Read The Dancer at the Gai-Moulin for Free Online

with newspapers wedged behind
     it.
    Jean ate his food mechanically, and
     gradually his senses dulled. In these everyday surroundings, he found himself
     doubting the reality of events outside. So he found it hard to imagine that two
     hours earlier he had been in the bedroom of a dancer who was putting on her
     stockings in front of him and letting her peignoir sag open on to her pale, plump,
     if slightly shopworn flesh.
    â€˜Did you ask about the
     house?’
    â€˜What house?’
    â€˜The one in Rue
     Féronstrée.’
    â€˜I … Oh, I
     forgot.’
    â€˜As usual!’
    â€˜I hope you’re going to take
     it easy tonight. You look terrible.’
    â€˜Yes … I’m staying
     in.’
    â€˜That’ll be the first time
     this week!’ said Madame Chabot, who was still not entirely reassured and was
     keeping a sharp eye on the expressions that crossed her son’s face. The
     letterbox rattled. Jean, sure it was meant for him, rushed out into the corridor to
     answer the caller. His parents watched through the glass panel of the kitchen
     door.
    â€˜That Delfosse again!’ said
     Madame Chabot. ‘Why can’t he leave Jean alone? If it goes on like this,
     I’m going to speak to his parents.’
    The two young men could be seen
     whispering in the doorway. Chabot turned round several times to check they could not
     be overheard. He seemed to be resisting an urgent request.
    Then suddenly,
     without coming back to the kitchen, he called:
    â€˜I won’t be long!’
    Madame Chabot got up to try to stop him.
     But already, with hurried and anxious gestures, he had seized his hat from the stand
     and run into the street, slamming the door.
    â€˜And you let him carry on like
     that?’ she snapped at her husband. ‘Is that the kind of respect you get
     from him? If you would only put your foot down …’
    She had more to say in the same vein,
     under the lamplight, all the while eating her meal, as Monsieur Chabot glanced
     sideways at his newspaper, not daring to pick it up until the diatribe was over.
    â€˜Are you sure?’
    â€˜Certain. I recognized him. He
     used to be the inspector in our district.’
    Delfosse looked even more haggard, and
     as they passed under a gas lamp, his companion saw that he was deathly pale. He was
     pulling on his cigarette with short distracted intakes of breath.
    â€˜I can’t stand this!
     It’s been going on for four hours now. Look! Turn round quickly. I can hear
     his footsteps about a hundred metres behind us.’
    They could make out only the silhouette
     of a man walking past the houses in Rue de la Loi.
    â€˜It started right after
     lunch … Or maybe before. But I only noticed when I sat down on the terrace
     of the Pélican. He came to sit at a nearby table. I recognized him. He’s been
     in the secret police for two years. My father called
him in when some metal was stolen from the site.
     He’s called Gérard or Girard. I don’t know why, but I stood up. It was
     getting on my nerves. I set off down Rue de la Cathédrale and he started walking
     behind me. I went into another café. He was waiting a hundred metres down the road.
     I went into a cinema, the Mondain, and there he was again, sitting three rows away.
     I don’t know what else I did. I walked, I took trams. It’s these
     banknotes in my pocket. I’d really like to get rid of them, because if he
     searches me, I won’t be able to say where I got them. Can’t you say that
     they’re yours? For instance, that it’s money your boss gave you to run
     an errand?’
    â€˜No!’
    Sweat was beading on Delfosse’s
     forehead, and his expression was both troubled and angry.
    â€˜But we’ve got to do
something
 … He’s going to end up confronting us. I went
     to your place because after all, we were together