Chapter III

When very small, Therese de Marsanne made Colombel her fag and butt. He was her elder by about six months, and Françoise, his mother, had weaned him in order to nurse Therese.

Therese was a terrible child. Not that she was a noisy tomboy. On the contrary, she had a singular seriousness that made her appear as a well bred child before visitors, for whom she made graceful curtseys. But she had very strange ways; she would burst into inarticulate cries, stamping madly about, when she was alone.

No one ever knew her thoughts. Even as a child, instead of her eyes being clear mirrors revealing her soul, they were like dark cavities, of an inky blackness, in which it was impossible to read.

At six years of age, she began to torture Colombel. He was small and delicate. She would take him to the bottom of the garden, under the chestnut trees, and, jumping on his back would make him carry her. He was the horse, she was the lady. When, dizzy, he seemed ready to fall, she would bite his ear, clinging to him with such fury that she would sink her nails into his flesh.

Later, in the presence of her parents, she would pinch him and forbid his crying out under pain of being thrown out into the street. They thus had a sort of secret existence, their attitude when alone together changing in company. When they were alone, she treated him like a plaything, with a desire to break him. And as she wearied of reigning over him only when they were alone, she added the pleasure of giving him a kick or pricking him with a pin while in company at the same time fixing him with her somber eyes and daring him to so much as twitch.

Colombel bore that martyr's existence with dumb revolts that left him trembling, his eyes lowered, with a desire to strangle his young mistress. But, he was of a sly and vindictive nature. It did not altogether displease him to be beaten; he immediately gloated in his rancor. He would avenge himself by falling on the stones, dragging Therese with him, so that he would escape injury and she would be scratched and bruised. If he did not cry out when she pinched or pricked him, it was because he wished no one to interfere between them. It was their own affair,--a quarrel from which he intended to issue the conqueror later on.

Meanwhile, the marquis was worried about the violent conduct of his daughter. He considered it his duty to submit her to a rigid education. So, he placed her in a convent, hoping that the discipline would soften her nature. She remained there until her eighteenth year.

When Therese returned home, she was very well-behaved and very tall. Her parents were pleased to note in her a profound piety. The marquis and the marquise, secluded for fifteen years in the big house, prepared to open the drawing-room again. They gave several dinners to the nobility of the neighborhood; they had dancing. Their design was to marry Therese. And, in spite of her coldness, she made herself very agreeable. She adorned herself and she waltzed, but always with a face so pale that the young men who thought of falling in love with her were uneasy.

Therese had never mentioned little Colombel. The marquis had taken an interest in him, and, after giving him a schooling, had placed him in M. Savournin's office. One day, Françoise led her son up to Therese and presented to the young girl her comrade of former days. Colombel was smiling, very clean, and without a sign of embarrassment. Therese looked at him calmly, said she remembered him, and turned her back.

But, a week later, Colombel returned; and he had soon resumed his former habits. He came every evening to the house, bringing music and books. He was treated as of no consequence,--he was sent on errands like a servant or a poor relation. So they left him alone with the young girl, without thinking of harm. As in the old days, the two shut themselves up in the vast rooms, or remained for hours in the shade of the garden. In verity, they no longer played the same games. Therese walked slowly, with her skirt brushing the grass. Colombel, dressed like the rich young men of the town, accompanied her, whipping the path with a supple cane that he invariably carried.

Yet, she was again the queen and he the slave. She tortured him with her fantastic humors, affectionate one moment and hard the next. He, when she turned her head, swept her with a glittering glance, sharp as a sword, and his whole vicious figure stretched and watched, dreaming a treachery.

One summer evening, they had strolled in the heavy shadow of the chestnut trees for some time in silence, when Therese suddenly remarked:

"I am tired, Colombel. Suppose you carry me as you used to."

He laughed lightly; then answered seriously:

"I am willing, Therese."

Without another word, Therese sprang upon his back with her old agility.

"Now go!" she cried.

She had snatched his cane and she lashed his legs with it, forcing him into a gallop beneath the thick foliage. He had not said a word; he breathed hard and tried to stiffen his slender legs, as the warm weight of the big girl bore him down.

