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Four Short Stories By Emile Zola By: Émile Zola (1840-1902) |
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By Emile Zola
CONTENTS: NANA THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER CAPTAIN BURLE THE DEATH OF OLIVIER BACAILLE
NANA by Emile Zola CHAPTER I
At nine o'clock in the evening the body of the house at the Theatres des
Varietes was still all but empty. A few individuals, it is true, were
sitting quietly waiting in the balcony and stalls, but these were lost,
as it were, among the ranges of seats whose coverings of cardinal
velvet loomed in the subdued light of the dimly burning luster. A shadow
enveloped the great red splash of the curtain, and not a sound came from
the stage, the unlit footlights, the scattered desks of the orchestra.
It was only high overhead in the third gallery, round the domed ceiling
where nude females and children flew in heavens which had turned green
in the gaslight, that calls and laughter were audible above a continuous
hubbub of voices, and heads in women's and workmen's caps were ranged,
row above row, under the wide vaulted bays with their gilt surrounding
adornments. Every few seconds an attendant would make her appearance,
bustling along with tickets in her hand and piloting in front of her a
gentleman and a lady, who took their seats, he in his evening dress,
she sitting slim and undulant beside him while her eyes wandered slowly
round the house. Two young men appeared in the stalls; they kept standing and looked
about them. "Didn't I say so, Hector?" cried the elder of the two, a tall fellow
with little black mustaches. "We're too early! You might quite well have
allowed me to finish my cigar." An attendant was passing. "Oh, Monsieur Fauchery," she said familiarly, "it won't begin for half
an hour yet!" "Then why do they advertise for nine o'clock?" muttered Hector, whose
long thin face assumed an expression of vexation. "Only this morning
Clarisse, who's in the piece, swore that they'd begin at nine o'clock
punctually." For a moment they remained silent and, looking upward, scanned the
shadowy boxes. But the green paper with which these were hung rendered
them more shadowy still. Down below, under the dress circle, the lower
boxes were buried in utter night. In those on the second tier there was
only one stout lady, who was stranded, as it were, on the velvet covered
balustrade in front of her. On the right hand and on the left, between
lofty pilasters, the stage boxes, bedraped with long fringed scalloped
hangings, remained untenanted. The house with its white and gold,
relieved by soft green tones, lay only half disclosed to view, as though
full of a fine dust shed from the little jets of flame in the great
glass luster. "Did you get your stage box for Lucy?" asked Hector. "Yes," replied his companion, "but I had some trouble to get it. Oh,
there's no danger of Lucy coming too early!" He stifled a slight yawn; then after a pause: "You're in luck's way, you are, since you haven't been at a first night
before. The Blonde Venus will be the event of the year. People have been
talking about it for six months. Oh, such music, my dear boy! Such a
sly dog, Bordenave! He knows his business and has kept this for the
exhibition season." Hector was religiously attentive. He asked a
question. "And Nana, the new star who's going to play Venus, d'you know her?" "There you are; you're beginning again!" cried Fauchery, casting up his
arms. "Ever since this morning people have been dreeing me with Nana.
I've met more than twenty people, and it's Nana here and Nana there!
What do I know? Am I acquainted with all the light ladies in Paris? Nana
is an invention of Bordenave's! It must be a fine one!" He calmed himself, but the emptiness of the house, the dim light of
the luster, the churchlike sense of self absorption which the place
inspired, full as it was of whispering voices and the sound of doors
banging all these got on his nerves. "No, by Jove," he said all of a sudden, "one's hair turns gray here.
I I'm going out. Perhaps we shall find Bordenave downstairs... Continue reading book >>
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Genres for this book |
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Fiction |
Literature |
Short stories |
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