Nana, in idiotic tones, kept saying: 

“He wanted to marry me, and I said no, and he’s killed himself.”

Uttering no cry, Mme Hugon stooped down.  Yes, it was the other one; it was Georges.  The one was brought to dishonor, the other murdered!  It caused her no surprise, for her whole life was ruined.  Kneeling on the carpet, utterly forgetting where she was, noticing no one else, she gazed fixedly at her boy’s face and listened with her hand on his heart.  Then she gave a feeble sigh—­she had felt the heart beating.  And with that she lifted her head and scrutinized the room and the woman and seemed to remember.  A fire glowed forth in her vacant eyes, and she looked so great and terrible in her silence that Nana trembled as she continued to defend herself above the body that divided them.

“I swear it, madame!  If his brother were here he could explain it to you.”

“His brother has robbed—­he is in prison,” said the mother in a hard voice.

Nana felt a choking sensation.  Why, what was the reason of it all?  The other had turned thief now!  They were mad in that family!  She ceased struggling in self-defense; she seemed no longer mistress in her own house and allowed Mme Hugon to give what orders she liked.  The servants had at last hurried up, and the old lady insisted on their carrying the fainting Georges down to her carriage.  She preferred killing him rather than letting him remain in that house.  With an air of stupefaction Nana watched the retreating servants as they supported poor, dear Zizi by his legs and shoulders.  The mother walked behind them in a state of collapse; she supported herself against the furniture; she felt as if all she held dear had vanished in the void.  On the landing a sob escaped her; she turned and twice ejaculated: 

“Oh, but you’ve done us infinite harm!  You’ve done us infinite harm!”

That was all.  In her stupefaction Nana had sat down; she still wore her gloves and her hat.  The house once more lapsed into heavy silence; the carriage had driven away, and she sat motionless, not knowing what to do next, her head swimming after all she had gone through.  A quarter of an hour later Count Muffat found her thus, but at sight of him she relieved her feelings in an overflowing current of talk.  She told him all about the sad incident, repeated the same details twenty times over, picked up the bloodstained scissors in order to imitate Zizi’s gesture when he stabbed himself.  And above all she nursed the idea of proving her own innocence.

“Look you here, dearie, is it my fault?  If you were the judge would you condemn me?  I certainly didn’t tell Philippe to meddle with the till any more than I urged that wretched boy to kill himself.  I’ve been most unfortunate throughout it all.  They come and do stupid things in my place; they make me miserable; they treat me like a hussy.”

And she burst into tears.  A fit of nervous expansiveness rendered her soft and doleful, and her immense distress melted her utterly.