II

The next day, at the post-office, the great news was that Mademoiselle

Therese de Marsanne had left the convent. Julien did not relate that he

had seen her, with bare throat, and loosened hair. He entertained an

indefinable sentiment toward that young lady who was to derange his

habits. How could he henceforth play his flute? He played too badly to

be heard by a young lady who evidently knew music.

Julien returned home furtively that evening. He did not light a candle.

The window opposite did not open, but, towards ten o'clock a pale light

shone through the blades of the blinds. Then, the light was

extinguished, and he was left contemplating the dark window. Every

evening, in spite of himself, he began that spying. Nothing seemed

changed in the house; the old mansion slept on as before. It required

trained eyes and ears to detect the new life. Sometimes, a light ran

behind the windows, a corner of a curtain was lifted, there was a

glimpse of an immense room. At other times, a light step crossed the

garden, the sound of a piano was faintly heard accompanying a voice.

Julien explained his curiosity by pretending to be annoyed at the

noises. How he regretted the time when the empty house sent back a soft

echo of his flute!

One of his most ardent wishes, though he would not admit it, was to see

Therese again. He imagined her with pink cheeks, a mocking air, and

shining eyes. But, as he did not dare approach his window in the

daytime, he saw her only at night, enveloped by a gray shadow. One

morning, as he was about to close one of his shutters to keep out the

sun, he saw Therese standing in the middle of her room. She seemed to be

reflecting. She was tall, very pale, with beautiful, regular features.

He was almost afraid of her,--she was so different from the gay image he

had formed of her. She had a rather large mouth, of a vivid red, and

deep-set eyes, black and without a sparkle, giving her the air of a

cruel queen. She came slowly toward the window; but she did not appear

to see Julien. She went away again, and the rhythmic movement of her

neck had so strong a grace that he felt as weak as a child beside her,

in spite of his broad shoulders.

Then began a miserable existence for the young man. That beautiful young

woman, so serious and noble, living so near him, made him despair. She

never looked at him; she ignored his existence. After a month had

passed, he suffered from the disdain of the young girl. She came to the

window, looked out on the deserted pavement, and retired without

divining his proximity, as he watched, anxious, on the other side of the

square.

On warm evenings, he began playing again. He left his shutters open, and

played, in the obscurity, those airs of bygone days, naive as the

roundels of little girls. He chose moonless nights; the square was dark;

no one knew whence came that song so sweet, brushing the sleeping houses

with the soft wing of a nocturnal bird. And, the first evening, he had

the emotion of seeing Therese approach the window, all in white

negligee. She leaned on her elbows, surprised to hear again the music

that greeted her the evening of her arrival.

"Listen, Françoise," she said, in her serious voice, turning towards the

room. "It is not a bird."

"Oh!" answered the old woman, of whom Julien could see only the shadow,

"it is some comedian amusing himself, a long distance from here."

"Yes, a long distance," repeated the young girl, after a silence.

From then on, Julien played louder every evening. His fever passed into

the old flute of yellow wood. And Therese, who listened, was astonished

at that music, the vibrant phrases of which, flitting from roof to roof,

awaited the night to make their way to her. One night, the song burst

forth so near that she surmised that it came from one of the old houses

in the square. Julien breathed into the flute all his passion; the

instrument vibrated like crystal. The darkness lent him such audacity

that he hoped to draw her to him by the force of his song. And,

effectually, Therese bent forward, as if attracted and conquered.

"Come in," said the voice of the aged lady. "The night is stormy; you

will have nightmare."

That night, Julien could not sleep. He imagined that Therese had guessed

him to be the musician, had seen him perhaps. Yet, he decided that he

would not show himself. He was in front of his window, at six o'clock

the next morning, putting his flute into its case, when the blinds of

Therese's window were suddenly thrown open.

The young girl, who never arose before eight o'clock, leaned upon the

railing. Julien did not move; he looked her in the face, unable to turn

away. Therese, in her turn, examined him with a steady and haughty

regard. She seemed to study him in his large bones, in his enormous and

badly formed body, in all the ugliness of this timid giant. When she had

judged him, with the tranquil air with which she would have asked

herself whether a dog in the street pleased her or not, she condemned

him with a slight pout. Then turning her back, she closed the window

with deliberation.

Julien, his legs giving way under him, fell into his armchair.

"Ah! mon Dieu!" he exclaimed, brokenly. "I am displeasing to her! And I

love her, and I shall die!"

He bowed his head upon his hands and sobbed. Why had he shown himself?

When one was so ugly, he should hide himself and not shock young girls.

He cursed himself, furious with his looks. He should have remained for

her a sweet music,--nothing but ancient airs descriptive of a mysterious

love.

In effect, he vainly breathed forth the liquid tender melodies: Therese

no longer listened. She came and went in her room, leaned out of the

window, as if he had not been opposite, declaring his love in humble

little notes. One day, even, she exclaimed: "Mon Dieu! How annoying that

flute is, with its false notes!"

