Thérèse Raquin (10 page)

This arrangement relieved the murderer, who shuddered at the thought
of entering the shop in the arcade. He recovered his calm, and began
walking up and down the pavement, going and coming, in perfect peace of
mind. At moments, he forgot the events that were passing. He looked at
the shops, whistled between his teeth, turned round to ogle the women
who brushed past him. He remained thus for a full half-hour in the
street, recovering his composure more and more.

He had not eaten since the morning, and feeling hungry he entered a
pastrycook's and stuffed himself with cakes.

A heartrending scene was passing at the shop in the arcade.
Notwithstanding precautions, notwithstanding the soft, friendly
sentences of old Michaud, there came a moment when Madame Raquin
understood that her son had met with misfortune. From that moment,
she insisted on knowing the truth with such a passionate outburst of
despair, with such a violent flow of tears and shrieks, that her old
friend could not avoid giving way to her.

And when she learnt the truth, her grief was tragic. She gave hollow
sobs, she received shocks that threw her backward, in a distracting
attack of terror and anguish. She remained there choking, uttering
from time to time a piercing scream amidst the profound roar of her
affliction. She would have dragged herself along the ground, had not
Suzanne taken her round the waist, weeping on her knees, and raising
her pale countenance towards her. Olivier and his father on their feet,
unnerved and mute, turned aside their heads, being disagreeably affected
at this painful sight which wounded them in their egotism.

The poor mother saw her son rolling along in the thick waters of the
Seine, a rigid and horribly swollen corpse; while at the same time, she
perceived him a babe, in his cradle, when she drove away death bending
over him. She had brought him back into the world on more than ten
occasions; she loved him for all the love she had bestowed on him during
thirty years. And now he had met his death far away from her, all at
once, in the cold and dirty water, like a dog.

Then she remembered the warm blankets in which she had enveloped him.
What care she had taken of her boy! What a tepid temperature he had been
reared in! How she had coaxed and fondled him! And all this to see him
one day miserably drown himself! At these thoughts Madame Raquin felt a
tightening at the throat, and she hoped she was going to die, strangled
by despair.

Old Michaud hastened to withdraw. Leaving Suzanne behind to look after
the mercer, he and Olivier went to find Laurent, so that they might
hurry to Saint-Ouen with all speed.

During the journey, they barely exchanged a few words. Each of them
buried himself in a corner of the cab which jolted along over the
stones. There they remained motionless and mute in the obscurity that
prevailed within the vehicle. Ever and anon a rapid flash from a gas
lamp, cast a bright gleam on their faces. The sinister event that had
brought them together, threw a sort of dismal dejection upon them.

When they at length arrived at the restaurant beside the river, they
found Therese in bed with burning head and hands. The landlord told them
in an undertone, that the young woman had a violent fever. The truth was
that Therese, feeling herself weak in character and wanting in courage,
feared she might confess the crime in one of her nervous attacks, and
had decided to feign illness.

Maintaining sullen silence, she kept her lips and eyes closed, unwilling
to see anyone lest she should speak. With the bedclothes to her chin,
her face half concealed by the pillow, she made herself quite small,
anxiously listening to all that was said around her. And, amidst the
reddish gleam that passed beneath her closed lids, she could still see
Camille and Laurent struggling at the side of the boat. She perceived
her husband, livid, horrible, increased in height, rearing up straight
above the turbid water, and this implacable vision heightened the
feverish heat of her blood.

Old Michaud endeavoured to speak to her and console her. But she made a
movement of impatience, and turning round, broke out into a fresh fit of
sobbing.

"Leave her alone, sir," said the restaurant keeper, "she shudders at the
slightest sound. You see, she wants rest."

Below, in the general room, was a policeman drawing up a statement of
the accident. Michaud and his son went downstairs, followed by Laurent.
When Olivier had made himself known as an upper official at the
Prefecture of Police, everything was over in ten minutes. The boating
men, who were still there, gave an account of the drowning in its
smallest details, describing how the three holiday-makers had fallen
into the water, as if they themselves had witnessed the misfortune. Had
Olivier and his father the least suspicion, it would have been dispelled
at once by this testimony.

But they had not doubted the veracity of Laurent for an instant. On the
contrary, they introduced him to the policeman as the best friend of the
victim, and they were careful to see inserted in the report, that
the young man had plunged into the water to save Camille Raquin. The
following day, the newspapers related the accident with a great display
of detail: the unfortunate mother, the inconsolable widow, the noble and
courageous friend, nothing was missing from this event of the day, which
went the round of the Parisian press, and then found an echo in the
provinces.

When the report was completed, Laurent experienced lively joy, which
penetrated his being like new life. From the moment his victim had
buried his teeth in his neck, he had been as if stiffened, acting
mechanically, according to a plan arranged long in advance. The instinct
of self-preservation alone impelled him, dictating to him his words,
affording him advice as to his gestures.

At this hour, in the face of the certainty of impunity, the blood
resumed flowing in his veins with delicious gentleness. The police had
passed beside his crime, and had seen nothing. They had been duped, for
they had just acquitted him. He was saved. This thought caused him to
experience a feeling of delightful moisture all along his body, a warmth
that restored flexibility to his limbs and to his intelligence. He
continued to act his part of a weeping friend with incomparable science
and assurance. At the bottom of his heart, he felt brutal satisfaction;
and he thought of Therese who was in bed in the room above.

"We cannot leave this unhappy woman here," said he to Michaud. "She is
perhaps threatened with grave illness. We must positively take her back
to Paris. Come, let us persuade her to accompany us."

Upstairs, he begged and prayed of Therese to rise and dress, and allow
herself to be conducted to the Arcade of the Pont Neuf. When the young
woman heard the sound of his voice, she started, and stared at him with
eyes wide open. She seemed as if crazy, and was shuddering. Painfully
she raised herself into a sitting posture without answering. The men
quitted the room, leaving her alone with the wife of the restaurant
keeper. When ready to start, she came downstairs staggering, and was
assisted into the cab by Olivier.

The journey was a silent one. Laurent, with perfect audacity and
impudence, slipped his hand along the skirt of Therese and caught her
fingers. He was seated opposite her, in a floating shadow, and could not
see her face which she kept bowed down on her breast. As soon as he
had grasped her hand, he pressed it vigorously, retaining it until
they reached the Rue Mazarine. He felt the hand tremble; but it was not
withdrawn. On the contrary it ever and anon gave a sudden caress.

These two hands, one in the other, were burning; the moist palms
adhered, and the fingers tightly held together, were hurt at each
pressure. It seemed to Laurent and Therese that the blood from one
penetrated the chest of the other, passing through their joined fists.
These fists became a live fire whereon their lives were boiling. Amidst
the night, amidst the heartrending silence that prevailed, the furious
grips they exchanged, were like a crushing weight cast on the head of
Camille to keep him under water.

When the cab stopped, Michaud and his son got out the first, and Laurent
bending towards his sweetheart gently murmured:

"Be strong, Therese. We have a long time to wait. Recollect."

Then the young woman opened her lips for the first time since the death
of her husband.

"Oh! I shall recollect," said she with a shudder, and in a voice light
as a puff of breath.

Olivier extended his hand, inviting her to get down. On this occasion,
Laurent went as far as the shop. Madame Raquin was abed, a prey to
violent delirium. Therese dragged herself to her room, where Suzanne
had barely time to undress her before she gave way. Tranquillised,
perceiving that everything was proceeding as well as he could wish,
Laurent withdrew, and slowly gained his wretched den in the rue
Saint-Victor.

It was past midnight. Fresh air circulated in the deserted, silent
streets. The young man could hear naught but his own footsteps
resounding on the pavement. The nocturnal coolness of the atmosphere
cheered him up; the silence, the darkness gave him sharp sensations of
delight, and he loitered on his way.

