Revolving these matters, Nana at length reached her home in the Rue
Veron and was taken aback on observing a light in the window. Fontan had
come home in a sulk, for he, too, had been deserted by the friend who
had been dining with him. He listened coldly to her explanations while
she trembled lest he should strike her. It scared her to find him at
home, seeing that she had not expected him before one in the morning,
and she told him a fib and confessed that she had certainly spent six
francs, but in Mme Maloir's society. He was not ruffled, however, and
he handed her a letter which, though addressed to her, he had quietly
opened. It was a letter from Georges, who was still a prisoner at Les
Fondettes and comforted himself weekly with the composition of glowing
pages. Nana loved to be written to, especially when the letters were
full of grand, loverlike expressions with a sprinkling of vows. She used
to read them to everybody. Fontan was familiar with the style employed
by Georges and appreciated it. But that evening she was so afraid of
a scene that she affected complete indifference, skimming through the
letter with a sulky expression and flinging it aside as soon as read.
Fontan had begun beating a tattoo on a windowpane; the thought of going
to bed so early bored him, and yet he did not know how to employ his
evening.
Pages:
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413
414
415
416
417
418
419
420