Four Short Stories By Emile Zola

Two days later, after a fresh disappearance, Muffat presented himself in the morning, a time of day at which he never came. He was livid; his eyes were red and his whole man still shaken by a great internal struggle. But Zoe, being scared herself, did not notice his troubled state. She had run to meet him and now began crying:

“Oh, monsieur, do come in! Madame nearly died yesterday evening!”

And when he asked for particulars:

“Something it’s impossible to believe has happened – a miscarriage, monsieur.”

Nana had been in the family way for the past three months. For long she had simply thought herself out of sorts, and Dr Boutarel had himself been in doubt. But when afterward he made her a decisive announcement, she felt so bored thereby that she did all she possibly could to disguise her condition. Her nervous terrors, her dark humors, sprang to some extent from this unfortunate state of things, the secret of which she kept very shamefacedly, as became a courtesan mother who is obliged to conceal her plight. The thing struck her as a ridiculous accident, which made her appear small in her own eyes and would, had it been known, have led people to chaff her.

“A poor joke, eh?” she said. “Bad luck, too, certainly.”

She was necessarily very sharp set when she thought her last hour had come. There was no end to her surprise, too; her sexual economy seemed to her to have got out of order; it produced children then even when one did not want them and when one employed it for quite other purposes! Nature drove her to exasperation; this appearance of serious motherhood in a career of pleasure, this gift of life amid all the deaths she was spreading around, exasperated her. Why could one not dispose of oneself as fancy dictated, without all this fuss? And whence had this brat come? She could not even suggest a father. Ah, dear heaven, the man who made him would have a splendid notion had he kept him in his own hands, for nobody asked for him; he was in everybody’s way, and he would certainly not have much happiness in life!

Meanwhile Zoe described the catastrophe.

“Madame was seized with colic toward four o’clock. When she didn’t come back out of the dressing room I went in and found her lying stretched on the floor in a faint. Yes, monsieur, on the floor in a pool of blood, as though she had been murdered. Then I understood, you see. I was furious; Madame might quite well have confided her trouble to me. As it happened, Monsieur Georges was there, and he helped me to lift her up, and directly a miscarriage was mentioned he felt ill in his turn! Oh, it’s true I’ve had the hump since yesterday!”

In fact, the house seemed utterly upset. All the servants were galloping upstairs, downstairs and through the rooms. Georges had passed the night on an armchair in the drawing room. It was he who had announced the news to Madame’s friends at that hour of the evening when Madame was in the habit of receiving. He had still been very pale, and he had told his story very feelingly, and as though stupefied. Steiner, La Faloise, Philippe and others, besides, had presented themselves, and at the end of the lad’s first phrase they burst into exclamations. The thing was impossible! It must be a farce! After which they grew serious and gazed with an embarrassed expression at her bedroom door. They shook their heads; it was no laughing matter.

Till midnight a dozen gentlemen had stood talking in low voices in front of the fireplace. All were friends; all were deeply exercised by the same idea of paternity. They seemed to be mutually excusing themselves, and they looked as confused as if they had done something clumsy. Eventually, however, they put a bold face on the matter. It had nothing to do with them: the fault was hers! What a stunner that Nana was, eh? One would never have believed her capable of such a fake! And with that they departed one by one, walking on tiptoe, as though in a chamber of death where you cannot laugh.

“Come up all the same, monsieur,” said Zoe to Muffat. “Madame is much better and will see you. We are expecting the doctor, who promised to come back this morning.”

The lady’s maid had persuaded Georges to go back home to sleep, and upstairs in the drawing room only Satin remained. She lay stretched on a divan, smoking a cigarette and scanning the ceiling. Amid the household scare which had followed the accident she had been white with rage, had shrugged her shoulders violently and had made ferocious remarks. Accordingly, when Zoe was passing in front of her and telling Monsieur that poor, dear Madame had suffered a great deal:

“That’s right; it’ll teach him!” said Satin curtly.

They turned round in surprise, but she had not moved a muscle; her eyes were still turned toward the ceiling, and her cigarette was still wedged tightly between her lips.

“Dear me, you’re charming, you are!” said Zoe.

But Satin sat up, looked savagely at the count and once more hurled her remark at him.

“That’s right; it’ll teach him!”

And she lay down again and blew forth a thin jet of smoke, as though she had no interest in present events and were resolved not to meddle in any of them. No, it was all too silly!

Zoe, however, introduced Muffat into the bedroom, where a scent of ether lingered amid warm, heavy silence, scarce broken by the dull roll of occasional carriages in the Avenue de Villiers. Nana, looking very white on her pillow, was lying awake with wide-open, meditative eyes. She smiled when she saw the count but did not move.

