Thérèse Raquin (28 page)

This excursion proved perfect agony. While his wife basked in the sun
on the pavement, trailing her skirt with nonchalance and impudence,
shameless and unconcerned, he followed behind her, pale and shuddering,
repeating that it was all over, that he would be unable to save himself
and would be guillotined. Each step he saw her take, seemed to him a
step nearer punishment. Fright gave him a sort of blind conviction, and
the slightest movement of the young woman added to his certainty. He
followed her, he went where she went, as a man goes to the scaffold.

Suddenly on reaching the former Place Saint-Michel, Therese
advanced towards a cafe that then formed the corner of the Rue
Monsieur-le-Prince. There she seated herself in the centre of a group of
women and students, at one of the tables on the pavement, and familiarly
shook hands with all this little crowd. Then she called for absinthe.

She seemed quite at ease, chatting with a fair young man who no doubt
had been waiting for her some time. Two girls came and leant over
the table where she sat, addressing her affectionately in their husky
voices. Around her, women were smoking cigarettes, men were embracing
women in the open street, before the passers-by, who never even turned
their heads. Low words and hoarse laughter reached Laurent, who remained
motionless in a doorway on the opposite side of the street.

When Therese had finished her absinthe, she rose, and leaning on the arm
of the fair young man, went down the Rue de la Harpe. Laurent followed
them as far as the Rue Saint-Andre-des-Arts, where he noticed them enter
a lodging-house. He remained in the middle of the street with his eyes
on the front of the building. Presently his wife showed herself for
an instant at an open window on the second floor, and he fancied he
perceived the hands of the pale young man encircling her waist. Then,
the window closed with a sharp clang.

Laurent understood. Without waiting a moment longer, he tranquilly took
himself off reassured and happy.

"Bah!" said he to himself, as he went towards the quays. "It's better,
after all, that she should have a sweetheart. That will occupy her mind,
and prevent her thinking of injuring me. She's deucedly more clever than
I am."

What astonished him, was that he had not been the first to think of
plunging into vice, which might have driven away his terror. But his
thoughts had never turned in that direction, and, moreover, he had not
the least inclination for riotous living. The infidelity of his wife did
not trouble him in the least. He felt no anger at the knowledge that she
was in the arms of another man. On the contrary, he seemed to enjoy
the idea. He began to think that he had been following the wife of a
comrade, and laughed at the cunning trick the woman was playing her
husband. Therese had become such a stranger to him, that he no longer
felt her alive in his heart. He would have sold her, bound hand and
foot, a hundred times over, to purchase calm for one hour.

As he sauntered along, he enjoyed the sudden, delightful reaction that
had just brought him from terror to peace. He almost thanked his wife
for having gone to a sweetheart, when he thought her on her way to a
commissary of police. This adventure had come to an unforeseen end that
agreeably surprised him. It distinctly showed him that he had done wrong
to tremble, and that he, in his turn, should try vice, in order to see
whether such a course would not relieve him by diverting his thoughts.

On returning to the shop in the evening, Laurent decided that he would
ask his wife for a few thousand francs, and that he would resort to
high-handed measures to obtain them. Reflection told him that vice would
be an expensive thing, for a man. He patiently awaited Therese, who had
not yet come in. When she arrived, he affected gentleness, and refrained
from breathing a word about having followed her in the morning. She was
slightly tipsy, and from her ill-adjusted garments, came that unpleasant
odour of tobacco and spirits that is met with in public drinking places.
Completely exhausted, and with cheeks as pale as death, she advanced at
an unsteady gait and with a head quite heavy from the shameless fatigue
of the day.

The dinner passed in silence. Therese ate nothing. At dessert Laurent
placed his elbows on the table, and flatly asked her for 5,000 francs.

"No," she answered dryly. "If I were to give you a free hand, you'd
bring us to beggary. Aren't you aware of our position? We are going as
fast as ever we can to the dogs."

