary, in a cage hung up against a shutter, was uttering some piercing roulades. One could not hear the sounds of the vehicles on the Boulevard or in the neighbouring streets, all was as peaceful as in the country, though the sun but seldom penetrated there. On raising her eyes, Nana saw the little buildings and the shining glass roofs of the galleries of the Passage; then, farther off, in front of her, the high houses of the Rue Vivienne, the backs of which were so devoid of life that they seemed empty. Terraces rose one above another. On a roof a photographer had perched an enormous cage of blue glass. It looked very gay. Nana was becoming absorbed in contemplating the scene, when she thought she heard a knock at the door. She turned round and called out:

“Come in!”

On seeing the count enter she closed the window. The day was cold, and it was not necessary that curious Madame Bron should overhear them. They looked at one another gravely. Then, as he stood very stiff and speechless, she laughed, and said:

“Well! so there you are, you big booby!”

His emotion was so strong that he seemed frozen. He called her madame, and said how happy he was to see her again. So, to bring matters to the point that she desired, she became more familiar still.

“Now don’t stand on your dignity. As you wished to see me, it was not for us to look at each other like a couple of china dogs, I suppose! We’ve both been wrong. As for me, I forgive you!”

And it was agreed that they would not refer to the subject again. He nodded his approval. He was becoming calmer but, as yet, could find nothing to say out of the tumultuous flow of words which rushed to his lips. Surprised at his coldness, she played her trump card.

“Well, now, you’re reasonable,” she resumed, with a slight smile. “As we’ve made our peace, let’s shake hands and remain good friends for the future.”

“How good friends?” murmured he, becoming suddenly anxious.

“Yes, perhaps it’s stupid of me, but I was desirous of your esteem. At present we’ve explained matters, and if we ever meet each other anywhere, we, at least, won’t look like a couple of fools—”

He seemed on the point of interrupting her.

“Let me finish what I have to say. No man—do you hear?—no man has ever had anything to reproach me with. Well, it vexed me to begin with you. We all have our honour, my pet.”

“But that’s not it!” he exclaimed, violently. “Sit down and listen to me.”

And, as though he feared she might go away, he pushed her on to the only chair. He walked about, his agitation increasing. The little dressing-room, close and full of sunshine, had a moist, warm atmosphere, and not a sound from outside reached it, except the canary’s piercing roulades, which, in the pauses, seemed like the distant trills of a flute.

“Listen,” said he, standing before her, “I have come to take you back. Yes, I want to begin again. You know it well, so why do you talk to me like this? Tell me—you consent?”

She held down her head, and was scratching with her nail the red coloured rush seat, which appeared to be bleeding beneath her; and, seeing him so anxious, she did not hurry herself. At length she raised her face, now become serious, while to her eyes she had managed to give an expression of sadness.

“Oh! impossible, little man. Never again will I live with you.”

“Why?” stuttered he, as a twinge of intense suffering passed over his countenance.

“Why? well!—because—it’s impossible, that’s all. I don’t wish it.”

He looked at her ardently for a few seconds longer. Then, bending his legs, he knelt on the floor. She looked annoyed and contented herself by adding.

“Oh! don’t be a child!”

But he was already behaving as one. Fallen at her feet, he had seized her round the waist, which he squeezed tightly, with his face between her knees, which he was pressing against his breast. When he felt her thus, when he felt again the velvet-like texture of her limbs beneath the thin material of her dress, his frame shook convulsively; and shivering with fever, and distracted, he pressed harder against her, as though he wished to become a part of her. The old chair creaked. Sighs of desire were stifled beneath the low ceiling, in the atmosphere rendered foul by stale perfumes.

“Well! and what next?” said Nana, letting him do as he pleased. “All this will not help you, when I tell you it’s not possible. Dear me! how young you are!”

He became quieter, but he remained on the ground. He did not let go of her, and he said, in a voice broken by sobs,

“At least, listen to what I came to offer you. I have already seen a mansion near the Pare Monceau. I would realise all your desires. To have you all my own I would give my fortune. Yes! that would be the only condition—all my own, you understand me! and if you consent to be mine alone, oh! I should wish you to be the most admired, and also the richest—carriages, diamonds, dresses—”

Nana proudly shook her head at each offer. Then as he continued, as he talked of settling money on her, not knowing what more to lay at her feet, she seemed to lose patience.

