For a Night of Love by Émile Zola Page B

into a lugubrious puppet. When this task was completed, both their foreheads were drenched with sweat.
    ‘Come on!’ she said a second time.
    Julien, without hesitating, in one single movement grasped young Colombel and swung him across his shoulders, in the same way that butchers carry calves. His big frame sagged under the weight, the corpse’s feet dangled a yard above the ground.
    ‘I’ll walk ahead of you,’ murmured Thérèse rapidly. ‘I’ll hold you by your jacket, you’ll just need to let me guide you. And go slowly.’
    They first had to get through Françoise’s room. This was the most daunting part. They had crossed the room when one of the corpse’s feet bumped against a chair. At the noise, Françoise awoke. They heard her raise her head, muttering and mumbling. And they froze – she glued to the door, he crushed under the weight of the body, overcome by fear that the mother would catch them carting her son off to the river. For a minute they endured the most atrocious anguish. Then, Françoise appeared to go back to sleep, and they made their way out into the corridor, cautiously.
    But there, they were thrown into panic again. The Marquise had not yet gone to bed, a streak of light was gleaming through her half-opened door. At that moment they dared go neither forward nor backward. Julien felt as if young Colombel would slip off his shoulders if he were forced to cross Françoise’s room a second time. For almost a quarter of an hour, they did not move; and Thérèse had the dreadful courage to help support the corpse so Julien would not exhaust himself. Finally the streak of light went out, they were able to reach the ground floor. They were saved.
    It was Thérèse who forced half-open once more the old blocked-up carriage entrance. And, when Julien found himself in the middle of the Place des Quatre-Femmes, his burden on his back, he saw her standing there, at the top of the steps, her arms bare, all white in her ball gown. She would be waiting for him.
5
    Julien had the strength of a bull. As a child, in the forest near his village, he had enjoyed helping the woodcutters, loading tree trunks onto his boyish shoulders. So he could carry young Colombel as if he were as light as a feather. That pipsqueak’s corpse was like a bird round his neck. He hardly felt him, he was seized with a malevolent joy at finding how little he weighed, how slender he was, how completely insubstantial . Never again would young Colombel snigger as he passed beneath his window, on the days he played the flute; he would no longer pepper him with his jokes in town. And, at the thought that he had in his grasp a successful rival now stiff and cold, Julien felt his loins quiver with satisfaction. He hiked him up round his neck, gritted his teeth and stepped out.
    The town was dark. But there was light on the Place des Quatre-Femmes, at the window of Captain Pidoux; probably the captain was unwell, the swollen outline of his belly could be seen coming and going behind the curtains. Julien, in trepidation, was slipping past the houses opposite when the sound of a slight cough froze him. He halted in the shadow of a doorway, recognising the wife of the lawyer Savournin, taking the air and looking up at the skies as she heaved heavy sighs. It was sheer bad luck; usually, at this hour, the Place des Quatre-Femmes was fast asleep. Mme Savournin, fortunately, finally went back home to lay her head on thepillow next to M. Savournin, whose rumbling snores could be heard in the cobbled street, floating down through the window. And, when this window was at last closed, Julien swiftly crossed the square, still keeping an eye open for the twisted, dancing silhouette of Captain Pidoux.
    Nonetheless, he felt reassured once he had reached the constricted thoroughfare of the rue Beau-Soleil. There, the houses were so close together, the cobbled street twisted down so steeply, that the starlight could not penetrate to the bottom of this