"That may be," he quietly resumed. "I don't care a fig, I intend to have
money."

"No, a thousand times no!" she retorted. "You left your place, the
mercery business is in a very bad way, and the revenue from my marriage
portion is not sufficient to maintain us. Every day I encroach on the
principal to feed you and give you the one hundred francs a month you
wrung from me. You will not get anything beyond that, do you understand?
So it's no use asking."

"Just reflect," he replied, "and don't be so silly as to refuse. I tell
you I mean to have 5,000 francs, and I shall have them. You'll give them
me, in spite of all."

This quiet determination irritated Therese and put the finishing touch
to her intoxication.

"Ah! I know what it is," she cried, "you want to finish as you began.
We have been keeping you for four years. You only came to us to eat and
drink, and since then you've been at our charge. Monsieur does nothing,
Monsieur has arranged so as to live at my expense with his arms folded
one over the other. No, you shall have nothing, not a sou. Do you want
me to tell you what you are? Well then, you are a——"

And she pronounced the word. Laurent began to laugh, shrugging his
shoulders. He merely replied:

"You learn some pretty expressions in the company you keep now."

This was the only allusion he ventured to make to the love affairs of
Therese. She quickly raised her head, and bitterly replied:

"Anyhow, I don't keep the company of murderers."

Laurent became very pale, and for a moment remained silent, with his
eyes fixed on his wife; then, in a trembling voice, he resumed:

"Listen, my girl, don't let us get angry; there is no good in that
neither for you nor me. I've lost all courage. We had better come to an
understanding if we wish to avoid a misfortune. If I ask you for 5,000
francs it is because I want them; and I will even tell you what I intend
to do with them, so as to ensure our tranquillity."

He gave her a peculiar smile, and continued:

"Come, reflect, let me have your last word."

"I have thoroughly made up my mind," answered the young woman, "and it
is as I have told you. You shall not have a sou."

Her husband rose violently. She was afraid of being beaten; she crouched
down, determined not to give way to blows. But Laurent did not even
approach her, he confined himself to telling her in a frigid tone that
he was tired of life, and was about to relate the story of the murder to
the commissary of police of the quarter.

"You drive me to extremes," said he, "you make my life unbearable. I
prefer to have done with it. We shall both be tried and condemned. And
there will be an end to it all."

"Do you think you'll frighten me?" shouted his wife. "I am as weary as
you are. I'll go to the commissary of police myself, if you don't. Ah!
Indeed, I am quite ready to follow you to the scaffold, I'm not a coward
like you. Come along, come along with me to the commissary."

She had risen, and was making her way to the staircase.

"That's it," stammered Laurent, "let's go together."

When they were down in the shop they looked at once another, anxious and
alarmed. It seemed as though they were riveted to the ground. The few
seconds they had taken to run downstairs had suffered to show them, as
in a flash, all the consequences of a confession. They saw at the same
moment, suddenly and distinctly: gendarmes, prison, assize-court and
guillotine. This made them feel faint, and they were tempted to throw
themselves on their knees, one before the other, to implore one another
to remain, and reveal nothing. Fright and embarrassment kept them
motionless and mute for two or three minutes. Therese was the first to
make up her mind to speak and give way.

"After all," said she, "I am a great fool to quarrel with you about this
money. You will succeed in getting hold of it and squandering it, one
day or another. I may just as well give it you at once."

She did not seek to conceal her defeat any further. She seated herself
at the counter, and signed a cheque for 5,000 francs, which Laurent was
to present to her banker. There was no more question of the commissary
of police that evening.

As soon as Laurent had the gold in his pocket, he began to lead a
riotous life, drinking to excess, and frequenting women of ill-repute.
He slept all day and stayed out all night, in search of violent emotions
that would relieve him of reality. But he only succeeded in becoming
more oppressed than before. When the company were shouting around
him, he heard the great, terrible silence within him; when one of his
ladyloves kissed him, when he drained his glass, he found naught at the
bottom of his satiety, but heavy sadness.