“Come, have you finished mauling me about? I’m good-natured, I let you do it for a minute, because you seemed so upset; but there now, that’s enough, isn’t it? Let me get up; you’re tiring me.”

She shook him off. When she rose, she said: “No, no, no—I won’t.”

Then he regained his feet painfully, and having no strength left, he dropped on to the chair, leaning against the back, his face buried in his hands. Nana in her turn, walked about. For a moment she looked at the stained wall-paper, the greasy dressing-table, all over that dirty hole, bathed in the pale sunlight. Then stopping in front of the count, she spoke without the slightest emotion.

“It’s funny how rich people suppose they can have everything for their money. Well! but if I won’t? I don’t care a pin for your presents. You might give me all Paris, and I would say ‘no,’ and always ‘no.’ It isn’t very clean in here, as you see.

Well! I should think it lovely, if it pleased me to live here with you; whereas one pines away in your palaces, if one’s heart isn’t there. Ah! money! my poor fellow, I have some somewhere! But let me tell you, I dance on money! more, I spit upon it!”

And she assumed a look of disgust. Then, she went in for sentiment, and added in a melancholy tone of voice:

“I know of something that is worth more than money. Ah! if any one gave me what I desire.”

He slowly raised his head, his eyes sparkled with hope.

“Oh! you can’t give it me,” she resumed; “it’s not in your power to do so, and that is why I speak of it to you. Well, this is only between ourselves—I wish for the part of the grand lady, in their new piece.”

“What grand lady?” murmured he in surprise.

“Their Duchess Hélène, of course! If they think I’m going to play Géraldine, they’re very much mistaken! A part of no consequence at all—one scene, and not much in that! Besides, it’s not only that. I’ve had enough of gay women.^at Always gay women; one would think I’ve nothing in me but gay women. It’s become annoying in the long run, for I can see clear enough, they fancy I’m ill-bred. Ah, well! my friend, they make a slight mistake! When I choose to be the grand lady, I do it as well as any one! Just look at this!”

And she retreated to the window, then advanced carrying her head high, measuring her steps with the circumspect air of a fat old hen, hesitating to dirty her feet. He watched her with his eyes still full of tears, stupefied by this sudden bit of comedy traversing his anguish. She walked about for a while to show all her by-play, smiling delicately, blinking her eye-lids, swaying her skirts; then stopping in front of him, she said:

“Well! I think that’s good enough, isn’t it?”

“Oh! quite,” he stammered, with a choking sensation in his throat, and his glance still dim.

“I told you I could do the grand lady! I tried it at home, and there’s not one of them that has my little air of a duchess who doesn’t care a hang for the men. Did you notice, when I passed in front of you, how I quizzed you? That air only comes with the blood. And then I want to play the part of a respectable woman. It has been my dream; it is making me quite unhappy. I must have the part, do you hear? I must have it!”

She spoke in a harsh tone of voice. She had become serious now, and was greatly affected, suffering from her stupid desire. Muffat, not yet recovered from the blow of her refusals, waited without understanding. There was a short silence, which was not disturbed by the least sound.

“Do you know,” she resumed, without any more beating about the bush; “you must get that part given to me.”

He was astounded. Then with a gesture of despair, he said, “But it is not possible! You said yourself that I had no power to do so.”

She interrupted him with a shrug of her shoulders.

“You’ve only to go downstairs and say to Bordenave that you want the part. Pray don’t be so simple! Bordenave is in want of money. Well! you can lend him some, as you’ve such a lot to throw out of the window.” And as he still argued against it, she grew angry. “Very well, I understand; you’re afraid Rose won’t like it. I didn’t speak to you of her when you were sobbing on the ground. I should have had too much to say about her. Yes, when a man swears to a woman that he will love her for ever, he shouldn’t go the next day and make up to the first one he meets. Oh! the wound is here; I sha’n’t forget it! Besides, my friend, it’s not so pleasant after all to take the Mignons’ leavings! Before you went and made a fool of yourself down at my knees, you would have done better to have broken off entirely with that dirty set! ”

He kept protesting, and ended at last by being able to say a few words. “But I don’t care a button for Rose; I will cast her off at once.”

Nana appeared to be satisfied on that point. She resumed: “Then what is it that bothers you? Bordenave’s the master. You’ll tell me that besides Bordenave there’s Fauchery.”

