Part 2

But, a week later, Colombel returned; and he had soon resumed his former habits. He came every evening to the house, bringing music and books. He was treated as of no consequence,--he was sent on errands like a servant or a poor relation. So they left him alone with the young girl, without thinking of harm. As in the old days, the two shut themselves up in the vast rooms, or remained for hours in the shade of the garden. In verity, they no longer played the same games. Therese walked slowly, with her skirt brushing the grass. Colombel, dressed like the rich young men of the town, accompanied her, whipping the path with a supple cane that he invariably carried.

Yet, she was again the queen and he the slave. She tortured him with her fantastic humors, affectionate one moment and hard the next. He, when she turned her head, swept her with a glittering glance, sharp as a sword, and his whole vicious figure stretched and watched, dreaming a treachery.

One summer evening, they had strolled in the heavy shadow of the chestnut trees for some time in silence, when Therese suddenly remarked:

"I am tired, Colombel. Suppose you carry me as you used to."

He laughed lightly; then answered seriously:

"I am willing, Therese."

Without another word, Therese sprang upon his back with her old agility.

"Now go!" she cried.

She had snatched his cane and she lashed his legs with it, forcing him into a gallop beneath the thick foliage. He had not said a word; he breathed hard and tried to stiffen his slender legs, as the warm weight of the big girl bore him down.

But, when she cried out "Enough!" he did not stop. He ran all the faster, as if carried on by the impetus of the start. In spite of lashings and the digging in of her nails, he made for a shed in which the gardener kept his tools. There, he threw her roughly upon a heap of straw, and, his vindictiveness lending strength to his puny body, he vanquished her. At last, it was his turn to be master!

Therese became even paler, while her eyes grew blacker than ever and her mouth a more vivid crimson. She continued her devotional life.

Several days after the first occurrence, Therese, still panting with the desire to subjugate little Colombel, again leaped upon his back and lashed him. But the scene had the same ending. Again, she was thrown upon the straw and wronged.

Before the world, she maintained a sisterly attitude toward him. He, also, was of a smiling tranquility. They were again, as at six years of age, a couple of unruly animals, amusing themselves in secret by biting each other. Only, to-day, the male was victorious.

Therese received Colombel in her room. She had given him a key to the little gate that opened on the lane at the ramparts. At night, he was obliged to pass through the first room, in which his mother slept. But the lovers showed such calm audacity that they were never surprised. They dared make appointments in the daytime. Colombel came before dinner, and Therese, expecting him, would close the window to escape the neighbors' eyes.

They felt the constant need to see each other,--not to exchange tender expressions of love, but to continue the combat for supremacy. Often, they would quarrel fiercely, in low voices, all the more shaken by anger as they dared not scream or fight.

One evening, Colombel arrived before dinner. As he was walking across the room, still with bare feet and in his shirt-sleeves, he suddenly seized Therese and tried to lift her up, as he had seen strong men do at the fairs. Therese tried to break away, saying:

"Leave me alone. You know I am stronger than you. I will hurt you."

Colombel laughed his little laugh.

"Well! Hurt me!" he murmured.

He shook her as a preliminary to throwing her down. She closed her arms about him. They often played this game. It was usually Colombel who went down on the carpet, breathless, with inert limbs. But, this day, Therese slipped to her knees, and Colombel, with a sudden thrust, threw her over backward. He triumphed.

"So, you see you are not the stronger," he said with an insulting laugh.

She was livid. She raised herself slowly, and dumb, she grasped him again, her whole form so shaken by anger that he shivered. For a minute, they struggled in silence; then, with a last and terrible effort, she threw him backward. He struck his temple against a corner of a chest and felt heavily to the floor.

Therese drew a deep breath. She gathered up her hair before the mirror, she smoothed out her petticoat, affecting to pay no attention to the conquered Colombel. He could pick himself up. Then, she touched him with her foot. She saw that his face was of the color of wax, his eyes glassy, and his mouth twisted. On his right temple there was a hole. Colombel was dead.

She straightened up, chilled with horror. She spoke aloud in the silence.

"Dead! Here he is dead now!"

A terror held her rigid above the corpse. She heard his mother passing along the corridor! Other noises arose,--steps, voices, preparations for an evening's entertainment. They might call her, come to look for her at any moment. And here was this dead body of her lover, whom she had killed and who had fallen back upon her shoulders, with the crushing weight of their sin.

Then, crazed by the clamor in her brain, she began walking back and forth. She sought a hole into which to cast this body that was threatening her future. She looked under all the furniture, in the corners, trembling with an enraged realization of her impotence. No, there was no hole, the alcove was not deep enough, the wardrobes were too narrow, the whole room refused its aid. And it was in this room that they had hidden their kisses. He used to enter with his light, cat-like step, and went away as softly. Never should she have imagined that he could become so heavy.

