Nana (Barnes & Noble Classics) - Emile Zola [205]
Ever since his inheritance had given him an insolent assurance, he affected to poke fun at Fauchery, having an old spite to gratify, wishing to be revenged for the banterings of the time when he first arrived from the country.
“Yes, that lady who has a lot of lace about her.”
The journalist stood on tiptoe, not yet understanding. “The countess?” he ended by saying.
“Just so, my boy. I’ve bet ten louis. Are her thighs good?”
And he burst out laughing, delighted at having succeeded in taking down a peg that fellow who had once amazed him so much when he asked him if the countess had a lover. But Fauchery, without showing the least surprise, looked him straight in the face.
“You idiot! said he at last, shrugging his shoulders.
Then he shook hands with the other gentlemen, whilst La Faloise, quite put out of countenance, was no longer very sure of having said something funny. They stood conversing together. Ever since the races, the banker and Foucarmont had joined the set at the Avenue de Villiers. Nana was much better; the count called every evening to see how she was progressing. However, Fauchery, who merely listened, seemed preoccupied. That morning, during a quarrel, Rose had deliberately told him that she had sent the letter. Yes, he might go and call on his grand lady, he would be well received. After hesitating for a long time, he had courageously made up his mind to come. But La Faloise’s stupid joke had upset him, in spite of his apparent serenity.
“What’s the matter with you?” asked Philippe. “You don’t seem well.”
“I? oh! I’m all right. I’ve been working, that’s why I’m so late.” Then, coolly, with one of those unknown heroisms which unravel the common tragedies of life, he added, “With all that, I’ve not paid my respects to our hosts. One must be polite.”
He even dared to joke, and turning to La Faloise, said, “Am I not right, idiot?”
And he made a passage for himself through the crowd. The footman was no longer bawling out the names. The count and countess, however, were still near the door, conversing with some ladies who had just entered. At length he reached the spot where they stood, whilst the gentlemen he had just left on the steps leading into the garden stood up on tiptoe to have a good view of the scene. Nana must have been gossiping.
“The count does not see him,” murmured George. “Attention! he’s turning round. There, now they’re at it.”
The orchestra was again playing the waltz of the “Blonde Venus.” First of all, Fauchery bowed to the countess, who continued to smile, serenely delighted. Then he stood for a moment immovable, calmly waiting, behind the count’s back. The count that night maintained his haughty gravity—the official bearing of a high dignitary. When at length he lowered his eyes towards the journalist, he exaggerated still more his majestic attitude. For some seconds the two men looked at each other; and it was Fauchery who first held out his hand. Muffat clasped it. Their hands were locked one in the other. Countess Sabine smiled in front of them, her eyes cast on the ground; whilst the waltz continued to unroll its saucy rhythm.
“But it’s going splendidly!” said Steiner.
“Are their hands glued together?” asked Foucarmont, amazed at the length of time they remained clasped.
An invincible recollection brought a rosy blush to Fauchery’s pale cheeks. He again beheld the property-room, with its greenish light and its odd assortment of things smothered with dust; and Muffat was there, holding the egg-cup, and taking advantage of his suspicions. Now, Muffat no longer had any doubts; it was a last shred of dignity collapsing. Fauchery, relieved of his fright, seeing the countess’s evident gaiety, was seized with a desire to laugh. It seemed to him so comic.
“Ah! this time it is indeed she!” exclaimed La Faloise, who stuck to a joke when once he thought it a good one. “There’s Nana over there. Look, she’s entering the room!”
“Shut up, you idiot!” murmured Philippe.
“I tell you it is she! They’re playing her waltz! She comes; and, besides,