Between themselves they were wont thus gravely to nickname as “old miser” and “nigger” their two paying visitors, one of whom was a tradesman of economical tendencies from the Faubourg Saint-Denis, while the other was a Walachian, a mock count, whose money, paid always at the most irregular intervals, never looked as though it had been honestly come by.  Daguenet had made Nana give him the days subsequent to the old miser’s visits, and as the trader had to be at home by eight o’clock in the morning, the young man would watch for his departure from Zoes kitchen and would take his place, which was still quite warm, till ten o’clock.  Then he, too, would go about his business.  Nana and he were wont to think it a very comfortable arrangement.

“So much the worse,” said Nana; “I’ll write to him this afternoon.  And if he doesn’t receive my letter, then tomorrow you will stop him coming in.”

In the meantime Zoe was walking softly about the room.  She spoke of yesterday’s great hit.  Madame had shown such talent; she sang so well!  Ah!  Madame need not fret at all now!

Nana, her elbow dug into her pillow, only tossed her head in reply.  Her nightdress had slipped down on her shoulders, and her hair, unfastened and entangled, flowed over them in masses.

“Without doubt,” she murmured, becoming thoughtful; “but what’s to be done to gain time?  I’m going to have all sorts of bothers today.  Now let’s see, has the porter come upstairs yet this morning?”

Then both the women talked together seriously.  Nana owed three quarters’ rent; the landlord was talking of seizing the furniture.  Then, too, there was a perfect downpour of creditors; there was a livery-stable man, a needlewoman, a ladies’ tailor, a charcoal dealer and others besides, who came every day and settled themselves on a bench in the little hall.  The charcoal dealer especially was a dreadful fellow—­he shouted on the staircase.  But Nana’s greatest cause of distress was her little Louis, a child she had given birth to when she was sixteen and now left in charge of a nurse in a village in the neighborhood of Rambouillet.  This woman was clamoring for the sum of three hundred francs before she would consent to give the little Louis back to her.  Nana, since her last visit to the child, had been seized with a fit of maternal love and was desperate at the thought that she could not realize a project, which had now become a hobby with her.  This was to pay off the nurse and to place the little man with his aunt, Mme Lerat, at the Batignolles, whither she could go and see him as often as she liked.

Meanwhile the lady’s maid kept hinting that her mistress ought to have confided her necessities to the old miser.

“To be sure, I told him everything,” cried Nana, “and he told me in answer that he had too many big liabilities.  He won’t go beyond his thousand francs a month.  The nigger’s beggared just at present; I expect he’s lost at play.  As to that poor Mimi, he stands in great need of a loan himself; a fall in stocks has cleaned him out—­he can’t even bring me flowers now.”