She still roved about the room like a trapped animal. Suddenly, she had an inspiration. Suppose she should throw the body out of the window? But it would be found, and it would be easy to guess where it had come from.

Meanwhile, she had raised the curtain to look out into the street; and there, opposite, was the imbecile who played the flute, leaning out of his window with his tame-dog expression. She well knew his sallow face, unceasingly turned toward her and wearying her with its avowal of timid tenderness. The sight of Julien, so humble and so loving, stopped her short. A smile flitted across her pale face. Here was her salvation! The imbecile opposite loved her with the devotion of a dog who would obey her even to the commission of a crime. Besides she would reward him with all her heart, with all her body. She had not loved him because he was too gentle; but she would love him, she would buy him with the gift of her body, if he would help her conceal her crime.

Then, quickly, she took up the body of Colombel as if it were a bundle of linen, and threw it on the bed. Immediately opening the window, she threw kisses to Julien.

IV

Julien walked as in a nightmare. When he recognized Colombel on the bed, he was not astonished,--it seemed quite natural. Yes, no one but Colombel could be in that alcove, his temple indented, his limbs spread out in an attitude of revolting lewdness.

Meanwhile, Therese was speaking to him. He did not hear at first; the words flowed through his stupor with a confused sound. Then, he understood that she was giving him orders, and he listened. Now, he must not leave the room; he must remain until midnight,--until the house grew dark and quiet. The party that the marquis was giving would prevent their doing anything sooner. But, in a way, it acted in their favor, for it so occupied everybody's attention that no one would think of coming up to the young girl's room. At the proper time, Julien was to take the body on his back, carry it down and throw it into the Chanteclair, at the bottom of Beau-Soleil Street Therese explained the whole plan.

She ceased talking, and, placing her hands on the young man's shoulders, she asked:--

"You understand,--is it agreed?"

He shuddered.

"Yes, yes; everything you wish. I am yours."

Then, very serious, she leaned forward. As he did not understand, she said:--

"Kiss me."

He kissed her on her icy brow. And then they became silent.

Therese had again drawn the curtains of the bed. She sank into an armchair, where she rested, lost in the darkness. Julien also sat down. Françoise was no longer in the next room; the house sent them only muffled sounds. The room seemed to be asleep, and gradually filling with shadows. For nearly an hour, neither moved. Julien felt within his head great throbs, like blows, which prevented his reasoning. He was with Therese, and that filled him with happiness. But when the thought flashed on him that there was the corpse of a man in that alcove, he felt as if he would swoon. Was it possible that she had loved that shrimp? He excused her for having killed him. What fired his blood was the bare feet of that man in the midst of the rumpled laces. With what joy he would throw him into the Chanteclair, at the end of the bridge, at a dark and deep spot that he knew well! They would both be well quit of him; they could then belong to each other. At the thought of that happiness that he had not dared dream of in the morning, he saw himself on the bed in the very place where the corpse now lay; and the place was cold and he felt a terrified repugnance.

The clock struck, in the midst of the great silence. Therese got up slowly and lighted the candles on her dressing-table. She appeared possessed of her accustomed calm, coming and going with the quiet step of a person who busies herself in the intimacy of her room. She seemed to have forgotten the sprawling body behind the rose silk hangings. As she uncoiled her hair, she said, without even turning her head:--

"I am going to dress for the party. If anyone comes, hide yourself in the end of the alcove."

He remained seated; he watched her. She already treated him like a lover. With raised arms, she dressed her hair. He watched her with a thrill, so desirable she appeared with her back uncovered, lazily moving her delicate elbows and her tapering hands. Was she displaying her seductions, showing him the lover he was to possess, in order to make him brave?

She had just put on her slippers, when a step was heard in the corridor.

"Hide in the alcove," she said, in a low voice.

And, with a quick movement, she threw upon the stiffened body of Colombel all the linen that she had taken off,--a linen still warm with the perfume of her body.

It was Françoise who entered, saying,--

"They are waiting for you, Mademoiselle."

"I am coming, my good woman," peacefully answered Therese. "You can help me put on my dress."

Julien, through a slit in the curtain, could see them both, and he trembled at the audacity of the young girl. His teeth chattered so loudly that he grasped his jaw and held it in his hand. Beside him, under a chemise, he saw one of the icy feet of Colombel. If Françoise, the mother, should draw the curtain and strike against the bare foot of her child!

"Be careful," said Therese. "You are pulling off the flowers."

Her voice betrayed no emotion. She smiled like a girl pleased to go to a ball. The dress was of white silk, trimmed with sweet briar,--white flowers, with the hearts touched with red. And when she stood in the middle of the room, she was like a large bouquet of virginal whiteness. Her bare arms and her bare neck continued the whiteness of the silk.

"Oh! how beautiful you are! How beautiful you are!" repeated the old Françoise. "And your garland,--wait!"

