ng on her garters, was
witnessing, amid that wild disarray of jars and basins and that strong,
sweet perfume, the intimate details of a woman's toilet. His whole
being was in turmoil; he was terrified by the stealthy, all-pervading
influence which for some time past Nana's presence had been exercising
over him, and he recalled to mind the pious accounts of diabolic
possession which had amused his early years. He was a believer in the
devil, and, in a confused kind of way, Nana was he, with her laughter
and her bosom and her hips, which seemed swollen with many vices. But
he promised himself that he would be strong--nay, he would know how to
defend himself.

"Well then, it's agreed," said the prince, lounging quite comfortably on
the divan. "You will come to London next year, and we shall receive you
so cordially that you will never return to France again. Ah, my dear
Count, you don't value your pretty women enough. We shall take them all
from you!"

"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 s