Her
nightdress had slipped down on her shoulders, and her hair, unfastened
and entangled, flowed over them in masses.
"Without doubt," she murmured, becoming thoughtful; "but what's to be
done to gain time? I'm going to have all sorts of bothers today. Now
let's see, has the porter come upstairs yet this morning?"
Then both the women talked together seriously. Nana owed three quarters'
rent; the landlord was talking of seizing the furniture. Then, too,
there was a perfect downpour of creditors; there was a livery-stable
man, a needlewoman, a ladies' tailor, a charcoal dealer and others
besides, who came every day and settled themselves on a bench in the
little hall. The charcoal dealer especially was a dreadful fellow--he
shouted on the staircase. But Nana's greatest cause of distress was her
little Louis, a child she had given birth to when she was sixteen
and now left in charge of a nurse in a village in the neighborhood
of Rambouillet. This woman was clamoring for the sum of three hundred
francs before she would consent to give the little Louis back to her.
Nana, since her last visit to the child, had been seized with a fit
of maternal love and was desperate at the thought that she could not
realize a project, which had now become a hobby with her.
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