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

him with him.
    When he came to himself, sitting on the slab, he felt faint. He remained there, worn-out, his back bent, his legs dangling, in the same slack-limbed posture of a weary rambler that he had so often fallen into. And he stared down at the still stretch of water, where the merry dimples were starting to reappear. There was no doubt about it, young Colombel had wanted to take him with him; he had grabbed him by the neck, dead though he was. But none of these things existed any more; he breathed deeply the fresh countryside smell; his eyes followed the silvery reflection on the river between the velvety shadows of the trees; and this corner of nature seemed to be a promise of peace, of endless cradling, in a discreet and secret bliss.
    Then, he remembered Thérèse. She would be waiting for him, he was sure. He could see her still at the top of the ruined steps, on the threshold of the door with its moss-covered wood. She was standing erect, in her white satin dress, adorned with wild roses, with a red-hued tip at their heart. But perhaps she had started to feel the cold. Then, she must have gone up to wait for him in her room. She had left the dooropen, she had lain down on the bed, like a bride on the evening of her wedding day.
    Ah! what a sweet prospect! Never before had a woman waited for him like that. A minute later, he would be at the promised assignation. But his legs were growing numb, he was afraid he might fall asleep. Was he a coward then? And, to rouse himself, he imagined Thérèse at her dressing-table, when she had let her clothes fall. He saw her with her arms lifted, her bosom stretched, her delicate elbows and pale hands flexing. He whipped up his ardour with his memories, thinking of the fragrance she exuded, her supple skin, that bedroom of terrible pleasures in which he had drunk in such intoxicating madness. Was he going to renounce all that offered passion, the foretaste of which was burning his lips? No, he would rather drag himself there on his knees, if his legs refused to carry him.
    But this was a battle he had already lost, in which his vanquished love was in its final death throes. He had only one irresistible need – to sleep, to sleep forever. The image of Thérèse was growing fainter, a great black wall was rising up to separate them. Now he wouldn’t have been able to touch her shoulder lightly with his fingertip without dying. As his desire expired, it gave off the smell of a corpse. It was all becoming impossible, the ceiling would have fallen in on their heads if he had returned to the bedroom and pressed that girl to his flesh.
    To sleep, to sleep forever, how nice that must be, when you no longer had anything in you worth the pleasure of staying awake for! He wouldn’t go to the post office the next day, it was no use; he wouldn’t play the flute again, he wouldn’t sit at his window. So, why not sleep for good? His life was over, it was time for bed. And he again looked at the river, trying to seeif young Colombel was still there. Colombel was an intelligent lad: he knew for sure what he was doing, when he had tried to take Julien with him.
    The stretch of water spread out, dotted by the fleeting laughter of its whirlpools. The Chanteclair murmured as sweetly as music, while the countryside opened up shadowy expanses of supreme peace. Julien stammered Thérèse’s name three times. Then, he let himself fall, curled up, like a bundle, the foam splashing high all around him. And the Chanteclair resumed its singing in the weeds.
    When the two bodies were found, people assumed there had been a fight, and concocted a whole story. Julien must have been lying in wait for young Colombel, to take revenge on him for his mockeries; and he had thrown himself into the river, after killing him by bashing in his temple with a stone. Three months later, Mlle Thérèse de Marsanne married the young Comte de Véteuil. She was wearing a white dress, her face was beautiful and calm,