She spoke slower now. She was arriving at the delicate part of the matter. Muffat, his eyes fixed on the ground, said nothing. He had remained in a voluntary ignorance respecting Fauchery’s assiduities for the countess, gradually quieting his suspicions, and hoping that he had been mistaken on that frightful night passed by him in a doorway of the Rue Taitbout. But he entertained a certain repugnance and a secret anger against the man.

“Well—what! Fauchery isn’t the devil!” repeated Nana, feeling her way, wishing to find out how things were between the husband and the lover. “It’s easy enough to get over Fauchery. He is at bottom a very decent fellow, I assure you. Well! it’s understood; you’ll tell him it’s for me.”

The mere idea of such an undertaking was revolting to the count.

“No, no, never! cried he.

She waited. This phrase came to her lips, “Fauchery can refuse you nothing”; but she felt that it would be rather too strong an argument to use. Only she smiled, and her smile, which was a peculiar one, seemed to speak the words. Muffat, glancing up at her face, lowered his gaze again, and looked pale and embarrassed.

“Ah! you’re not at all obliging,” murmured she at length.

“I cannot!” said he in a voice full of agony. “Everything you wish; but not that, my love—oh! I pray you!”

So she did not waste any more time in arguing. With her little hands she bent back his head; then stooping forward, she pressed her lips to his in one long embrace. A thrill passed through his frame. He started beneath her; his eyes were closed, his reason gone. And she raised him from his seat.

“Go,” said she, simply.

He walked, he moved towards the door; but as he was about to leave the room, she took him once more in her arms, and, looking up at him meekly and coaxingly, she rubbed her cat-like chin against his waistcoat.

“Where is the mansion?” asked she, in a very low voice, in the confused and laughing way of a child returning to some good things it would not at first look at.

“In the Avenue de Villiers.”

“And are there any carriages?”

“Yes.”

“And lace, and diamonds?”

“Yes.”

“Oh! how kind you are, my ducky! You know, just now, it was because I was jealous; and this time, I swear to you, sha‘n’t be like the first, for now you know what a woman requires. You give me everything, don’t you? Then I sha’n’t want to have anything to do with any one else. Look! they’re only for you now!—that, and that, and that!”

When she had pushed him outside, after stimulating him with a shower of kisses on his face and hands, she stood a moment to take breath. Good heavens! what a stench there was in the dressing-room of that untidy Mathilde! It was warm in there, just like a room in the south of France with the winter sun shining upon it; but, really, it smelt too much of stale lavender water, and of other things not very clean. Nana opened the window. She looked out as before, and examined the glass roof of the Passage to pass the time away.

Muffat staggered down stairs with a buzzing in his ears. What was he to say? how could he enter into this matter, which was none of his business? As he reached the stage he heard sounds of quarrelling. They were finishing the second act. Prullière was in a fury because Fauchery had wished to strike out one of his speeches.

“Strike them all out then,” cried he, “I would rather you did that! What! I haven’t two hundred lines, and now some of those are to be taken away! No, I’ve had enough of it; I throw up my part.”

He pulled out of his pocket a crumpled little memorandum and turned it over in his trembling hands, as though about to throw it on to Cossard’s knees. His injured vanity convulsed his pale face, his lips being tightly compressed, and his eyes on fire, without his being able to conceal that internal revolution.

He, Prullière, the idol of the public, to perform a part of two hundred lines!

“Why not make me bring in letters on a salver?” resumed he, bitterly.

“Come, Prullière, do be pleasant,” said Bordenave, who humoured him on account of his influence on the people in the boxes. “Don’t begin your complaints again. We will find you some good effects. Eh, Fauchery? you’ll introduce some effects for him. In the third act we could even lengthen one of the scenes.”

“Then,” declared the actor, “I must have the word at the end. You certainly owe me that.”

Fauchery’s silence appeared to give consent, and Prullière put his part back in his pocket, still excited and discontented all the same. Bosc and Fontan, during the discussion, had assumed looks of supreme indifference. Every one for himself. It did not concern them, they took no interest in it; and all the actors surrounded Fauchery, questioning him and fishing for compliments, whilst Mignon listened to Prullière’s final complaints, without losing sight of Count Muffat, whose return he had been watching for. The count remained in shadow at the back of the stage, hesitating to advance into the midst of the quarrel; but Bordenave catching sight of him, hastened to where he stood.

