Read Night Rounds for Free Online Page B

me. (Don't read them, Mama.) In any case, my accomplices will kill me even before Morality, Justice, and Humanity return to earth and confront me. I would like to leave a few memories behind: hand down to posterity, if nothing else, the names of Coco Lacour and Esmeralda. Tonight I'm watching over them, but how much longer? What will happen to them without me? They were my only companions. Gentle and silent as gazelles. Defenseless. I remember clipping out of a magazine the picture of a cat that had just been saved from drowning. Its fur drenched and dripping with mud. A noose around its neck with a stone at one end. I've never seen an expression that radiated such goodness. Coco Lacour and Esmeralda are like that cat. Don't misunderstand me: I don't belong to the Animal Protection Society or the League for the Rights of Man. What kind of work do I do? I wander about a deserted city. In the evening, after nine o'clock, it's buried in the blackout, and the Khedive, Philibert, all the rest of them form a circle around me. The days are white and fevered. I must find an oasis or I shall die: my love for Coco Lacour and Esmeralda. I suppose Hitler himself was feeling the need to unwind when he petted his dog. I PROTECT THEM . Whoever intends to harm them will have to reckon with me. I finger the silencer the Khedive gave me. My pockets are bulging with cash. I've got one of the most enviable names in France (I stole it, but that doesn't matter in times like these). I weigh 215 pounds on an empty stomach. Velvety eyes. A "promising" youngster. Promising what, though? All the good fairies hung over my cradle. They'd been drinking, undoubtedly. You're tackling a tough customer. So KEEP YOUR HANDS OFF THEM! I met them for the first time at the Grenelle métro, and I realized that a word, a gesture was enough to break them. I wonder what miracle brought them there, still alive. I thought of that cat saved from drowning. The blind red-headed giant's name was Coco Lacour, the little girl – or the little old lady – Esmeralda. In the presence of those two creatures, I felt pity. A wave of bitterness and violence caught me in its swell. It broke and left me reeling: push them onto the tracks. I had to dig my nails into my palms and stiffen my whole body. The tide swept over me again, its surf so gentle that I surrendered to it with closed eyes.
    Every night I open the door of their rooms a crack, as softly as I can, and watch them sleeping. I have the same dizzy spell as that first time: draw the silencer from my pocket and kill them. I'll break adrift and reach that North Pole where tears no longer exist even as a comfort for solitude. They freeze on the rim of the lashes. Unwatered sorrow. Two eyes staring at barren ground. If I'm still hesitant about getting rid of this blind man and this little girl – or this little old lady – will I at least betray the Lieutenant? What counts against him is his courage, his self-assurance, and the bald flourish that accompanies his every gesture. His steady blue eyes exasperate me. He belongs to that nuisance breed of heroes. Still, I can't help seeing him as a very old and indulgent lady. I don't take men seriously. Someday I'll find myself looking at them – and at me – the same way I look at Coco Lacour and Esmeralda. The toughest, the proudest ones will seem like frail creatures that need to be protected – or killed as a favor to themselves.
    They played their game of mah-jongg in the living room before going to bed. The lamp cast a soft glow on the bookshelves and the life-sized portrait of M. de Bel-Respiro. They moved the pieces ever so slowly. Esmeralda had her head bowed and Coco Lacour was gnawing on his forefinger. Silence, everywhere around us. I closed the shutters. Coco Lacour drops off to sleep very quickly. Esmeralda is afraid of the dark, so I always leave her door ajar and a light in the hallway. I read to her for about half an hour, usually from a book I found in the