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Updated: June 24, 2025
Far away, on the road to Gumieres, Count Muffat walked slowly home and, hat in hand, bathed his burning forehead in the freshness and silence of the night. During the days that followed Nana found life adorable.
When the dinner bell rang he listened for Count Muffat, who was on his way to the dining room, and ten minutes later, when he was certain that no one would see him, he slipped from the window to the ground with the assistance of a rain pipe. His bedroom was situated on the first floor and looked out upon the rear of the house.
An increasing sense of languor had left Muffat without any power of resistance, and after looking round for the Marquis de Chouard, who had disappeared, he ended by following the journalist. He experienced a mingled feeling of relief and anxiety as he left the wings whence he had been listening to Nana's songs.
The moon had disappeared in an inky sky, whence an icy drizzle was falling. Two o'clock struck at the Trinite. The Rue de Provence and the Rue Taitbout lay in shadow, bestarred at intervals by bright splashes of light from the gas lamps, which in the distance were merged in yellow mist. Muffat did not move from where he was standing. That was the room.
Muffat, however, after knocking forlornly against an untidy collection of chairs, sank on his knees with bursting heart and propped himself against the rails in front of a little chapel close by a font. He clasped his hands and began searching within himself for suitable prayers, while his whole being yearned toward a transport.
Nana was standing wrapped in furs, talking to these gentlemen while awaiting her cue. As Count Muffat was coming up in order to peep between two of the wings at the stage, he understood from a sign made him by the stage manager that he was to step softly.
"If His Highness will be good enough to come this way," said Bordenave at the bottom of the stairs, and he pointed to the passage. Some chorus girls were still crowding along it. The prince began following Nana while Muffat and the marquis walked behind.
The glasses were filled, and the company began clinking them together. "I drink to Your Highness!" said ancient Bosc royally. "To the army!" added Prulliere. "To Venus!" cried Fontan. The prince complaisantly poised his glass, waited quietly, bowed thrice and murmured: "Madame! Admiral! Your Majesty!" Then he drank it off. Count Muffat and the Marquis de Chouard had followed his example.
So much the worse for Madame! As Madame was bidding good-by to her wits, she might arrange matters for herself. And on the threshold Muffat uttered a cry at the sight that was presented to his view. "My God! My God!" The renovated bedroom was resplendent in all its royal luxury. Silver buttons gleamed like bright stars on the tea-rose velvet of the hangings.
As Zoe designedly relaxed her efforts the service of the house had got to such a pitch that Muffat did not dare to push open a door, to pull a curtain or to unclose a cupboard. The bells did not ring; men lounged about everywhere and at every moment knocked up against one another.
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