“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: “It’s true: we’ve only got a minute left for our talk.” Her face and arms were now finished, and with her fingers she put two large dabs of carmine on her lips. Count Muffat felt more excited than ever. He was ravished by the perverse transformation wrought by powders and paints and filled by a lawless yearning for those young painted charms, for the too-red mouth and the too-white face and the exaggerated eyes, ringed round with black and burning and dying for very love. Meanwhile Nana went behind the curtain for a second or two in order to take off her drawers and slip on Venus’ tights. After which, with tranquil immodesty, she came out and undid her little linen stays and held out her arms to Mme Jules, who drew the short-sleeved tunic over them. “Make haste; they’re growing angry!” she muttered.