Read Online For a Night of Love by Émile Zola - Free Book Online

narrow lane, in which a pool of dense shadow seemed to have gathered. As soon as he saw how sheltered he was, an irresistible desire to run impelled him suddenly into a furious gallop. It was dangerous and stupid, he was perfectly aware of that; but he couldn’t stop himself galloping, he could still sense at his back the clear empty square of the Place des Quatre-Femmes, with the windows of the lawyer’s wife and the captain lit up like two big eyes gazing at him. His shoes made such a racket on the cobbles that he thought he was being pursued. Then, all at once, he stopped. Thirty yards away, he had just heard the voices of the officers staying at the guest house run by a blonde widow in the rue Beau-Soleil. These gentlemen must have decided to indulge in a bowl of punch to celebrate the transfer of one of their comrades. The young man told himself that, if they came back up the street, he would have had it; there was no side-street down which he could escape, and he would certainly not have time to turn back. He listened to the regular tread of their boots and the light clatter of their swords, and was overwhelmed with a suffocating panic. For a few moments, he was unable to work out whether the sounds were approaching or receding. But the noises slowly faded away. He waited a little longer, then decided to continue his journey, muffling the sound of hisfootsteps. He would have gone barefoot if he had dared pause long enough to take off his shoes.
    Finally, Julien emerged in front of the town gate.
    There is no toll-house there, nor any kind of guard post. So he could pass freely. But the sudden expanse of countryside opening up before him terrified him, as he came out of the narrow rue Beau-Soleil. The countryside was blue all over, a soft gentle blue colour; a fresh breeze was blowing; and it seemed to him that a huge crowd was waiting for him there, breathing into his face. They could see him, there would be a terrible outcry that would root him to the spot.
    But the bridge lay before him. He could see the white road, the two parapets, low and grey like benches of granite; he could hear the murmur of the Chanteclair making crystal-clear music in the tall weeds. Then he ventured forward, walking bent double, avoiding the open spaces, afraid of being seen by the thousand mute witnesses he sensed all around him. The most alarming part was the bridge itself, on which he would be exposed to the view of the whole town, built like an amphitheatre all around. And he wanted to get to the end of the bridge, to the place where he habitually sat, his legs dangling, breathing in the fresh air of fine evenings. Where the bed of the Chanteclair formed a deep hollow, there was a still, black stretch of water, dimpled by fleeting wrinkles from the hidden turbulence of a violent whirlpool. How many times had he amused himself by throwing stones into this stretch of water so as to measure by the bubbling of the water the depth of the river at that point! He made one last effort of will-power, and crossed the bridge.
    Yes, this was the place. Julien recognised the slab, worn smooth by his long sojourns there. He bent over, he could see the stretch of water with its swift dimples, tracing smiles. Thiswas the place, and he unloaded his burden onto the parapet. Before throwing young Colombel in, he felt an irresistible urge to look at him one last time. The eyes of all the townspeople gazing at him would have been unable to prevent him satisfying his wish. He stood for a few seconds face to face with the corpse. The hole in its temple had blackened. A cart, in the distance of the sleeping countryside, was making a great moaning noise. Then Julien made haste; and to avoid too noisy a splash, he hauled the body over and helped it down. But, he couldn’t tell how, the dead man’s arms clasped him round his neck so powerfully that he himself was dragged down. Miraculously, he managed to grab hold of a ridge. Young Colombel had wanted to take