She searched for it, and was about to put her hand on the curtains to look on the bed. Julien almost let out a cry of anguish. But Therese, without haste, always smiling before the mirror, said:--

"It is there, on the chest. Give it to me. And don't touch my bed. I put some things on it, and you would mix them all up."

Françoise helped her to arrange the branch of sweet briar like a crown, with its flexible end drooping to the back of her neck. Françoise stood admiring her. She was ready and putting on her gloves.

"Ah! well," cried Françoise, "there are no holy Virgins in the church as white as you."

This compliment caused the young girl to smile again. She gave a last glance into the mirror, and started for the door, saying,--

"Come along; let us go down. You can put out the candles."

In the sudden darkness, Julien heard the door close and Therese's gown rustle along the corridor. The deep night was a veil before his eyes, but he preserved the sensation of that bare foot near him. He remained there, unconscious of the lapse of time, weighed down by thoughts heavy as sleep, when the door opened. By the rustle of silk, he knew it was Therese. She did not come in; she simply put something on the chest of drawers, while she murmured:--

"Here; you have not dined. You must eat, you understand."

The gown rustled away again. Julien shook himself and got up. He suffocated in the alcove; he could no longer remain near that bed, beside Colombel. The clock struck eight,--he had four hours to wait! He walked about muffling his footsteps. A feeble light, from the starlit night, made it possible to distinguish the dark masses of furniture.

Three times, he thought he heard a sigh issue from the alcove. He stopped, terrified. Then, when he listened intently, he found it was sounds from the festivities below,--dance music, the laughing murmur of a crowd. He closed his eyes; and, suddenly, instead of the blackness of the room, he saw brilliant lights, a flaming drawing-room, in which was Therese, in her white silk, waltzing to an amorous air. The whole house vibrated to joyous music. He was alone, in this horrible corner, shaking with fear!

Ten o'clock struck. He listened. It seemed as if he had been there years. Then, he waited bewildered. Having found bread and fruit under his hand, he ate avidly, with a gnawing of the stomach that he could not assuage. When he had eaten, he was overcome by lassitude. The night seemed never-ending. The distant music grew clearer; the dancing at times shook the floor. Carriages began to rumble.

He was looking fixedly at the door, when he saw a light through the keyhole. He did not hide. So much the worse, if anyone came in.

"No; thank you, Françoise," said Therese, appearing with a candle, "I can undress quite well alone. Go to bed,--you must be tired."

She closed the door and slipped the bolt. Then, she stood for a moment motionless, with her finger on her lip. The dance had not brought color to her cheeks. She did not speak. She set down the candle, and sat down opposite Julien. During a half hour, they waited, looking at each other.

The doors had banged; the mansion had gone to sleep. But what worried Therese was the proximity of Françoise. Françoise walked about a few minutes, then her bed creaked. For some time, she turned from side to side, as if unable to sleep. At last, her strong and regular breathing was heard through the wall.

Therese looked at Julien gravely. She said only one word,--"Come."

They drew aside the curtains. They wished to clothe the corpse which already had the rigidity of a lugubrious puppet. When that task was finished, their brows were moist.

"Come," she said a second time.

Without hesitation, Julien took up the body and threw it across his shoulders, as butchers carry calves.

"I will go before you," murmured Therese rapidly, "I will hold your coat,--you have only to follow. And walk softly."

They had first to pass through Françoise's room. They had crossed it, when one of the feet of the corpse struck against a chair. At the sound, Françoise awoke. They heard her raise her head, mumbling to herself. They remained motionless,--she, pressed against the door; he, crushed under the weight of the body, with the horrible fear that the mother might surprise them carrying her son to the river. It was a moment of anguish. Then, Françoise went to sleep again, and they stealthily reached the corridor.

But, here, another fright awaited them. The marquise had not gone to bed,--a streak of light came through the partly opened door. So, they dared neither go forward, nor retreat. For a quarter of an hour, they did not move, and Therese had the astounding courage to support the body so that Julien should not get tired. At last, the streak of light was obliterated. They could go on to the ground floor. They were saved.

It was Therese who again opened the ancient door. And when Julien found himself in the middle of Quatre-Femmes Square with his burden, he saw her standing on the flight of steps, in her white ball gown. She was waiting for him.

V

Julien had the strength of a bull. When very young, in the forest near his native village, he amused himself helping the woodcutters, carrying tree trunks on his young shoulders. So, he carried little Colombel as easily as a feather. It was a bird on his back, that corpse of a shrimp. He hardly felt it,--he experienced an unholy joy in finding it so light, so thin, so absolutely nothing. Little Colombel would never sneer at him again, passing under his windows while he played the flute. He would never again humiliate him with his witticisms in the town. With a movement of the shoulder, he hoisted the body higher up, and, with set teeth, hastened his steps.

The town was dark. Yet, there was light in Quatre-Femmes Square, in Captain Pidoux's window. Doubtless, the captain was not feeling well; his large profile could be seen passing back and forth behind the curtains. Julien, anxious, slunk in the shadow of the houses. Suddenly, a slight cough froze him. He hid in a doorway. He recognized the wife of M. Savournin taking the air at her window. It seemed like fatality. Ordinarily, at that hour, Quatre-Femmes Square slept soundly. Fortunately, Madame Savournin soon returned to the side of M. Savournin, whose snores could be heard on the pavement.

Julien quickly crossed the square and breathed more freely in the narrowness of Beau-Soleil Street. There, the houses were so near together that the light of the stars did not penetrate the shadowy depths. As soon as he found himself thus sheltered, an irresistible desire to run sent him forward in a furious gallop. It was dangerous and stupid,--he knew it; but he still felt behind him the clear and empty space of Quatre-Femmes Square, with the windows of Madame Savournin and the captain lighted like two great eyes that watched him. His shoes made such a noise on the stones that he thought himself followed. Suddenly, he halted. He had heard, thirty yards away, the voices of the officers who patronized the table d'hôte of the blond widow. They must have been making merry over a punch, in honor of the exchange of one of their comrades. The young man told himself that if they came up the street, he was lost. There was no side street for him to turn into, and he would not have time to go back. He listened to the tread of their boots and the jingling of their swords with an anxiety that almost strangled him. For a moment, he could not have told whether they were approaching or going in the other direction. But the noises gradually grew fainter. He waited, then went on softly. At last, he reached the city gate. He passed through, but the sudden widening out of the country terrified him. There was a blue haze over the earth; a fresh breeze stirred; and it seemed to him that an immense crowd awaited him and breathed in his face.

Yet, there was the bridge. He could see the white roadway, the two parapets, low and gray like granite benches; he could hear the crystal music of the Chanteclair in the tall grasses. So, he risked it. He bent over, avoiding open space as much as possible, fearing to be seen by the thousand mute witnesses that he felt around him. The most terrible ordeal would be on the bridge itself, where he would be exposed to the view of the whole town, which was built like an amphitheatre. He had one last wavering of the will,--and then he crossed the bridge.

He leaned over; he saw the surface with its ripples like smiles. That was the spot. He unloaded his burden on the parapet. Before throwing the body in, he had an irresistible impulse to look at little Colombel again. He remained for several seconds face to face with the corpse. A cart in the distance rumbled and creaked. So Julien made haste; and, to avoid a noisy plunge, he let the body down slowly, leaning over as far as possible. He did not know how it happened, but the arms of the corpse caught around his neck and he was dragged over. He saved himself from going down, by a miracle. Little Colombel wanted to take him with him.

When he found himself seated on the stone, he was taken with a fit of weakness. He remained there, broken, his spine curved, his legs hanging, in the relaxed attitude of a tired pedestrian. And he contemplated the sleeping surface, where the laughing ripples had reappeared. One thing was certain,--little Colombel had tried to drag him down with him.

Then, he recalled Therese. She was waiting for him. He could see her standing at the head of the ruined steps, in her white silk dress with its sweet briar blossoms, all white and their hearts touched with red. But perhaps, she had felt cold and had gone to her room to wait for him.

No woman had ever waited for him before. Just one minute more, and then he would be at the rendezvous! But his legs were numb, and he feared that he would fall asleep. Was he a coward, then? And, to rouse himself, he pictured Therese as he had seen her at her toilet. He saw again her arms raised, moving her delicate elbows and her pale hands. He recalled that room of terrible voluptuousness, where he had known a mad intoxication. Was he to renounce that passion offered him, a foretaste of which was burning his lips? No; he would sooner drag himself upon his knees, if his legs refused to carry him!

But it was already a lost battle, in which his vanquished love had just expired. The image of Therese paled; a black wall arose, separating him from her. He had but one irresistible desire,--to sleep, to sleep forever! He would not go to the office to-morrow,--it would be useless. He would never again play the flute; he would never again sit by his window. So, why not sleep forever? His existence was ended,--he could go to bed. And he looked again at the river, trying to see if little Colombel was still there.

The surface spread, dimpled by the rapid smiles of its currents The Chanteclair sang musically, while the country softened under the shadow of a sovereign peace. Julien murmured the name of "Therese." Then, he let himself go, and, rolling over, he fell like a bundle into the water, sending up great splashes of foam. And the Chanteclair continued its song among the grasses.

When the two bodies were found, it was thought there had been a combat, and a story was invented forthwith. Julien must have lain in wait for little Colombel to avenge his mocking; and he must have jumped into the river after killing his enemy with a blow on the temple.

Three months later, Mademoiselle Therese de Marsanne married the young Count de Veteuil. She wore a white dress, and her face was beautiful in its haughty purity.