At last he was rid of his crime. He had killed Camille. It was a matter
that was settled, and would be spoken of no more. He was now going to
lead a tranquil existence, until he could take possession of Therese.
The thought of the murder had at times half choked him, but now that it
was accomplished, he felt a weight removed from his chest, and breathed
at ease, cured of the suffering that hesitation and fear had given him.

At the bottom of his heart, he was a trifle hebetated. Fatigue had
rendered his limbs and thoughts heavy. He went in to bed and slept
soundly. During his slumber slight nervous crispations coursed over his
face.

The following morning, Laurent awoke fresh and fit. He had slept well.
The cold air entering by the open window, whipped his sluggish blood. He
had no clear recollection of the scenes of the previous day, and had it
not been for the burning sensation at his neck, he might have thought
that he had retired to rest after a calm evening.

But the bite Camille had given him stung as if his skin had been branded
with a red-hot iron. When his thoughts settled on the pain this gash
caused him, he suffered cruelly. It seemed as though a dozen needles
were penetrating little by little into his flesh.

He turned down the collar of his shirt, and examined the wound in a
wretched fifteen sous looking-glass hanging against the wall. It formed
a red hole, as big as a penny piece. The skin had been torn away,
displaying the rosy flesh, studded with dark specks. Streaks of blood
had run as far as the shoulder in thin threads that had dried up. The
bite looked a deep, dull brown colour against the white skin, and was
situated under the right ear. Laurent scrutinised it with curved back
and craned neck, and the greenish mirror gave his face an atrocious
grimace.

Satisfied with his examination, he had a thorough good wash, saying to
himself that the wound would be healed in a few days. Then he dressed,
and quietly repaired to his office, where he related the accident in an
affected tone of voice. When his colleagues had read the account in the
newspapers, he became quite a hero. During a whole week the clerks at
the Orleans Railway had no other subject of conversation: they were all
proud that one of their staff should have been drowned. Grivet never
ceased his remarks on the imprudence of adventuring into the middle
of the Seine, when it was so easy to watch the running water from the
bridges.

Laurent retained a feeling of intense uneasiness. The decease of Camille
had not been formally proved. The husband of Therese was indeed dead,
but the murderer would have liked to have found his body, so as to
obtain a certificate of death. The day following the accident, a
fruitless search had been made for the corpse of the drowned man. It was
thought that it had probably gone to the bottom of some hole near the
banks of the islands, and men were actively dragging the Seine to get
the reward.

In the meantime Laurent imposed on himself the task of passing each
morning by the Morgue, on the way to his office. He had made up his mind
to attend to the business himself. Notwithstanding that his heart rose
with repugnance, notwithstanding the shudders that sometimes ran through
his frame, for over a week he went and examined the countenance of all
the drowned persons extended on the slabs.

When he entered the place an unsavoury odour, an odour of freshly washed
flesh, disgusted him and a chill ran over his skin: the dampness of the
walls seemed to add weight to his clothing, which hung more heavily on
his shoulders. He went straight to the glass separating the spectators
from the corpses, and with his pale face against it, looked. Facing him
appeared rows of grey slabs, and upon them, here and there, the naked
bodies formed green and yellow, white and red patches. While some
retained their natural condition in the rigidity of death, others seemed
like lumps of bleeding and decaying meat. At the back, against the wall,
hung some lamentable rags, petticoats and trousers, puckered against the
bare plaster. Laurent at first only caught sight of the wan ensemble of
stones and walls, spotted with dabs of russet and black formed by
the clothes and corpses. A melodious sound of running water broke the
silence.

Little by little he distinguished the bodies, and went from one to the
other. It was only the drowned that interested him. When several human
forms were there, swollen and blued by the water, he looked at them
eagerly, seeking to recognise Camille. Frequently, the flesh on the
faces had gone away by strips, the bones had burst through the mellow
skins, the visages were like lumps of boned, boiled beef. Laurent
hesitated; he looked at the corpses, endeavouring to discover the lean
body of his victim. But all the drowned were stout. He saw enormous
stomachs, puffy thighs, and strong round arms. He did not know what to
do. He stood there shuddering before those greenish-looking rags, which
seemed like mocking him, with their horrible wrinkles.