France -- Social life and customs -- Fiction; Short stories
thronged and smothered in the exhaustion and nervous exasperation which
belong to the close of a spectacle, Nana still triumphed by right of
her marble flesh and that sexual nature of hers, which was strong
enough to destroy the whole crowd of her adorers and yet sustain no
injury.
The piece drew to a close. In answer to Vulcan’s triumphant summons all
the Olympians defiled before the lovers with ohs and ahs of
stupefaction and gaiety. Jupiter said, “I think it is light conduct on
your part, my son, to summon us to see such a sight as this.” Then a
reaction took place in favor of Venus. The chorus of cuckolds was again
ushered in by Iris and besought the master of the gods not to give
effect to its petition, for since women had lived at home, domestic
life was becoming impossible for the men: the latter preferred being
deceived and happy. That was the moral of the play. Then Venus was set
at liberty, and Vulcan obtained a partial divorce from her. Mars was
reconciled with Diana, and Jove, for the sake of domestic peace, packed
his little laundress off into a constellation. And finally they
extricated Love from his black hole, where instead of conjugating the
verb AMO he had been busy in the manufacture of “dollies.” The curtain
fell on an apotheosis, wherein the cuckolds’ chorus knelt and sang a
hymn of gratitude to Venus, who stood there with smiling lips, her
stature enhanced by her sovereign nudity.
The audience, already on their feet, were making for the exits. The
authors were mentioned, and amid a thunder of applause there were two
calls before the curtain. The shout of “Nana! Nana!” rang wildly forth.
Then no sooner was the house empty than it grew dark: the footlights
went out; the chandelier was turned down; long strips of gray canvas
slipped from the stage boxes and swathed the gilt ornamentation of the
galleries, and the house, lately so full of heat and noise, lapsed
suddenly into a heavy sleep, while a musty, dusty odor began to pervade
it. In the front of her box stood the Countess Muffat. Very erect and
closely wrapped up in her furs, she stared at the gathering shadows and
waited for the crowd to pass away.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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