The count had turned very pale and had gone downstairs again on
tiptoe so as not to hear more. But later he had to hear all. Nana,
having been smitten with a baritone in a music hall and having been
thrown over by him, wanted to commit suicide during a fit of sentimental
melancholia. She swallowed a glass of water in which she had soaked a
box of matches. This made her terribly sick but did not kill her. The
count had to nurse her and to listen to the whole story of her passion,
her tearful protests and her oaths never to take to any man again.
In her contempt for those swine, as she called them, she could not,
however, keep her heart free, for she always had some sweetheart round
her, and her exhausted body inclined to incomprehensible fancies and
perverse tastes. As Zoe designedly relaxed her efforts the service of
the house had got to such a pitch that Muffat did not dare to push open
a door, to pull a curtain or to unclose a cupboard. The bells did
not ring; men lounged about everywhere and at every moment knocked up
against one another. He had now to cough before entering a room, having
almost caught the girl hanging round Francis' neck one evening that
he had just gone out of the dressing room for two minutes to tell the
coachman to put the horses to, while her hairdresser was finishing
her hair.
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