Authors: Émile Zola
The slow and plaintive words of his wife, and her attitudes of
resignation, gradually drove him into blinding fits of anger. He
understood her tactics; she no longer wished to be at one with him, but
to set herself apart wrapped in her regret, so as to escape the clasp
of the drowned man. And, at moments, he said to himself that she had
perhaps taken the right path, that tears might cure her of her terror,
and he shuddered at the thought of having to suffer, and contend with
fright alone.
He also would have liked to repent, or at least to have performed the
comedy of repentance, to see what effect it would have. Unable to find
the sobs and necessary words, he flung himself into violence again,
stirring up Therese so as to irritate her and lead her back with him
to furious madness. But the young woman took care to remain inert,
to answer his cries of anger by tearful submission, and to meet his
coarseness by a proportionate display of humility and repentance.
Laurent was thus gradually driven to fury. To crown his irritation,
Therese always ended with the panegyric of Camille so as to display the
virtues of the victim.
"He was good," said she, "and we must have been very cruel to assail
such a warm-hearted man who had never a bad thought."
"He was good, yes, I know," jeered Laurent. "You mean to say he was a
fool. You must have forgotten! You pretended you were irritated at
the slightest thing he said, that he could not open his mouth without
letting out some stupidity."
"Don't jeer," said Therese. "It only remains for you to insult the man
you murdered. You know nothing about the feelings of a woman, Laurent;
Camille loved me and I loved him."
"You loved him! Ah! Really what a capital idea," exclaimed Laurent. "And
no doubt it was because you loved your husband, that you took me as a
sweetheart. I remember one day when we were together, that you told me
Camille disgusted you, when you felt the end of your fingers enter his
flesh as if it were soft clay. Oh! I know why you loved me. You required
more vigorous arms than those of that poor devil."
"I loved him as a sister," answered Therese. "He was the son of my
benefactress. He had all the delicate feelings of a feeble man. He
showed himself noble and generous, serviceable and loving. And we killed
him, good God! good God!"
She wept, and swooned away. Madame Raquin cast piercing glances at her,
indignant to hear the praise of Camille sung by such a pair of lips.
Laurent who was unable to do anything against this overflow of tears,
walked to and fro with furious strides, searching in his head for some
means to stifle the remorse of Therese.
All the good he heard said of his victim ended by causing him poignant
anxiety. Now and again he let himself be caught by the heartrending
accents of his wife. He really believed in the virtues of Camille, and
his terror redoubled. But what tried his patience beyond measure was
the comparison that the widow of the drowned man never failed to draw
between her first and second husband, and which was all to the advantage
of the former.
"Well! Yes," she cried, "he was better than you. I would sooner he were
alive now, and you in his place underground."
Laurent first of all shrugged his shoulders.
"Say what you will," she continued, becoming animated, "although I
perhaps failed to love him in his lifetime, yet I remember all his good
qualities now, and do love him. Yes, I love him and hate you, do you
hear? For you are an assassin."
"Will you hold your tongue?" yelled Laurent.
"And he is a victim," she went on, notwithstanding the threatening
attitude of her husband, "an upright man killed by a rascal. Oh! I am
not afraid of you. You know well enough that you are a miserable wretch,
a brute of a man without a heart, and without a soul. How can you expect
me to love you, now that you are reeking with the blood of Camille?
Camille was full of tenderness for me, and I would kill you, do you
hear, if that could bring him to life again, and give me back his love."
"Will you hold your tongue, you wretch?" shouted Laurent.
"Why should I hold my tongue?" she retorted. "I am speaking the truth.
I would purchase forgiveness at the price of your blood. Ah! How I
weep, and how I suffer! It is my own fault if a scoundrel, such as you,
murdered my husband. I must go, one of these nights, and kiss the ground
where he rests. That will be my final rapture."
Laurent, beside himself, rendered furious by the atrocious pictures that
Therese spread out before his eyes, rushed upon her, and threw her down,
menacing her with his uplifted fist.