He was no longer a man for lust and gluttony. His chilled being, as
if inwardly rigid, became enervated at the kisses and feasts. Feeling
disgusted beforehand, they failed to arouse his imagination or to excite
his senses and stomach. He suffered a little more by forcing himself
into a dissolute mode of life, and that was all. Then, when he returned
home, when he saw Madame Raquin and Therese again, his weariness brought
on frightful fits of terror. And he vowed he would leave the house
no more, that he would put up with his suffering, so as to become
accustomed to it, and be able to conquer it.

For a month Therese lived, like Laurent, on the pavement and in the
cafes. She returned daily for a moment, in the evening to feed Madame
Raquin and put her to bed, and then disappeared again until the morrow.
She and her husband on one occasion were four days without setting eyes
on each other. At last, she experienced profound disgust at the life
she was leading, feeling that vice succeeded no better with her than the
comedy of remorse.

In vain had she dragged through all the lodging-houses in the Latin
Quarter, in vain had she led a low, riotous life. Her nerves were
ruined. Debauchery ceased to give her a sufficiently violent shock to
render her oblivious of the past. She resembled one of those drunkards
whose scorched palates remain insensible to the most violent spirits.
She had done with lust, and the society of her paramours only worried
and wearied her. Then, she quitted them as useless.

She now fell a prey to despondent idleness which kept her at home, in
a dirty petticoat, with hair uncombed, and face and hands unwashed. She
neglected everything and lived in filth.

When the two murderers came together again face to face, in this
manner, after having done their best to get away from each other,
they understood that they would no longer have strength to struggle.
Debauchery had rejected them, it had just cast them back to their
anguish. Once more they were in the dark, damp lodging in the arcade;
and, henceforth, were as if imprisoned there, for although they had
often attempted to save themselves, never had they been able to
sever the sanguinary bond attaching them. They did not even think of
attempting a task they regarded as impossible. They found themselves so
urged on, so overwhelmed, so securely fastened together by events, that
they were conscious all resistance would be ridiculous. They resumed
their life in common, but their hatred became furious rage.

The quarrels at night began again. But for that matter, the blows
and cries lasted all day long. To hatred distrust was now added, and
distrust put the finishing touch to their folly.

They were afraid of each other. The scene that had followed the demand
for 5,000 francs, was repeated morning and night. They had the fixed
idea that they wanted to give one another up. From that standpoint they
did not depart. When either of them said a word, or made a gesture, the
other imagined that he or she, as the case might be, intended to go
to the commissary of police. Then, they either fought or implored one
another to do nothing.

In their anger, they shouted out that they would run and reveal
everything, and terrified each other to death. After this they
shuddered, they humbled themselves, and promised with bitter tears to
maintain silence. They suffered most horribly, but had not the courage
to cure themselves by placing a red-hot iron on the wound. If they
threatened one another to confess the crime, it was merely to strike
terror into each other and drive away the thought, for they would never
have had strength to speak and seek peace in punishment.

On more than twenty occasions, they went as far as the door of the
commissariat of police, one following the other. Now it was Laurent who
wanted to confess the murder, now Therese who ran to give herself
up. But they met in the street, and always decided to wait, after an
interchange of insults and ardent prayers.

Every fresh attack made them more suspicious and ferocious than before.
From morning till night they were spying upon one another. Laurent
barely set his foot outside the lodging in the arcade, and if,
perchance, he did absent himself, Therese never failed to accompany him.
Their suspicions, their fright lest either should confess, brought
them together, united them in atrocious intimacy. Never, since their
marriage, had they lived so tightly tied together, and never had they
experienced such suffering. But, notwithstanding the anguish they
imposed on themselves, they never took their eyes off one another. They
preferred to endure the most excruciating pain, rather than separate for
an hour.