“Aren’t they a set of grumblers?” murmured he. “You’ve no idea, count, what trouble I have with those people. They’re all more vain one than the other, and so disobliging and spiteful —always slandering other people, and only too delighted if I make myself ill in keeping them to their business. But excuse me, I’m losing my temper.”

He stopped, and silence ensued between them. Muffat was seeking a way of leading up to the subject that occupied his mind; but failing in his endeavour, he ended by abruptly saying, so as to get it over the sooner,

“Nana wants to play the part of the duchess.”

Bordenave started violently as he exclaimed, “Pooh! that’s absurd!” Then glancing at the count, he saw him looking so pale, so agitated, that he regained his composure at once. “The deuce!” he added simply.

And there was again silence between them. As for himself, he did not care a fig. It would perhaps be funny to have that fat Nana to play the part of the duchess. Besides, he would thus have a strong hold on Muffat. So his decision was soon formed. He turned round and called,

“Fauchery! ”

The count made a slight gesture to stop him. Fauchery did not hear. Fontan had got him up against the proscenium wall, and was giving him his ideas of the part of Tardiveau. The actor thought he should make up as a Marseillais, with the southern accent, which he kept imitating. He made whole speeches that way; was that the proper rendering of the part? He seemed only to be giving his own ideas, and which he himself had doubts about. But Fauchery, keeping very cool in the matter, and offering numerous objections, Fontan became annoyed at once. Very well! As the correct reading of the part had entirely escaped him, it would be far better for every one that he should not play it.

“Fauchery!” Bordenave again called.

Then the young man hurried away, glad of the opportunity of escaping from the actor, who felt highly indignant at being left in so abrupt a manner.

“Don’t let us remain here,” resumed Bordenave. “Come, gentlemen.”

To be out of the way of indiscreet ears, he took them to the property room behind the stage. Mignon watched them go off, greatly surprised. A few steps descended to the room, which was square, with a couple of windows looking on to the courtyard. The ceiling was low, and the dirty window panes only admitted that dim light usually met with in cellars. In pigeon-holes placed about the room was a collection of all sorts of things—the turn-out of a second-hand dealer of the Rue de Lappe^au selling off, an odd medley of plates, of cups in gilded pasteboard, of old red umbrellas, of Italian pitchers, of clocks of every shape and size, of trays and inkstands, of firearms and squirts—the whole heaped anyhow, chipped, broken, unrecognisable, and covered with a layer of dust an inch thick; and an unbearable stench of old iron and rags and of damp pasteboard arose from the piles formed of the remains of the pieces produced during a period of fifty years.

“Come in here,” said Bordenave. “We shall at least be by ourselves.”

The count, very much embarrassed, moved on a few steps, to leave the manager to arrange matters by himself. Fauchery could not make it all out.

“What’s up?” he asked.

“Well, it’s just this,” said Bordenave at length. “An idea has occurred to us—now, don’t jump, it’s very serious. What do you think of Nana playing the part of the duchess?”

At first the author was quite bewildered, then he burst out,

“Oh, no! you can’t mean it—it must be a joke. Every one would laugh at it.”

“Well! it’s something to get people to laugh! Think it over, dear boy. The count is very much smitten with the idea.”

Muffat, to conceal his emotion, had taken an object that he did not seem to recognise from amidst the dust on a shelf. It was an egg-cup, the foot of which had been mended with plaster. He kept it in his hand without knowing he did so, and advanced towards the others to murmur:

“Yes, yes, it would be capital.”

Fauchery turned round upon him, with an impatient gesture. The count had nothing to do with his piece; and he exclaimed in a decided tone of voice:

“Never! Nana as the gay woman as much as you like, but as the grand lady, not if I know it!”

“You do not judge her fairly, I assure you,” resumed Muffat, becoming bolder. “Only just now, she was showing me how well she could play the grand lady.”

“Where?” inquired Fauchery, whose astonishment increased.

“Upstairs, in one of the dressing-rooms. Well! she did it splendidly. Oh! such distinction! She can give such glances, too, you know, in passing—this way.”

And with the egg-cup in his hand, he tried to imitate Nana, forgetting himself in the force of his desire to convince the two other men. Fauchery watched him in amazement. He understood, and his anger vanished. The count, who felt his glance upon him, in which there was derision and pity combined, blushed slightly and stopped.

“Well! it may be so,” murmured the author, obligingly. “She would perhaps do it very well, only the part is already given. We cannot take it away from Rose.”

“Oh! if that’s all,” said Bordenave, “I will undertake to manage that.”

But then, seeing them both against him, understanding that Bordenave had some hidden motive for acting as he did, the young man, not wishing to give way, declined again, but with increased energy, and in a manner not to admit of any further discussion.

“No, I say! and no, and always no! Even if the part was not filled up I would never give it to her—there, is that clear enough for you? And now let me be, I don’t want to damn my own piece.”

After this there was an embarrassed silence. Bordenave, thinking himself in the way, withdrew some distance off. The count stood with his head bowed down. He raised it with an effort, and said, in a broken voice,

“My dear fellow, if I ask you to do it as a special favour to myself?”

“I cannot, I cannot,” repeated Fauchery, struggling.

Muffat’s voice became harsher.

“I beg of you—I wish it!

And he looked him straight in the eyes. Beneath that black look, in which he read a menace, the young man suddenly gave way, stammering confusedly,

“Well, after all, do as you wish—I don’t care. Ah! you are unfair. You will see—you will see—”

The embarrassment then became greater. Fauchery had leant up against some shelves, and was nervously stamping on the floor with his foot. Muffat appeared to be examining the egg-cup very attentively, as he continued to turn it round between his fingers.

“It’s an egg-cup,” Bordenave obligingly came and said.

“Why! yes, it’s an egg-cup,” repeated the count.

“Excuse me, you’re all covered with dust,” continued the manager, as he replaced the article on a shelf. “You see, it would be impossible to be dusting here every day—one would always be at it. The consequence is it’s not very clean. What a mixture, isn’t it? Well, believe me if you like, it represents a lot of money. Look here—and here.”

He led Muffat, in the greenish light that came from the courtyard, in front of all the shelves, naming the different articles, wishing to interest him in his rag merchant’s inventory, as he called it. Then, when they had worked their way round to where Fauchery stood, he said, in an easy tone of voice,

“Listen! As we are now agreed, we’ll settle this matter at once. Ah! there is Mignon.”

For a little while past Mignon had been hanging about in the passage. At the first words Bordenave uttered, suggesting an alteration in their agreement, he flew into a passion. It was disgraceful. They wanted to ruin his wife’s prospects. He would go to law about it. Bordenave, however, remained very calm, and reasoned with him. He did not think the part worthy of Rose—he preferred to reserve her for an operetta, which would come on after the “Little Duchess”; but as the husband still complained, he abruptly offered to annul the agreement, and spoke of the proposals which the management of the Folies-Dramatiques Theatre had made the singer. Then Mignon, for a moment worsted, affected a great disdain for money, without, however, denying the existence of the offers in question. They had engaged his wife to play the part of the Duchess Hélène, and she would play it, even though it cost him his fortune. It was a question of dignity, of honour. Once engaged on this ground, the discussion became interminable. The manager always reverted to this argument: as the Folies-Dramatiques people offered Rose three hundred francs a night—one hundred performances guaranteed—whilst she only received one hundred and fifty from him, his letting her go meant a profit of fifteen thousand francs for her. The husband, on his side, did not depart from his standpoint—that of art. What would be said if the part was taken away from his wife? that she was not equal to it, and had been replaced. That would do her a great injury, and would lower her artistic standard considerably. No, no, never! glory before wealth! Then, all on a sudden, he hinted at a compromise. According to the agreement, if Rose threw up her engagement she forfeited ten thousand francs. Well, if they gave her that sum she would go to the Folies-Dramatiques Theatre. Bordenave could scarcely believe his ears, whilst Mignon, who had not taken his eyes off the count quietly waited.

“Then that settles everything,” murmured Muffat with relief. “We are all agreed.”

“Ah, no! by Jove! it would be too idiotic!” exclaimed Bordenave, carried away by his business instincts. “Ten thousand francs to get rid of Rose! you must think me a fool!”

But the count kept signalling to him to agree to the proposal. He, however, still hesitated. At length, grumbling, regretting the ten thousand francs, though they were not to come out of his pocket, he curtly resumed,

“After all, I’m willing. I shall at least be rid of you.”

For a quarter of an hour past, Fontan had been listening in the courtyard. Very curious to know what was going on, he had gone and posted himself there. When he had heard all there was to learn, he returned indoors, and gave himself the treat of informing Rose. Ah, well! they were having a fine talk about her; she was done for. Rose rushed to the property room. They all remained silent. She looked at the four men. Muffat bowed his head; Fauchery answered her inquiring gaze with a despairing shrug of his shoulders. As for Mignon, he was discussing the terms of the agreement with Bordenave.

“What’s up?” asked she in a sharp tone of voice.

“Nothing,” said her husband. “It’s only Bordenave who’s going to give ten thousand francs for the return of your part.”

She was very pale and trembling as she stood there with clinched fists. For a moment she looked him straight in the eyes in a revolt of her whole being—she who ordinarily quietly submitted to him in all business matters, the making of agreements with her managers and her lovers. She only found these few words to say, which struck him full in the face like the lash of a whip,

“Ah, really! you are too much a coward!”

And then she left them. Mignon, greatly alarmed, hastened after her. What was the matter? was she mad? He explained to her in a whisper that ten thousand francs from one side and fifteen thousand francs from the other made twenty-five thousand francs. A magnificent stroke of business! Anyhow, it was certain that Muffat was going to leave her; therefore it was quite evident they ought to congratulate themselves on having succeeded in plucking that last feather from his wing. But Rose was so enraged she would not answer. Then Mignon left her with disdain to her woman’s vexation. He said to Bordenave, who was returning to the stage with Fauchery and Muffat,

“We will sign the agreement to-morrow morning. Have the money ready.”

Nana, informed by Labordette of what had taken place, arrived triumphant. She affected the style of a respectable woman, with most distinguished ways, just to astonish every one and to prove to those idiots that, when she liked, not one of them could come up to her; but she almost forgot herself. Rose, as soon as she saw her, flew at her, stammering in a choking voice,

“Ah! I shall see you again. We must have it out, do you hear?”

Taken off her guard by this sudden attack, Nana was on the point of putting her fists on her hips and abusing the other roundly. She restrained herself, however, and exaggerating the fluty tone of her voice, making the gesture of a marchioness on the point of treading on a piece of orange peel, she said,

“Eh? what? You must be crazy, my dear! ”

And she continued her airs, whilst Rose went off followed by Mignon, who scarcely knew her. Clarisse, to her great delight, had just had the part of Géraldine given to her by Bordenave. Fauchery moodily stamped about, without being able to make up his mind to leave the theatre. His piece would be damned; he was wondering how he could save it. But Nana went and seized hold of him by the wrists, and asked him if he thought her so very dreadful. She would not damn his piece; and she made him laugh, and let him understand that she might be of assistance to him with Muffat. If her memory failed her, she would make use of the prompter; they would pack the house. Besides, he was mistaken in her; he would see how she would carry all before her. Then it was settled that the author should slightly alter the part of the duchess, so as to give more to Prullière. The latter was delighted. In the general joy that Nana seemed naturally to bring with her, Fontan alone remained indifferent. Standing up, full in the yellow glare of the gas-jets, he showed himself off, displaying his sharp goat-like profile, and affecting an easy posture. Nana coolly went up to him, and holding out her hand, said,

“Are you quite well?”

“Yes, pretty well. And you?”

“I’m very well, thanks.”

That was all. It seemed as though they had left each other only the night before at the door of the theatre. The actors, during all this time, had been waiting; but Bordenave at length said they would not rehearse the third act that day. Punctual for a wonder, old Bosc went off grumbling; they were always keeping them without any necessity, they made them waste entire afternoons. Everyone went away. Below, arrived on the pavement, they blinked their eyes, blinded by the bright daylight, with the bewilderment of people who have spent three hours quarrelling in the depths of a cellar, with a constant strain upon their nerves. The count, feeling dizzy and overwrought, got into a cab with Nana, whilst Labordette went off consoling Fauchery.

A month later, the first performance of the “Little Duchess” was a great disaster for Nana. She was atrociously bad in it. She made pretensions to high-class comedy which filled the audience with merriment. No one hissed, they were all too much amused. Seated in one of the stage-boxes, Rose Mignon greeted each appearance of her rival with a shrill burst of laughter, thus setting off the whole house. It was a first revenge. And when, at night-time, Nana found herself alone with the count, who was very much cut up, she said to him furiously,

“What a dead set they made against me! It’s all jealousy! Ah! if they knew how little I care for it! I can do without them all now! I’ll bet a hundred louis that I’ll make all those who laughed lick the ground at my feet! Yes, I’ll teach your Paris what it is to be a grand lady! ”