Nana (Barnes & Noble Classics) - Emile Zola [163]
No doubt Madame Hugon heard of her boy’s new fall into the power of that bad woman, for she hurried to Paris and sought the assistance of her other son, Lieutenant Philippe, who was then in garrison at Vincennes. George, who had been hiding from the elder brother, was seized with despair, fearing the employment of force; and as he could keep nothing to himself, in the nervous expansion of his tender-heartedness, he soon talked to Nana, continually, of his big brother—a strong fellow who would dare anything.
“You see,” he explained, “mamma will not come here herself, but she can very well send my brother. I’m sure she will send Philippe to fetch me.”
The first time he mentioned this, Nana was greatly offended. She said sharply,
“I should just like to see him do it! In spite of his being a lieutenant, François will very quickly send him to the right about! ”
Then, the youngster constantly alluding to his brother, she ended by thinking a little of Philippe. When a week had gone by, she knew him from the hair of his head to the tips of his toes—very tall, very strong, lively and rather rough; and with all that, some more minute details, certain hairs on his arm, a mole on his shoulder. So that one day, full of the image of this man, whom she was to send off a little quicker than he came, she exclaimed,
“I say, Zizi, it doesn’t seem as if your brother was coming. He must be a coward!”
On the morrow, as George was alone with Nana, François came and asked if madame would receive Lieutenant Philippe Hugon. The youngster turned quite pale, and murmured,
“I was expecting it; mamma spoke to me this morning.”
And he implored the young woman to send word that she was engaged. But she had already risen and said, greatly incensed,
“Why, pray? he’ll think I’m afraid. Ah, well! we’ll have a good laugh. François, let the gentleman wait a quarter of an hour in the drawing-room, and then bring him to me.”
She did not sit down again but walked feverishly about, going from the looking-glass over the mantlepiece to a Venetian mirror hanging above a little Italian casket, and each time she gave a glance or essayed a smile, whilst George, lying on a sofa without an atom of strength left in him, trembled at the idea of the scene which was preparing. As she walked about she kept uttering short phrases:
“It will calm the fellow to keep him waiting a quarter of an hour. And then, if he thinks he’s come to a nobody’s, the drawing-room will astonish him. Yes, yes, take a good look at everything, my friend; it’s all genuine. It’ll teach you to respect the mistress. It’s the only thing men can understand—respect. Is the quarter of an hour gone yet? No, scarcely ten minutes. Oh! we’ve plenty of time.”
She could not keep still. When the quarter was up she sent George away, after making him swear not to listen at the doors, for it would look very bad if the servants were to see him. As he went into the bed-room, Zizi ventured to say in a choking voice,
“You know, it’s my brother—”
“Don’t be afraid,” said she with dignity; “if he’s polite, I’ll be polite.”
François ushered in Philippe Hugon, who was attired in an overcoat. At first George moved across the bed-room on the tips of his toes, so as not to listen, as the young woman had told him; but, hearing the voices, he stopped, hesitating, and so full of anguish that his legs yielded beneath him. He was fancying all manner of things—catastrophes, slaps, something abominable that would sever him for ever from Nana; so much so that he could not resist retracing his footsteps and putting his ear to the key-hole. He heard very indistinctly, as the thickness of the hangings deadened the sound. Yet he was able to catch