STORIES FOR NINON & NEW STORIES FOR NINON. Эмиль Золя
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hands without alarm. Whilst the note signed with a single name is hidden in the bodice, the letter bearing a thousand signatures is boldly exhibited. One meets with it everywhere in broad daylight, in the drawingroom and in the child’s bedchamber. Is it not the least dangerous little book one knows of?
It deceives even its mistress. What danger can there be in an object of such common use, approved, moreover, by one’s parents? She turns the leaves over without fear. It is here that one can accuse the ball-program of absolute hypocrisy. What do you think it whispers in the child’s ear when all is silent? Simple names? Oh! not at all! but real, long, amorous conversations. It has put aside its air of necessity and disinterestedness. It chats and caresses; it is burning, and stutters out tender words. The young girl feels oppressed; trembling, she continues. And all at once the fête reappears, the chandeliers sparkle, the orchestra resounds amorously; suddenly each name is personified, and the ball, of which she was the queen, begins again with its ovations, its fondling and flattering words.
Ah! you rogue of a book, what a procession of young partners! That one there, while gently squeezing her waist, extolled her blue eyes; this one, here, bashful and trembling, could only smile at her; whilst that other talked, talked, without ceasing, paying her all those gallant compliments, which, in spite of their being devoid of sense, say more than long speeches.
And, when the virgin has once forgotten herself with him, the sly rascal knows she will do it again. As a young woman, she turns over the leaves, consults them anxiously to discover what has been the increase in the number of her admirers. She pauses with a sad smile at certain names which are not repeated on the last pages, flighty names which have no doubt gone to enrich other programs.
Most of her subjects remain faithful to her; she passes them in review with indifference. The little book laughs at all that He knows his power; he will receive the caresses of a whole lifetime.
Old age comes, the program is not forgotten. The gilt edges are faded and the leaves hardly hold together. Its mistress, who has become aged as well, seems to like it the more. She still often turns over the pages, and becomes intoxicated with its distant perfume of youth.
Is not that a charming part, Ninon, that of the ball-program? Is it not, like all poetry, incomprehensible to the crowd, and only read fluently by the initiated? Confident of woman’s secrets, it accompanies her through life like an angel of love, smothering her with hopes and remembrances.
II
Georgette had only just left the convent She was still of that happy age when dreams and reality make one; sweet and short-lived epoch, the mind sees what it dreams of and dreams of what it sees. Like all children she had allowed herself to he dazzled by the blazing chandeliers at her first balls; she honestly imagined herself in a superior sphere, among beings who were demigods, in whom the bad side of life had been remitted.
Her cheeks, which were slightly brown, possessed that golden reflex which is peculiar to the bosom of a Sicilian girl; her long black lashes half veiled the flash of her eyes. Forgetting she was no longer under the eye of an assistant schoolmistress, she checked the fierce fire that was burning within her. In a drawingroom she was never anything more than a little timid and almost silly girl, blushing at a word and casting down her eyes.
Come, we will hide behind the great curtains; we shall see the indolent creature stretch her arms and uncover her rosy feet as she awakes. Do not be jealous, Ninon: all my kisses are for you.
Do you remember? Eleven o’clock was striking. The room was still dark. The sun was lost in the thick hangings at the windows, whilst a fairy lamp that was dying out, struggled in vain against the darkness. On the bed, when the flame of the fairy lamp brightened, appeared a white form, a pure forehead, a throat lost in waves of lace; further down, the delicate extremity of a small foot; a snow-like arm with an open hand, hung outside the bed.
Twice the lazy creature turned round on the couch to go off to sleep again, but so light was her slumber that the sudden cracking of a piece of furniture made her half sit up. She thrust back her hair falling in disorder on her forehead, rubbed her eyes swollen with sleep, brought all the corners of her bedclothes over her shoulders, crossing her arms to hide herself the better.
When she was well awake, she stretched out her hand towards a bell-rope hanging beside her; but she rapidly brought it to her again, she sprang to the floor and drew aside the window hangings herself. A bright ray of sunshine filled the room. The child, surprised at the broad daylight, and catching sight of herself in a looking-glass, half nude and with her dress in disorder, felt very much alarmed. She went back and buried herself in bed, all red and trembling at her fine performance. Her chambermaid was a silly curious girl; Georgette preferred her own reverie to that person’s gossip. But, goodness gracious! how light it was, and how indiscreet looking-glasses are!
Now, on the chairs scattered about the room one perceived a ball toilette that had been negligently cast there. Here the young girl, half asleep, had left her gauze skirt, there her sash, a little further on her satin shoes. Her jewels sparkled in an agate bowl close to her; a faded bouquet was dying beside a ball-program.
With her forehead resting on one of her naked arms, she took up a necklace and began toying with the pearls. Then she set it down, opened the program, and began turning it over. The little book had a weary and indifferent air. Georgette ran her eye over it without much attention, thinking apparently of something else.
As she turned the pages, the name of Charles written at the head of each of them, ended by trying her patience.
“Always Charles,” she said to herself. “My cousin has a fine handwriting; those long sloping letters have a very serious aspect. His hand rarely trembles, even when he presses mine. My cousin is a very sedate young man. One of these days he is to be my husband. At each ball he takes my program, without asking me, and writes himself down for the first dance. That is no doubt a husband’s right. That right displeases me.”
The program became more and more cold. Georgette gazing into space, seemed to be working out some momentous problem.
“A husband,” she resumed, “that is what frightens me. Charles always treats me as a little girl; because he won eight or ten prizes at college, he considers himself compelled to be pedantic. After all I don’t know exactly why he should be my husband; I never asked him to marry me; he on his side has never asked my permission. We played together formally; I remember he was very unkind. Now he is very polite; I should like him better if he were unkind. So, I am going to be his wife; I had never seriously thought of that: his wife, I really don’t see the reason why. Charles, always Charles! One would think I belonged to him already. I shall ask him not to write so big on my program: his name occupies too much space.”
The little book, which also seemed tired of cousin Charles, almost closed itself with weariness. I suspect ball-programs of feeling the most candid hatred for husbands. This one turned over its pages and slyly presented other names to Georgette.
“Louis,” murmured the child. “That name recalls a singular dancer. He came, almost without looking at me, and asked me to grant him a quadrille. Then, at the first sounds of the instruments, he dragged me to the other end of the ballroom, I cannot understand why, opposite a tall, fair lady, who was following him with her eyes. At times he smiled at her, and so absolutely forgot my presence, that on two occasions I was obliged to pick up my bouquet myself. When the dance brought him near her, he spoke to her in an undertone; as for me, I listened, but could understand nothing. Perhaps it was his sister. His sister, oh! no: he trembled when he took her hand; then when he held that hand in his, the orchestra summoned him in vain to my side. I stood there like a stupid, with my arm stretched out, which looked very bad; the figures were all in confusion. It was perhaps his wife. How simple I am! His wife, really, yes! but Charles never speaks to me when dancing. It was perhaps—”
Georgette remained with parted lips absorbed in reflection, like a child placed before an unknown toy, not daring to approach and opening her eyes to see better. She listlessly counted the tassels on the counterpane, her right hand extended and wide open on the program. The latter began to show signs of animation; it stirred about and seemed to know perfectly well who the fair lady was. I am unaware