Nana (Barnes & Noble Classics) - Emile Zola [49]
Nevertheless La Faloise would very much have liked to have known the name of the woman at whose house the supper was to take place, but the countess had recalled Vandeuvres, and was questioning him as to the way tea was made in England. He was often there, attending the races in which his horses ran. According to him, only the Russians knew how to make tea; and he mentioned their recipe. Then, as though he had been thinking very much whilst speaking, he interrupted himself to ask, “By the way, and the marquis? Were we not to have seen him?”
“Why, yes; my father certainly promised,” replied the countess. “I am beginning to feel uneasy. His work must have detained him.”
Vandeuvres smiled discreetly He also seemed to have a doubt as to the nature of the work on which the Marquis de Chouard was engaged. He had thought of a charming person whom the marquis sometimes took into the country. Perhaps they might be able to get her for the supper. However, Fauchery thought the time had come for acquainting Count Muffat with the invitation he had for him. It was getting late.
“Do you seriously mean it?” asked Vandeuvres, who thought it was a joke.
“Most seriously. If I don’t ask him, she will scratch my eyes out. It’s a whim of hers, you know.”
“Then I’ll help you, my boy.”
The clock struck eleven. The countess and her daughter served the tea. As there were scarcely any but intimate friends, the cups and plates of biscuits and cake were familiarly handed round. The ladies remained in their chairs before the fire, sipping their tea, and crunching the biscuits which they held between the tips of their fingers. From music the conversation dwindled to tradesmen. There was no one like Boissier for sweets, and Catherine for ices; Madame Chantereau, however, preferred Latinville. The talk slackened, a weariness seemed to seize upon every one. Steiner had resumed his attack on the deputy, whom he blockaded in the corner of a sofa. M. Venot, whose teeth had probably been destroyed by sweetmeats, was rapidly devouring some hard cakes, making a little noise like a mouse; whilst the head of the department, his nose in his cup, never seemed to have had enough. And the countess, without the least hurry, moved from one to another, not pressing them, but standing a few seconds looking at the men in a sort of silent interrogative manner, then smiling and passing on. The heat of the fire had given quite a colour to her face, and she seemed to be the sister of her daughter, who looked so skinny and awkward beside her. As she drew near to Fauchery, who was conversing with her husband and Vandeuvres, she noticed that they left off talking. She did not stop, but, passing further on, offered George Hugon the cup of tea she was carrying.
“It is a lady who desires your company at supper,” gaily resumed the journalist, addressing Count Muffat.
The latter, whose countenance had retained its dark look all the evening, seemed greatly surprised. What lady could they mean?
“Why, Nana!” said Vandeuvres, so as to have it out at once.
The count became still more serious. He scarcely moved his eyelids, whilst a pain, like a twitch of neuralgia, passed over his face. “But I do not know the lady.” he murmured.
“Oh! come now! Why you went and called on her,” observed Vandeuvres.
“What! I called on her. Ah! yes, the other day, for the poor relief committee. I had forgotten all about it. All the same, I do not know her. I cannot accept.”
He assumed his most dignified air, to let them understand that he considered their joke in very bad taste. The place of a man of his rank was not at the table of such a woman. Vandeuvres protested: it was merely a supper given to some actresses ; talent excused everything. But without listening to him any more than to Fauchery, who began to tell him of a dinner at which a prince, the son of a queen, had sat next to a woman who used to sing at music-halls, the count gave a most decided refusal. He even, in spite of his great politeness,