His whole
being was in turmoil; he was terrified by the stealthy, all-pervading
influence which for some time past Nana's presence had been exercising
over him, and he recalled to mind the pious accounts of diabolic
possession which had amused his early years. He was a believer in the
devil, and, in a confused kind of way, Nana was he, with her laughter
and her bosom and her hips, which seemed swollen with many vices. But
he promised himself that he would be strong--nay, he would know how to
defend himself.
"Well then, it's agreed," said the prince, lounging quite comfortably on
the divan. "You will come to London next year, and we shall receive you
so cordially that you will never return to France again. Ah, my dear
Count, you don't value your pretty women enough. We shall take them all
from you!"
"That won't make much odds to him," murmured the Marquis de Chouard
wickedly, for he occasionally said a risky thing among friends. "The
count is virtue itself."
Hearing his virtue mentioned, Nana looked at him so comically that
Muffat felt a keen twinge of annoyance. But directly afterward he
was surprised and angry with himself. Why, in the presence of this
courtesan, should the idea of being virtuous embarrass him? He could
have struck her.
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