So, in despair, he threw the flute into a drawer, and played no more.

Little Colombel, too, scoffed at Julien. One day, on his way to the

office, he had seen Julien at his window practising, and, each time that

he passed, he laughed his mean little laugh. Julien knew that the

notary's clerk was received at the Marsanne's, and it broke his

heart,--not that he was jealous of that shrimp, but because he would

have given his life to be for one hour in his place.

Françoise, the mother of the young man, had been for years one of the

Marsanne household, and now she took care of Therese. Long ago, the

aristocratic young lady and the little peasant had grown up together,

and it seemed natural that they should preserve some of their former

comradeship. Julien suffered none the less when he met Colombel in the

streets with his lips puckered into a thin smile. His repulsion

increased when he realized that the shrimp was not bad looking. He had a

round cat-like head, but very delicate, pretty, and diabolical, with

green eyes and a light curly beard on his soft chin.

Julien did not relinquish his dream of love without a great struggle. He

remained hidden for several weeks, ashamed of his ugliness. Then, he was

shaken by rage. He felt the need to display his large limbs, to force on

her sight his rough face, burning with fever. So, he remained for weeks

at his window, he wearied her with his regard. Even, on two occasions,

he had sent her ardent kisses, with the brutality shown by timid people

when they are prompted to audacity. Therese exhibited no anger. When he

was concealed from her view he saw her going about with her royal air;

and, when he thrust himself upon her, she preserved that air and was

even colder and haughtier.

During that first year, the days followed each other without a break.

When the summer came around again, he experienced a peculiar sensation:

Therese seemed to have acquired a different manner. The same little

events took place,--the shutters were opened in the morning and closed

at night, there were the same appearances at the accustomed hours; but a

new breath seemed to emanate from her room. Therese was paler and

taller. On a very feverish day, he dared for the third time to send her

a kiss. She looked at him intently, with her disquieting seriousness. It

was he who retired from the window, his face crimson.

A single occurrence, toward the end of the summer, upset him, although

it was very simple. Nearly every day, at twilight, the casement opposite

was closed violently. The noise made him shudder, without his knowing

why. For a long time, he could not distinguish whose hand closed the

window; but, one evening, he recognized the pale hands of Therese. It

was she who turned the fastening with that furious movement. And when,

an hour later, she reopened the window,--but without haste, rather with

a dignified slowness,--she seemed weary.

One autumn evening, gray and soft, there was a terrible grinding of the

window fastening. Julien shuddered and tears sprang to his eyes. He

waited for the window to open again. It was thrown wide as violently as

it had been closed. Therese appeared. She was very white, with distended

eyes and hair falling over her shoulders. She put her ten fingers upon

her lips and sent a kiss to Julien.

Distracted, he pressed his fists against his chest and asked if that

kiss was for him. Then, Therese, thinking that he had shrunk back,

leaned forward and sent him a second kiss. She followed it with a third.

He stood rooted, thunderstruck. When she considered that he was

vanquished, she glanced over the little square. Then, in a muffled

voice, she said simply,--

"Come!"

He went down and approached the mansion. As he raised his head, the door

at the top of the steps opened slightly,--that rusty door that was

almost sealed with moss. But he walked in a stupor,--nothing astonished

him. As soon as he entered, the door closed, and a small icy hand led

him upstairs. He went along a corridor, passed through a room, and, at

last, found himself in a room that he knew. It was the dreamed-of

paradise, the room with the rose silk curtains. He was tempted to sink

to his knees. Therese stood before him very erect, her hands tightly

clasped, and resolutely holding under control the tremor that had

possession of her.

"You love me?" she asked in a low voice.

"Oh! yes, yes!" he stammered.

She made a gesture, as if to forestall any useless words. She continued,

with a haughty manner that seemed to render her words natural and

chaste.

"If I gave myself to you, you would do anything for me,--wouldn't you?"

He could not answer,--he clasped his hands. For a kiss from her, he

would sell himself.

"Well! I have a service to exact of you. We must swear to keep the

bargain. I swear to carry out my part of it. Now, swear, swear!"

"Oh! I swear,--anything you wish!" he cried, in absolute abandonment.

The pure odor of her room intoxicated him. The curtains of the alcove

were drawn, and the thought of that virgin bed in the softened shadow of

the rose silk, filled him with a religious ecstasy.

Then, with a brutal movement, she tore the curtains apart, revealing the

alcove, into which the faint evening light penetrated. The bed was in

disorder. The coverings trailed over the sides, a pillow on the floor

was ripped open as if by teeth. And, in the midst of the rumpled laces,

lay the body of a man, thrown across the bed.

"There!" she explained in a strangled voice. "That man was my lover. I

pushed him and he fell. I know no more. Well, he is dead; and you must

carry him away! You understand? That is all,--yes, that is all! There!"