"That's it," she cried, "strike me, kill me! Camille never once raised
his hand to me, but you are a monster."
And Laurent, spurred on by what she said, shook her with rage, beat her,
bruised her body with his clenched fists. In two instances he almost
strangled her. Therese yielded to his blows. She experienced keen
delight in being struck, delivering herself up, thrusting her body
forward, provoking her husband in every way, so that he might half kill
her again. This was another remedy for her suffering. She slept better
at night when she had been thoroughly beaten in the evening. Madame
Raquin enjoyed exquisite pleasure, when Laurent dragged her niece along
the floor in this way, belabouring her with thumps and kicks.
The existence of the assassin had become terrible since the day when
Therese conceived the infernal idea of feeling remorse and of mourning
Camille aloud. From that moment the wretch lived everlastingly with
his victim. At every hour, he had to listen to his wife praising and
regretting her first husband. The least incident became a pretext:
Camille did this, Camille did that, Camille had such and such qualities,
Camille loved in such and such a way.
It was always Camille! Ever sad remarks bewailing his death. Therese
had recourse to all her spitefulness to render this torture, which she
inflicted on Laurent so as to shield her own self, as cruel as possible.
She went into details, relating a thousand insignificant incidents
connected with her youth, accompanied by sighs and expressions of
regret, and in this manner, mingled the remembrance of the drowned man
with every action of her daily life.
The corpse which already haunted the house, was introduced there openly.
It sat on the chairs, took its place at table, extended itself on the
bed, making use of the various articles of furniture, and of the objects
lying about hither and thither. Laurent could touch nothing, not a fork,
not a brush, without Therese making him feel that Camille had touched it
before him.
The murderer being ceaselessly thrust, so to say, against the man he had
killed, ended by experiencing a strange sensation that very nearly drove
him out of his mind. By being so constantly compared to Camille, by
making use of the different articles Camille had used, he imagined he
was Camille himself, that he was identical with his victim. Then, with
his brain fit to burst, he blew at his wife to make her hold her tongue,
so as to no longer hear the words that drove him frantic. All their
quarrels now ended in blows.
A time came when Madame Raquin, in order to escape the sufferings she
endured, thought of starving herself to death. She had reached the
end of her courage, she could no longer support the martyrdom that the
presence of the two murderers imposed on her, she longed to find supreme
relief in death. Each day her anguish grew more keen, when Therese
embraced her, and when Laurent took her in his arms to carry her along
like a child. She determined on freeing herself from these clasps
and caresses that caused her such horrible disgust. As she had not
sufficient life left within her to permit of her avenging her son, she
preferred to be entirely dead, and to leave naught in the hands of the
assassins but a corpse that could feel nothing, and with which they
could do as they pleased.
For two days she refused all nourishment, employing her remaining
strength to clench her teeth or to eject anything that Therese succeeded
in introducing into her mouth. Therese was in despair. She was asking
herself at the foot of which post she should go to weep and repent, when
her aunt would be no longer there. She kept up an interminable discourse
to prove to Madame Raquin that she should live. She wept, she even
became angry, bursting into her former fits of rage, opening the jaw of
the paralysed woman as you open that of an animal which resists. Madame
Raquin held out, and an odious scene ensued.
Laurent remained absolutely neutral and indifferent. He was astonished
at the efforts of Therese to prevent the impotent old woman committing
suicide. Now that the presence of the old lady had become useless to
them he desired her death. He would not have killed her, but as she
wished to die, he did not see the use of depriving her of the means to
do so.
"But, let her be!" he shouted to his wife. "It will be a good riddance.
We shall, perhaps, be happier when she is no longer here."
This remark repeated several times in the hearing of Madame Raquin,
caused her extraordinary emotion. She feared that the hope expressed
by Laurent might be realised, and that after her death the couple would
enjoy calm and happiness. And she said to herself that it would be
cowardly to die, that she had no right to go away before she had seen
the end of the sinister adventure. Then, only, could she descend into
darkness, to say to Camille:
"You are avenged."
