For a Night of Love by Émile Zola Page A

salon, in which he could see Thérèse, with her pure dress, swinging past to an amorous rhythm, in the arms of a waltzer. The whole house was throbbing to the strains of joyful music. He was alone, in this abominable hole, shivering with dread. At one moment, he recoiled, his hair standing on end: he thoughthe could see a light starting to glow on a seat. When he plucked up the courage to go and touch it, he recognised a white satin corset. He took it, buried his face in the fabric that had been softly moulded by the young horsewoman’s slender breast, slowly breathing in its odour, to numb his senses.
    Ah! what rapture! He wanted to forget everything. No, this was no vigil for the dead, it was a vigil of love. He went over to the window and pressed his forehead to the pane, still holding the satin corset to his lips; and he started to go over the story of his passion. Opposite, on the other side of the street, he could make out his room, whose windows had stayed open. It was there that he had seduced Thérèse in his long evenings of fervent music. His flute would sing with tenderness, pour out his declarations, with such a sweet tremulousness in its timid lover’s voice that the girl, vanquished, had finally smiled. This satin he was kissing was her satin, a corner of the satin of her skin, which she had left for him so he would not lose patience. His dream started to become so vivid that he left the window and ran over to the door, thinking he could hear her.
    The chill atmosphere of the room fell on his shoulders; and, coming down to earth, he remembered. Then, he was seized by a furious resolve. Ah! he would hesitate no longer, he would come back that same night. She was too beautiful, he was too much in love with her. When two people’s love is sealed by crime, their love must be passionate enough to make their bones crack. To be sure, he would return, he would come running back without wasting a moment, as soon as the bundle had been dumped in the river. And, driven wild, shaken by a nervous spasm, he sank his teeth into the satin corset, rolling his head in the fabric, trying to stifle his sobs of desire.
    Ten o’clock struck. He listened. He felt he had been there for years. So he waited, in a complete daze. His hand brushed against some bread and fruit, and he ate standing, hungrily, with an ache in his stomach that he could not soothe. This food would give him strength, perhaps. Then, when he had eaten, he was overwhelmed by an immense weariness. The night seemed as if it would drag on forever. In the house, the distant music became more distinct; at times the thump of a dance shook the polished floor; carriages were starting to roll away. And as he gazed fixedly at the door, he saw what looked like a star shining through the keyhole. He didn’t even bother to hide. Too bad if someone came in!
    ‘No thanks, Françoise,’ said Thérèse, appearing with a candle. ‘I can get undressed by myself… You go to bed, you must be tired.’
    She pushed the door to, and slid the bolt across. Then, she stood motionless for a moment, a finger at her lips, still holding the candlestick. The dance had brought no flush to her cheeks. She said nothing, set down the candlestick, sat opposite Julien. For another half an hour, they waited, gazing at each other.
    The doors had slammed shut, the house was drifting off to sleep. But what worried Thérèse more than anything was the proximity of Françoise, that bedroom in which the old woman lived. Françoise walked up and down for a few minutes, then her bed creaked, she had just lain down on it. For a long time she twisted and turned in her sheets, as if unable to get to sleep. Finally the sound of strong regular breathing could be heard through the dividing wall.
    Thérèse was still gazing at Julien, gravely. She uttered just two words.
    ‘Come on,’ she said.
    They drew the curtains, and set about dressing young Colombel’s corpse, which had already started to stiffen