Yet, there was the bridge. He could see the white roadway, the two parapets, low and gray like granite benches; he could hear the crystal music of the Chanteclair in the tall grasses. So, he risked it. He bent over, avoiding open space as much as possible, fearing to be seen by the thousand mute witnesses that he felt around him. The most terrible ordeal would be on the bridge itself, where he would be exposed to the view of the whole town, which was built like an amphitheatre. He had one last wavering of the will,--and then he crossed the bridge. He leaned over; he saw the surface with its ripples like smiles. That was the spot. He unloaded his burden on the parapet. Before throwing the body in, he had an irresistible impulse to look at little Colombel again. He remained for several seconds face to face with the corpse. A cart in the distance rumbled and creaked. So Julien made haste; and, to avoid a noisy plunge, he let the body down slowly, leaning over as far as possible. He did not know how it happened, but the arms of the corpse caught around his neck and he was dragged over. He saved himself from going down, by a miracle. Little Colombel wanted to take him with him. When he found himself seated on the stone, he was taken with a fit of weakness. He remained there, broken, his spine curved, his legs hanging, in the relaxed attitude of a tired pedestrian. And he contemplated the sleeping surface, where the laughing ripples had reappeared. One thing was certain,--little Colombel had tried to drag him down with him. Then, he recalled Therese. She was waiting for him. He could see her standing at the head of the ruined steps, in her white silk dress with its sweet briar blossoms, all white and their hearts touched with red. But perhaps, she had felt cold and had gone to her room to wait for him. No woman had ever waited for him before. Just one minute more, and then he would be at the rendezvous! But his legs were numb, and he feared that he would fall asleep. Was he a coward, then? And, to rouse himself, he pictured Therese as he had seen her at her toilet. He saw again her arms raised, moving her delicate elbows and her pale hands. He recalled that room of terrible voluptuousness, where he had known a mad intoxication. Was he to renounce that passion offered him, a foretaste of which was burning his lips? No; he would sooner drag himself upon his knees, if his legs refused to carry him! But it was already a lost battle, in which his vanquished love had just expired. The image of Therese paled; a black wall arose, separating him from her. He had but one irresistible desire,--to sleep, to sleep forever! He would not go to the office to-morrow,--it would be useless. He would never again play the flute; he would never again sit by his window. So, why not sleep forever? His existence was ended,--he could go to bed. And he looked again at the river, trying to see if little Colombel was still there.