The Dancer at the Gai-Moulin Read Online Free

street?’
    â€˜No, nothing. It all looked
     normal. Victor saw me and said hello.’
    They went into the Pélican, sat at a
     table looking on to the street and ordered English beer. And Jean immediately
     noticed another customer, practically facing him.
    â€˜Don’t turn round. Look in
     the mirror. He was there last night in … You know what I mean.’
    â€˜That big
     fellow? Yes, I recognize him.’
    It was the customer who had come last of
     all into the Gai-Moulin, a large imposing-looking man, who had been drinking
     beer.
    â€˜He can’t be from
     Liège.’
    â€˜He’s smoking French
     tobacco. Careful, he’s watching us.’
    â€˜Waiter,’ Delfosse called.
     ‘How much? And we owed you – forty-two, was it?’
    He held out a hundred-franc note,
     letting others be seen.
    â€˜Keep some for
     yourself.’
    They didn’t feel comfortable
     anywhere. Hardly had they sat down than they were setting off again and, in his
     anxiety, Chabot turned round.
    â€˜That man’s following us! At
     any rate, he’s behind us.’
    â€˜Shut up. You’ll get me
     scared now. Why would he be following us?’
    â€˜They must have found
     the … the Turk by now. Or else he wasn’t dead.’
    â€˜Shut up, can’t you,’
     snarled Delfosse, more angrily.
    They went another few hundred metres in
     silence.
    â€˜Do you think we should go back
     there tonight?’
    â€˜Yes, of course. It’d look
     funny if we didn’t.’
    â€˜I say! Perhaps Adèle knows
     something?’
    Jean was so jumpy that he had no idea
     where to look, what to say. He dared not turn round, but behind him he could sense
     the presence of the man with broad shoulders.
    â€˜If he crosses the Meuse when we
     do, it means he’s following us!’
    â€˜Are you going home?’
    â€˜Yes, I have
     to. My mother’s furious.’
    He might almost have burst into tears
     right there in the street.
    â€˜He’s coming on to the
     bridge! You see, he
is
following us.’
    â€˜Shut up. See you tonight. This is
     my house.’
    â€˜René?’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜I don’t want to keep all
     that money. Look—’
    But Delfosse was going into his house
     with a shrug of his shoulders. Jean walked on more quickly, glancing in shop windows
     to check whether he was still being followed. In the calm streets of the district on
     the other side of the Meuse, no further doubt was possible. His legs began to
     tremble. He almost had to stop, feeling dizzy. But on the contrary, he walked even
     faster, as if drawn onwards by fear.
    When he reached the house, his mother
     asked him:
    â€˜What’s the
     matter?’
    â€˜Nothing.’
    â€˜You’re as white as a
     sheet.’
    And then, angrily:
    â€˜This is a fine thing, isn’t
     it? At your age, getting into such a state. Where were you last night? Trailing
     about with what kind of people? I don’t understand why your father
     doesn’t take a firmer line with you. Come on. Eat up.’
    â€˜I’m not hungry.’
    â€˜Still?’
    â€˜Mother, please leave me alone. I
     don’t feel well. I don’t know what it is.’
    But Madame
     Chabot’s piercing gaze showed no sympathy. She was a sharp, fussy little
     woman, on the go from morning to night.
    â€˜If you’re not well,
     I’ll call the doctor.’
    â€˜No, no, please …’
    Footsteps on the stairs. Through the
     glass panel in the kitchen door, they could see the head of one of the students. He
     knocked, then looked in, his face anxious and wary.
    â€˜Madame Chabot, do you know the
     man who’s walking up and down in the street?’
    He had a strong East European accent,
     and blazing eyes. He got excited at the least occasion.
    He was older than most students. But
     although he was officially enrolled at the