“Ah, dear pet!” she slowly murmured. “I really thought I should never see you again.”

Then as he leaned forward to kiss her on the hair, she grew tender toward him and spoke frankly about the child, as though he were its father.

“I never dared tell you; I felt so happy about it! Oh, I used to dream about it; I should have liked to be worthy of you! And now there’s nothing left. Ah well, perhaps that’s best. I don’t want to bring a stumbling block into your life.”

Astounded by this story of paternity, he began stammering vague phrases. He had taken a chair and had sat down by the bed, leaning one arm on the coverlet. Then the young woman noticed his wild expression, the blood reddening his eyes, the fever that set his lips aquiver.

“What’s the matter then?” she asked. “You’re ill too.”

“No,” he answered with extreme difficulty.

She gazed at him with a profound expression. Then she signed to Zoe to retire, for the latter was lingering round arranging the medicine bottles. And when they were alone she drew him down to her and again asked:

“What’s the matter with you, darling? The tears are ready to burst from your eyes – I can see that quite well. Well now, speak out; you’ve come to tell me something.”

“No, no, I swear I haven’t,” he blurted out. But he was choking with suffering, and this sickroom, into which he had suddenly entered unawares, so worked on his feelings that he burst out sobbing and buried his face in the bedclothes to smother the violence of his grief. Nana understood. Rose Mignon had most assuredly decided to send the letter. She let him weep for some moments, and he was shaken by convulsions so fierce that the bed trembled under her. At length in accents of motherly compassion she queried:

“You’ve had bothers at your home?”

He nodded affirmatively. She paused anew, and then very low:

“Then you know all?”

He nodded assent. And a heavy silence fell over the chamber of suffering. The night before, on his return from a party given by the empress, he had received the letter Sabine had written her lover. After an atrocious night passed in the meditation of vengeance he had gone out in the morning in order to resist a longing which prompted him to kill his wife. Outside, under a sudden, sweet influence of a fine June morning, he had lost the thread of his thoughts and had come to Nana’s, as he always came at terrible moments in his life. There only he gave way to his misery, for he felt a cowardly joy at the thought that she would console him.

“Now look here, be calm!” the young woman continued, becoming at the same time extremely kind. “I’ve known it a long time, but it was certainly not I that would have opened your eyes. You remember you had your doubts last year, but then things arranged themselves, owing to my prudence. In fact, you wanted proofs. The deuce, you’ve got one today, and I know it’s hard lines. Nevertheless, you must look at the matter quietly: you’re not dishonored because it’s happened.”

He had left off weeping. A sense of shame restrained him from saying what he wanted to, although he had long ago slipped into the most intimate confessions about his household. She had to encourage him. Dear me, she was a woman; she could understand everything. When in a dull voice he exclaimed:

“You’re ill. What’s the good of tiring you? It was stupid of me to have come. I’m going – ”

“No,” she answered briskly enough. “Stay! Perhaps I shall be able to give you some good advice. Only don’t make me talk too much; the medical man’s forbidden it.”

He had ended by rising, and he was now walking up and down the room. Then she questioned him:

“Now what are you going to do?

“I’m going to box the man’s ears – by heavens, yes!”

She pursed up her lips disapprovingly.

“That’s not very wise. And about your wife?”

“I shall go to law; I’ve proofs.”

“Not at all wise, my dear boy. It’s stupid even. You know I shall never let you do that!”

And in her feeble voice she showed him decisively how useless and scandalous a duel and a trial would be. He would be a nine days’ newspaper sensation; his whole existence would be at stake, his peace of mind, his high situation at court, the honor of his name, and all for what? That he might have the laughers against him.

“What will it matter?” he cried. “I shall have had my revenge.”

“My pet,” she said, “in a business of that kind one never has one’s revenge if one doesn’t take it directly.”

He paused and stammered. He was certainly no poltroon, but he felt that she was right. An uneasy feeling was growing momentarily stronger within him, a poor, shameful feeling which softened his anger now that it was at its hottest. Moreover, in her frank desire to tell him everything, she dealt him a fresh blow.

“And d’you want to know what’s annoying you, dearest? Why, that you are deceiving your wife yourself. You don’t sleep away from home for nothing, eh? Your wife must have her suspicions. Well then, how can you blame her? She’ll tell you that you’ve set her the example, and that’ll shut you up. There, now, that’s why you’re stamping about here instead of being at home murdering both of ‘em.”

Muffat had again sunk down on the chair; he was overwhelmed by these home thrusts. She broke off and took breath, and then in a low voice: