coming, my dear,’ Thérèse tranquilly replied. ‘Just a minute! You can help me put on my dress.’
Julien, through a narrow gap in the curtains, could see the two women, and he shuddered at the girl’s boldness, his teeth chattering so loudly that he had gripped his jaw hard to stop anyone hearing. Right next to him, beneath the woman’s undershirt, he could see one of Colombel’s icy feet dangling. Imagine if Françoise, Colombel’s mother, had drawn the curtain aside and happened across her son’s foot, that bare foot sticking out!
‘Be careful,’ Thérèse was repeating, ‘slow down: you’re pulling the flowers off.’
Her voice was expressionless. She was smiling now, like any girl glad to be going to the ball. The dress was a white silk dress, covered all over with wild roses, their flowers white with a red-hued tip at their heart. And, when she stood in the middle of the room, she was like a great bouquet, virginal in her whiteness. Her bare arms, her bare neck blended into the whiteness of the silk.
‘Oh! how beautiful you look, how beautiful you look!’ old Françoise kept repeating with satisfaction. ‘And wait, don’t forget your garland!’
She seemed to be searching for it, and reached out to the curtains, as if to have a look on the bed. Julien almost let out a cry of anguish. But Thérèse, quite unhurried, still smiling at herself in the mirror, continued: ‘My garland is over there, look, on the chest of drawers. Give it to me… Oh! don’t touch my bed. I’ve put my things there. You’d mess it all up.’
Françoise helped her to put on the long rose branch she wore as a crown, the end of which curled down onto her neck. Then, Thérèse stood there for one minute longer, admiring her appearance. She was ready, just slipping on her gloves.
‘Ah yes!’ Françoise exclaimed, ‘there isn’t a single young girl as pure and white as you, in church!’
This compliment again made the girl smile. She gazed at herself one last time and headed to the door, saying, ‘Come on, let’s go down… You can blow out the candles.’
In the sudden darkness that fell, Julien heard the door closing shut and Thérèse’s dress moving away, its silk rustling along the corridor. He sat on the floor, in the corner between bed and wall, not yet daring to leave the alcove. The deep night veiled his sight; but he could still feel, right near him, thesensation of that bare foot, which seemed to spread a chill through the whole room. He had been there he didn’t know for how long, weighed down by a heavy, almost soporific mass of thoughts, when the door was opened again. From the swoosh of the silk, he recognised Thérèse. She didn’t move forward, but simply placed something on the chest of drawers, murmuring, ‘Here, you must have gone without your dinner … You’ve got to eat, all right?’
The faint rustle of the silk was heard again, the dress moved away a second time, down the corridor. Julien, shaken, rose to his feet. He was suffocating in the alcove, he couldn’t stay sitting against that bed any longer, next to Colombel. The clock struck eight, he had four hours to wait. Then, he walked forward, muffling the sound of his footsteps.
A feeble glimmer, coming from the starry night, enabled him to distinguish the dark shapes of the furniture. Some of the corners were immersed in darkness. Alone, the mirror preserved a dull reflection of old silver. He was not usually prone to fear; but, in this room, trickles of sweat at times drenched his face. Around him, dark looming furniture shifted, assuming menacing shapes. Three times he thought he heard sighs emerging from the alcove. And each time he froze, terrified. Then, when he listened more closely, they turned out to be noises rising up from the party, a dance tune, the murmurous laughter of a crowd. He closed his eyes; and, suddenly, instead of the black hole of the bedroom, there would be an abrupt dazzling light, a brilliantly lit
Julien, through a narrow gap in the curtains, could see the two women, and he shuddered at the girl’s boldness, his teeth chattering so loudly that he had gripped his jaw hard to stop anyone hearing. Right next to him, beneath the woman’s undershirt, he could see one of Colombel’s icy feet dangling. Imagine if Françoise, Colombel’s mother, had drawn the curtain aside and happened across her son’s foot, that bare foot sticking out!
‘Be careful,’ Thérèse was repeating, ‘slow down: you’re pulling the flowers off.’
Her voice was expressionless. She was smiling now, like any girl glad to be going to the ball. The dress was a white silk dress, covered all over with wild roses, their flowers white with a red-hued tip at their heart. And, when she stood in the middle of the room, she was like a great bouquet, virginal in her whiteness. Her bare arms, her bare neck blended into the whiteness of the silk.
‘Oh! how beautiful you look, how beautiful you look!’ old Françoise kept repeating with satisfaction. ‘And wait, don’t forget your garland!’
She seemed to be searching for it, and reached out to the curtains, as if to have a look on the bed. Julien almost let out a cry of anguish. But Thérèse, quite unhurried, still smiling at herself in the mirror, continued: ‘My garland is over there, look, on the chest of drawers. Give it to me… Oh! don’t touch my bed. I’ve put my things there. You’d mess it all up.’
Françoise helped her to put on the long rose branch she wore as a crown, the end of which curled down onto her neck. Then, Thérèse stood there for one minute longer, admiring her appearance. She was ready, just slipping on her gloves.
‘Ah yes!’ Françoise exclaimed, ‘there isn’t a single young girl as pure and white as you, in church!’
This compliment again made the girl smile. She gazed at herself one last time and headed to the door, saying, ‘Come on, let’s go down… You can blow out the candles.’
In the sudden darkness that fell, Julien heard the door closing shut and Thérèse’s dress moving away, its silk rustling along the corridor. He sat on the floor, in the corner between bed and wall, not yet daring to leave the alcove. The deep night veiled his sight; but he could still feel, right near him, thesensation of that bare foot, which seemed to spread a chill through the whole room. He had been there he didn’t know for how long, weighed down by a heavy, almost soporific mass of thoughts, when the door was opened again. From the swoosh of the silk, he recognised Thérèse. She didn’t move forward, but simply placed something on the chest of drawers, murmuring, ‘Here, you must have gone without your dinner … You’ve got to eat, all right?’
The faint rustle of the silk was heard again, the dress moved away a second time, down the corridor. Julien, shaken, rose to his feet. He was suffocating in the alcove, he couldn’t stay sitting against that bed any longer, next to Colombel. The clock struck eight, he had four hours to wait. Then, he walked forward, muffling the sound of his footsteps.
A feeble glimmer, coming from the starry night, enabled him to distinguish the dark shapes of the furniture. Some of the corners were immersed in darkness. Alone, the mirror preserved a dull reflection of old silver. He was not usually prone to fear; but, in this room, trickles of sweat at times drenched his face. Around him, dark looming furniture shifted, assuming menacing shapes. Three times he thought he heard sighs emerging from the alcove. And each time he froze, terrified. Then, when he listened more closely, they turned out to be noises rising up from the party, a dance tune, the murmurous laughter of a crowd. He closed his eyes; and, suddenly, instead of the black hole of the bedroom, there would be an abrupt dazzling light, a brilliantly lit
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