But, when she cried out "Enough!" he did not stop. He ran all the faster, as if carried on by the impetus of the start. In spite of lashings and the digging in of her nails, he made for a shed in which the gardener kept his tools. There, he threw her roughly upon a heap of straw, and, his vindictiveness lending strength to his puny body, he vanquished her. At last, it was his turn to be master!

Therese became even paler, while her eyes grew blacker than ever and her mouth a more vivid crimson. She continued her devotional life.

Several days after the first occurrence, Therese, still panting with the desire to subjugate little Colombel, again leaped upon his back and lashed him. But the scene had the same ending. Again, she was thrown upon the straw and wronged.

Before the world, she maintained a sisterly attitude toward him. He, also, was of a smiling tranquility. They were again, as at six years of age, a couple of unruly animals, amusing themselves in secret by biting each other. Only, to-day, the male was victorious.

Therese received Colombel in her room. She had given him a key to the little gate that opened on the lane at the ramparts. At night, he was obliged to pass through the first room, in which his mother slept. But the lovers showed such calm audacity that they were never surprised. They dared make appointments in the daytime. Colombel came before dinner, and Therese, expecting him, would close the window to escape the neighbors' eyes.

They felt the constant need to see each other,--not to exchange tender expressions of love, but to continue the combat for supremacy. Often, they would quarrel fiercely, in low voices, all the more shaken by anger as they dared not scream or fight.

One evening, Colombel arrived before dinner. As he was walking across the room, still with bare feet and in his shirt-sleeves, he suddenly seized Therese and tried to lift her up, as he had seen strong men do at the fairs. Therese tried to break away, saying:

"Leave me alone. You know I am stronger than you. I will hurt you."

Colombel laughed his little laugh.

"Well! Hurt me!" he murmured.

He shook her as a preliminary to throwing her down. She closed her arms about him. They often played this game. It was usually Colombel who went down on the carpet, breathless, with inert limbs. But, this day, Therese slipped to her knees, and Colombel, with a sudden thrust, threw her over backward. He triumphed.

"So, you see you are not the stronger," he said with an insulting laugh.

She was livid. She raised herself slowly, and dumb, she grasped him again, her whole form so shaken by anger that he shivered. For a minute, they struggled in silence; then, with a last and terrible effort, she threw him backward. He struck his temple against a corner of a chest and felt heavily to the floor.

Therese drew a deep breath. She gathered up her hair before the mirror, she smoothed out her petticoat, affecting to pay no attention to the conquered Colombel. He could pick himself up. Then, she touched him with her foot. She saw that his face was of the color of wax, his eyes glassy, and his mouth twisted. On his right temple there was a hole. Colombel was dead.

She straightened up, chilled with horror. She spoke aloud in the silence.

"Dead! Here he is dead now!"

A terror held her rigid above the corpse. She heard his mother passing along the corridor! Other noises arose,--steps, voices, preparations for an evening's entertainment. They might call her, come to look for her at any moment. And here was this dead body of her lover, whom she had killed and who had fallen back upon her shoulders, with the crushing weight of their sin.

Then, crazed by the clamor in her brain, she began walking back and forth. She sought a hole into which to cast this body that was threatening her future. She looked under all the furniture, in the corners, trembling with an enraged realization of her impotence. No, there was no hole, the alcove was not deep enough, the wardrobes were too narrow, the whole room refused its aid. And it was in this room that they had hidden their kisses. He used to enter with his light, cat-like step, and went away as softly. Never should she have imagined that he could become so heavy.

She still roved about the room like a trapped animal. Suddenly, she had an inspiration. Suppose she should throw the body out of the window? But it would be found, and it would be easy to guess where it had come from.

Meanwhile, she had raised the curtain to look out into the street; and there, opposite, was the imbecile who played the flute, leaning out of his window with his tame-dog expression. She well knew his sallow face, unceasingly turned toward her and wearying her with its avowal of timid tenderness. The sight of Julien, so humble and so loving, stopped her short. A smile flitted across her pale face. Here was her salvation! The imbecile opposite loved her with the devotion of a dog who would obey her even to the commission of a crime. Besides she would reward him with all her heart, with all her body. She had not loved him because he was too gentle; but she would love him, she would buy him with the gift of her body, if he would help her conceal her crime.

Then, quickly, she took up the body of Colombel as if it were a bundle of linen, and threw it on the bed. Immediately opening the window, she threw kisses to Julien.