Four Short Stories By Emile Zola. Emile Zola

“Leonide got her tenor down to Montauban. She was living in the Chateau de Beaurecueil, two leagues farther off, and she used to come in daily in a carriage and pair in order to visit him at the Lion d’Or, where he had put up. The carriage used to wait at the door, and Leonide would stay for hours in the house, while a crowd gathered round and looked at the horses.”

      There was a pause in the talk, and some solemn moments passed silently by in the lofty room. Two young men were whispering, but they ceased in their turn, and the hushed step of Count Muffat was alone audible as he crossed the floor. The lamps seemed to have paled; the fire was going out; a stern shadow fell athwart the old friends of the house where they sat in the chairs they had occupied there for forty years back. It was as though in a momentary pause of conversation the invited guests had become suddenly aware that the count’s mother, in all her glacial stateliness, had returned among them.

      But the Countess Sabine had once more resumed:

      “Well, at last the news of it got about. The young man was likely to die, and that would explain the poor child’s adoption of the religious life. Besides, they say that Monsieur de Fougeray would never have given his consent to the marriage.”

      “They say heaps of other things too,” cried Leonide giddily.

      She fell a-laughing; she refused to talk. Sabine was won over by this gaiety and put her handkerchief up to her lips. And in the vast and solemn room their laughter sounded a note which struck Fauchery strangely, the note of delicate glass breaking. Assuredly here was the first beginning of the “little rift.” Everyone began talking again. Mme du Joncquoy demurred; Mme Chantereau knew for certain that a marriage had been projected but that matters had gone no further; the men even ventured to give their opinions. For some minutes the conversation was a babel of opinions, in which the divers elements of the circle, whether Bonapartist or Legitimist or merely worldly and skeptical, appeared to jostle one another simultaneously. Estelle had rung to order wood to be put on the fire; the footman turned up the lamps; the room seemed to wake from sleep. Fauchery began smiling, as though once more at his ease.

      “Egad, they become the brides of God when they couldn’t be their cousin’s,” said Vandeuvres between his teeth.

      The subject bored him, and he had rejoined Fauchery.

      “My dear fellow, have you ever seen a woman who was really loved become a nun?”

      He did not wait for an answer, for he had had enough of the topic, and in a hushed voice:

      “Tell me,” he said, “how many of us will there be tomorrow? There’ll be the Mignons, Steiner, yourself, Blanche and I; who else?”

      “Caroline, I believe, and Simonne and Gaga without doubt. One never knows exactly, does one? On such occasions one expects the party will number twenty, and you’re really thirty.”

      Vandeuvres, who was looking at the ladies, passed abruptly to another subject:

      “She must have been very nice-looking, that Du Joncquoy woman, some fifteen years ago. Poor Estelle has grown lankier than ever. What a nice lath to put into a bed!”

      But interrupting himself, he returned to the subject of tomorrow’s supper.

      “What’s so tiresome of those shows is that it’s always the same set of women. One wants a novelty. Do try and invent a new girl. By Jove, happy thought! I’ll go and beseech that stout man to bring the woman he was trotting about the other evening at the Varietes.”

      He referred to the chief clerk, sound asleep in the middle of the drawing room. Fauchery, afar off, amused himself by following this delicate negotiation. Vandeuvres had sat himself down by the stout man, who still looked very sedate. For some moments they both appeared to be discussing with much propriety the question before the house, which was, “How can one discover the exact state of feeling that urges a young girl to enter into the religious life?” Then the count returned with the remark:

      “It’s impossible. He swears she’s straight. She’d refuse, and yet I would have wagered that I once saw her at Laure’s.”

      “Eh, what? You go to Laure’s?” murmured Fauchery with a chuckle. “You venture your reputation in places like that? I was under the impression that it was only we poor devils of outsiders who – ”

      “Ah, dear boy, one ought to see every side of life.”

      Then they sneered and with sparkling eyes they compared notes about the table d’hote in the Rue des Martyrs, where big Laure Piedefer ran a dinner at three francs a head for little women in difficulties. A nice hole, where all the little women used to kiss Laure on the lips! And as the Countess Sabine, who had overheard a stray word or two, turned toward them, they started back, rubbing shoulders in excited merriment. They had not noticed that Georges Hugon was close by and that he was listening to them, blushing so hotly the while that a rosy flush had spread from his ears to his girlish throat. The infant was full of shame and of ecstasy. From the moment his mother had turned him loose in the room he had been hovering in the wake of Mme de Chezelles, the only woman present who struck him as being the thing. But after all is said and done, Nana licked her to fits!

      “Yesterday evening,” Mme Hugon was saying, “Georges took me to the play. Yes, we went to the Varietes, where I certainly had not set foot for the last ten years. That child adores music. As to me, I wasn’t in the least amused, but he was so happy! They put extraordinary pieces on the stage nowadays. Besides, music delights me very little, I confess.”

      “What! You don’t love music, madame?” cried Mme du Joncquoy, lifting her eyes to heaven. “Is it possible there should be people who don’t love music?”

      The exclamation of surprise was general. No one had dropped a single word concerning the performance at the Varietes, at which the good Mme Hugon had not understood any of the allusions. The ladies knew the piece but said nothing about it, and with that they plunged into the realm of sentiment and began discussing the masters in a tone of refined and ecstatical admiration. Mme du Joncquoy was not fond of any of them save Weber, while Mme Chantereau stood up for the Italians. The ladies’ voices had turned soft and languishing, and in front of the hearth one might have fancied one’s self listening in meditative, religious retirement to the faint, discreet music of a little chapel.

      “Now let’s see,” murmured Vandeuvres, bringing Fauchery back into the middle of the drawing room, “notwithstanding it all, we must invent a woman for tomorrow. Shall we ask Steiner about it?”

      “Oh, when Steiner’s got hold of a woman,” said the journalist, “it’s because Paris has done with her.”

      Vandeuvres, however, was searching about on every side.

      “Wait a bit,” he continued, “the other day I met Foucarmont with a charming blonde. I’ll go and tell him to bring her.”

      And he called to Foucarmont. They exchanged a few words rapidly. There must have been some sort of complication, for both of them, moving carefully forward and stepping over the dresses of the ladies, went off in quest of another young man with whom they continued the discussion in the embrasure of a window. Fauchery was left to himself and had just decided to proceed to the hearth, where Mme du Joncquoy was announcing that she never heard Weber played without at the same time seeing lakes, forests and sunrises over landscapes steeped in dew, when a hand touched his shoulder and a voice behind him remarked:

      “It’s not civil of you.”

      “What d’you mean?” he asked, turning round and recognizing La Faloise.

      “Why, about that supper tomorrow. You might easily have got me invited.”

      Fauchery was at length about to state his reasons when Vandeuvres came back to tell him:

      “It appears it isn’t a girl of Foucarmont’s. It’s that man’s flame out there. She won’t be able to come. What a piece of bad luck! But all the same I’ve pressed Foucarmont into the service, and he’s going to try to get Louise from the Palais-Royal.”

      “Is it not true, Monsieur de Vandeuvres,” asked Mme Chantereau, raising her voice, “that Wagner’s music was hissed last Sunday?”

      “Oh,