Nana (Barnes & Noble Classics) - Emile Zola [13]
After this explosion he calmed down a little. But the emptiness of the house, the dim light that pervaded the whole, the opening and shutting of doors, and the hushed voices suggestive of a church, irritated him.
“Confound it!” he said, suddenly. “I can’t stand this, you know. I must go out. Perhaps we shall meet Bordenave below. He will give us some details.”
In the marble paved vestibule, where the box-office was situated, they found the public beginning to arrive. Through the three open doors all the busy throng on the Boulevards could be seen enjoying the beautiful April evening. Carriages dashed up to the theatre, and the doors were slammed noisily. People entered by twos and threes, and, after stopping at the box-office, ascended the double staircase in the rear—the women walking slowly with a swinging gait. In the glare of the gas were pasted, on the naked walls of this hall, whose meagre decorations in the style of the Empire suggested the peristyle of a card-board temple, some enormous yellow posters, in which Nana’s name appeared in huge black letters. Men were loitering in front of these bills as they read them, while others were standing about talking among themselves, and blocking up the doorways; whilst near the box-office a thick-set man, with a big, clean-shaved face, was roughly replying to some people who were in vain endeavouring to obtain seats.
“There’s Bordenave!” said Fauchery, as he and Hector descended the stairs.
But the manager had caught sight of him. “You are a nice fellow,” he called out. “That is the way you write me a notice, is it? I opened the ‘Figaro’c this morning—not a word.”
“Wait a bit,” replied Fauchery. “I must see your Nana before I can write about her. Besides, I made no promise!”
Then, to prevent further discussion, he presented his cousin, M. Hector de la Faloise, a young man who had come to complete his education in Paris. The manager weighed the young man at a glance; but Hector surveyed the manager with some little emotion. This then was Bordenave, the exhibitor of women, whom he treated in the style of a prison warder, and whose brain was ever hatching some fresh money-making scheme—a perfect cynic, always shouting, or spitting, or smacking his thighs, and possessing the coarse mind of a trooper! Hector was anxious to make a good impression on him.
“Your theatre—” he began, in clear, musical tones.
Bordenave interrupted him quietly, and said, with the coolness of a man who prefers to call things by their right names: “Say my brothel, rather.”
Fauchery laughed approvingly, but La Faloise was shocked to a degree, and his meditated compliment stuck in his throat, as he endeavoured to look as though he appreciated the joke. The manager had rushed off to shake hands with a dramatic critic whose criticisms had great influence, and, when he returned, La Faloise had almost recovered himself. He feared lest he should be regarded as a provincial if he appeared too much disconcerted.
“I have been told,” he began, wishing at any rate to say something, “that Nana has a delicious voice.”
“She!” cried the manager, shrugging his shoulders—“she has no more voice than a squirt.”
The young man hastened to add: “Besides, she is an excellent actress.”
“She!—a regular lump! She never knows where to put her hands or her feet.”
La Faloise coloured slightly. He was at a loss what to understand. He managed to stammer out: “On no account would I have missed this first night. I know that your theatre—”
“Say my brothel,” interrupted Bordenave again, with the cool obstinacy of a man thoroughly convinced.
Meanwhile Fauchery had been calmly examining the women as they entered. He now came to his cousin’s assistance, when he saw him doubtful whether to laugh