The idea of suicide became oppressive, when she all at once reflected
that she would sink into the grave ignorant as to what had happened
to the two murderers of her son. There, she would lie in the cold
and silent earth, eternally tormented by uncertainty concerning the
punishment of her tormentors. To thoroughly enjoy the slumber of death,
she must be hushed to rest by the sweet delight of vengeance, she must
carry away with her a dream of satisfied hatred, a dream that would last
throughout eternity. So she took the food her niece presented to her,
and consented to live on.
Apart from this, it was easy for her to perceive that the climax could
not be far off. Each day the position of the married couple became
more strained and unbearable. A crash that would smash everything was
imminent. At every moment, Therese and Laurent started up face to face
in a more threatening manner. It was no longer at nighttime, alone,
that they suffered from their intimacy; entire days were passed amidst
anxiety and harrowing shocks. It was one constant scene of pain and
terror. They lived in a perfect pandemonium, fighting, rendering all
they did and said bitter and cruel, seeking to fling one another to the
bottom of the abyss which they felt beneath their feet, and falling into
it together.
Ideas of separation had, indeed, occurred to both of them. Each had
thought of flight, of seeking some repose far from this Arcade of the
Pont Neuf where the damp and filth seemed adapted to their desolated
life. But they dared not, they could not run away. It seemed impossible
for them to avoid reviling each other, to avoid remaining there to
suffer and cause pain. They proved obstinate in their hatred and
cruelty. A sort of repulsion and attraction separated and kept them
together at the same time. They behaved in the identical manner of two
persons who, after quarrelling, wish to part, and who, nevertheless,
continue returning to shout out fresh insults at one another.
Moreover, material obstacles stood in the way of flight. What were
they to do with the impotent woman? What could be said to the Thursday
evening guests? If they fled, these people would, perhaps, suspect
something. At this thought, they imagined they were being pursued and
dragged to the guillotine. So they remained where they were through
cowardice, wretchedly dragging out their lives amidst the horror of
their surroundings.
During the morning and afternoon, when Laurent was absent, Therese went
from the dining-room to the shop in anxiety and trouble, at a loss to
know what to do to fill up the void in her existence that daily became
more pronounced. When not kneeling at the feet of Madame Raquin or
receiving blows and insults from her husband, she had no occupation. As
soon as she was seated alone in the shop, she became dejected, watching
with a doltish expression, the people passing through the dirty, dark
gallery. She felt ready to die of sadness in the middle of this gloomy
vault, which had the odour of a cemetery, and ended by begging Suzanne
to come and pass entire days with her, in the hope that the presence of
this poor, gentle, pale creature might calm her.
Suzanne accepted her offer with delight; she continued to feel a sort of
respectful friendship for Therese, and had long desired to come and work
with her, while Olivier was at his office. Bringing her embroidery with
her, she took the vacant chair of Madame Raquin behind the counter.
From that day Therese rather neglected her aunt. She went upstairs
less frequently to weep on her knees and kiss the deathlike face of the
invalid. She had something else to do. She made efforts to listen with
interest to the dilatory gossip of Suzanne, who spoke of her home, and
of the trivialities of her monotonous life. This relieved Therese of her
own thoughts. Sometimes she caught herself paying attention to nonsense
that brought a bitter smile to her face.
By degrees, she lost all her customers. Since her aunt had been confined
to her armchair upstairs, she had let the shop go from bad to worse,
abandoning the goods to dust and damp. A smell of mildew hung in the
atmosphere, spiders came down from the ceiling, the floor was but rarely
swept.
But what put the customers to flight was the strange way in which
Therese sometimes welcomed them. When she happened to be upstairs,
receiving blows from Laurent or agitated by a shock of terror, and the
bell at the shop door tinkled imperiously, she had to go down, barely
taking time to do up her hair or brush away the tears. On such occasions
she served the persons awaiting her roughly; sometimes she even spared
herself the trouble of serving, answering from the top of the staircase,
that she no longer kept what was asked for. This kind of off-hand
behaviour, was not calculated to retain custom.