The count and the prince had been taken by surprise.  There was profound silence, and then a deep sigh and the far-off murmur of a multitude became audible.  Every evening when Venus entered in her godlike nakedness the same effect was produced.  Then Muffat was seized with a desire to see; he put his eye to the peephole.  Above and beyond the glowing arc formed by the footlights the dark body of the house seemed full of ruddy vapor, and against this neutral-tinted background, where row upon row of faces struck a pale, uncertain note, Nana stood forth white and vast, so that the boxes from the balcony to the flies were blotted from view.  He saw her from behind, noted her swelling hips, her outstretched arms, while down on the floor, on the same level as her feet, the prompter’s head—­an old man’s head with a humble, honest face—­stood on the edge of the stage, looking as though it had been severed from the body.  At certain points in her opening number an undulating movement seemed to run from her neck to her waist and to die out in the trailing border of her tunic.  When amid a tempest of applause she had sung her last note she bowed, and the gauze floated forth round about her limbs, and her hair swept over her waist as she bent sharply backward.  And seeing her thus, as with bending form and with exaggerated hips she came backing toward the count’s peephole, he stood upright again, and his face was very white.  The stage had disappeared, and he now saw only the reverse side of the scenery with its display of old posters pasted up in every direction.  On the practicable slope, among the lines of gas jets, the whole of Olympus had rejoined the dozing Mme Drouard.  They were waiting for the close of the act.  Bosc and Fontan sat on the floor with their knees drawn up to their chins, and Prulliere stretched himself and yawned before going on.  Everybody was worn out; their eyes were red, and they were longing to go home to sleep.

Just then Fauchery, who had been prowling about on the O.P. side ever since Bordenave had forbidden him the other, came and buttonholed the count in order to keep himself in countenance and offered at the same time to show him the dressing rooms.  An increasing sense of languor had left Muffat without any power of resistance, and after looking round for the Marquis de Chouard, who had disappeared, he ended by following the journalist.  He experienced a mingled feeling of relief and anxiety as he left the wings whence he had been listening to Nana’s songs.

Fauchery had already preceded him up the staircase, which was closed on the first and second floors by low-paneled doors.  It was one of those stairways which you find in miserable tenements.  Count Muffat had seen many such during his rounds as member of the Benevolent Organization.  It was bare and dilapidated:  there was a wash of yellow paint on its walls; its steps had been worn by the incessant passage of feet, and its iron balustrade had grown smooth under the friction of many hands.  On a level with the floor on every stairhead there was a low window which resembled a deep, square venthole, while in lanterns fastened to the walls flaring gas jets crudely illuminated the surrounding squalor and gave out a glowing heat which, as it mounted up the narrow stairwell, grew ever more intense.