Nana (Barnes & Noble Classics) - Emile Zola [62]
“My children!” shouted Bordenave, “don’t forget that we have a performance to-morrow. Take care! beware of the champagne! ”
“Oh,” said Foucarmont, “I have drunk of every kind of wine made in the world—some of the most extraordinary liquids, alcohols capable of killing a man right off. Well! they never affected me in the least. I can’t get drunk. I’ve tried, but I can’t.”
He looked very pale and cool, as he leant back in his chair and continued drinking.
“All the same,” murmured Louise Violaine, “leave off, you’ve had enough. It will be very amusing if I have to nurse you for the rest of the night.”
A slight intoxication coloured Lucy Stewart’s cheeks with a consumptive-looking flush, whilst Rose Mignon, her eyes moist with a desire to cry, had become quite tender-hearted. Tatan Néné, dizzy with having eaten too much, laughed vaguely at her own stupidity. The others, Blanche, Caroline, Simone, Maria, were all talking together, telling each other their private affairs—a dispute with a coachman, a contemplated trip into the country, and some complicated stories of lovers stolen and returned; but a young man near George, having tried to kiss Léa de Horn, received a slap with an, “I say, you! just leave me alone!” full of the most virtuous indignation; and George, who was very drunk and excited by the sight of Nana, hesitated before putting into execution an idea he had been nursing, which was to crawl under the table, and curl himself up at her feet like a little dog. No one would have seen him, and he would have kept very quiet. Then, Daguenet having, at Léa’s desire, told the young man to behave himself, George, all of a sudden, felt quite sad, as though he had just been scolded himself ; it was stupid, it was dull, there was nothing left worth living for. Daguenet, however, joked with him, and made him drink a tumblerful of water, asking him at the same time what he would do if he found himself alone with a woman, as three glasses of champagne were too much for him.
“For instance,” resumed Foucarmont, “in Havana they make a spirit out of some wild berry; it’s just like swallowing fire. Well! one night I drank nearly two pints of it, and it had no effect on me whatever. But I can tell you more than that; another time, when on the coast of Coromandel, some savages brought us a mixture that tasted like pepper and vitriol, and it had no effect on me. I can’t get drunk.”
For some little time past he had taken an aversion to La Faloise who was sitting in front of him. He kept sneering and saying most unpleasant things. La Faloise, who was becoming rather light-headed, moved about a good deal, keeping at the same time as close as possible to Gaga. But a great anxiety increased his restlessness—some one had taken his handkerchief; he kept asking for it in a drunken obstinate mood, questioning his neighbours, and stooping down to look under their chairs and amongst their feet. Then, as Gaga tried to quiet him: “It’s absurd,” he murmured, “there are my initials and my crest in the corner. It may compromise me.”
“I say, M. Falamoise, Lamafoise, Mafaloise!” cried Foucarmont, who thought it very witty to thus disfigure the young man’s name.
But La Faloise got angry. He stutteringly spoke of his ancestors. He threatened to pitch a decanter at Foucarmont’s head. Count de Vandeuvres had to interfere