“It’s over between us, stupid!  But that doesn’t matter.  Do come up one of these days, and we’ll have a chat.”

Then she became serious again and in the outraged tones of a respectable woman: 

“So he’s a cuckold, is he?” she cried.  “Well, that is a nuisance, dear boy.  They’ve always sickened me, cuckolds have.”

When at length she went into the private room she noticed that Muffat was sitting resignedly on a narrow divan with pale face and twitching hands.  He did not reproach her at all, and she, greatly moved, was divided between feelings of pity and of contempt.  The poor man!  To think of his being so unworthily cheated by a vile wife!  She had a good mind to throw her arms round his neck and comfort him.  But it was only fair all the same!  He was a fool with women, and this would teach him a lesson!  Nevertheless, pity overcame her.  She did not get rid of him as she had determined to do after the oysters had been discussed.  They scarcely stayed a quarter of an hour in the Cafe Anglais, and together they went into the house in the Boulevard Haussmann.  It was then eleven.  Before midnight she would have easily have discovered some means of getting rid of him kindly.

In the anteroom, however, she took the precaution of giving Zoe an order.  “You’ll look out for him, and you’ll tell him not to make a noise if the other man’s still with me.”

“But where shall I put him, madame?”

“Keep him in the kitchen.  It’s more safe.”

In the room inside Muffat was already taking off his overcoat.  A big fire was burning on the hearth.  It was the same room as of old, with its rosewood furniture and its hangings and chair coverings of figured damask with the large blue flowers on a gray background.  On two occasions Nana had thought of having it redone, the first in black velvet, the second in white satin with bows, but directly Steiner consented she demanded the money that these changes would cost simply with a view to pillaging him.  She had, indeed, only indulged in a tiger skin rug for the hearth and a cut-glass hanging lamp.

“I’m not sleepy; I’m not going to bed,” she said the moment they were shut in together.

The count obeyed her submissively, as became a man no longer afraid of being seen.  His one care now was to avoid vexing her.

“As you will,” he murmured.

Nevertheless, he took his boots off, too, before seating himself in front of the fire.  One of Nana’s pleasures consisted in undressing herself in front of the mirror on her wardrobe door, which reflected her whole height.  She would let everything slip off her in turn and then would stand perfectly naked and gaze and gaze in complete oblivion of all around her.  Passion for her own body, ecstasy over her satin skin and the supple contours of her shape, would keep her serious, attentive and absorbed in the love of herself.  The hairdresser frequently found her standing thus and would enter without her once turning to look at him.  Muffat used to grow angry then, but he only succeeded in astonishing her.  What was coming over the man?  She was doing it to please herself, not other people.