He, who had never seen the Countess Muffat putting on her garters, was witnessing, amid that wild disarray of jars and basins and that strong, sweet perfume, the intimate details of a woman’s toilet.  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.  But in attempting to take up a brush Nana had just let it drop on the ground, and as she stooped to pick it up he rushed forward.  Their breath mingled for one moment, and the loosened tresses of Venus flowed over his hands.  But remorse mingled with his enjoyment, a kind of enjoyment, moreover, peculiar to good Catholics, whom the fear of hell torments in the midst of their sin.

At this moment Father Barillot’s voice was heard outside the door.

“May I give the knocks, madame?  The house is growing impatient.”

“All in good time,” answered Nana quietly.

She had dipped her paint brush in a pot of kohl, and with the point of her nose close to the glass and her left eye closed she passed it delicately along between her eyelashes.  Muffat stood behind her, looking on.  He saw her reflection in the mirror, with her rounded shoulders and her bosom half hidden by a rosy shadow.  And despite all his endeavors he could not turn away his gaze from that face so merry with dimples and so worn with desire, which the closed eye rendered more seductive.  When she shut her right eye and passed the brush along it he understood that he belonged to her.

“They are stamping their feet, madame,” the callboy once more cried.  “They’ll end by smashing the seats.  May I give the knocks?”

“Oh, bother!” said Nana impatiently.  “Knock away; I don’t care!  If I’m not ready, well, they’ll have to wait for me!”

She grew calm again and, turning to the gentlemen, added with a smile: