Chapter 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.