He protested vaguely and at last was able to get out a phrase.
“Oh, I don’t care a jot for Rose; I’ll give her up at once.”
Nana seemed satisfied on this point. She continued:
“Well then, what’s bothering you? Bordenave’s master here. You’ll tell me there’s Fauchery after Bordenave—”
She had sunk her voice, for she was coming to the delicate part of the matter. Muffat sat silent, his eyes fixed on the ground. He had remained voluntarily ignorant of Fauchery’s assiduous attentions to the countess, and time had lulled his suspicions and set him hoping that he had been deceiving himself during that fearful night passed in a doorway of the Rue Taitbout. But he still felt a dull, angry repugnance to the man.
“Well, what then? Fauchery isn’t the devil!” Nana repeated, feeling her way cautiously and trying to find out how matters stood between husband and lover. “One can get over his soft side. I promise you, he’s a good sort at bottom! So it’s a bargain, eh? You’ll tell him that it’s for my sake?”
The idea of taking such a step disgusted the count.
“No, no! Never!” he cried.
She paused, and this sentence was on the verge of utterance:
“Fauchery can refuse you nothing.”