Thérèse Raquin (8 page)

One Thursday evening, before sitting down to the game of dominoes, the
guests of the Raquin family had a chat, as usual. A favourite subject
of conversation was afforded by the experiences of old Michaud who was
plied with questions respecting the strange and sinister adventures
with which he must have been connected in the discharge of his former
functions. Then Grivet and Camille listened to the stories of the
commissary with the affrighted and gaping countenances of small children
listening to "Blue Beard" or "Tom Thumb." These tales terrified and
amused them.

On this particular Thursday, Michaud, who had just given an account of
a horrible murder, the details of which had made his audience shudder,
added as he wagged his head:

"And a great deal never comes out at all. How many crimes remain
undiscovered! How many murderers escape the justice of man!"

"What!" exclaimed Grivet astonished, "you think there are foul creatures
like that walking about the streets, people who have murdered and are
not arrested?"

Olivier smiled with an air of disdain.

"My dear sir," he answered in his dictatorial tone, "if they are not
arrested it is because no one is aware that they have committed a
murder."

This reasoning did not appear to convince Grivet, and Camille came to
his assistance.

"I am of the opinion of M. Grivet," said he, with silly importance. "I
should like to believe that the police do their duty, and that I never
brush against a murderer on the pavement."

Olivier considered this remark a personal attack.

"Certainly the police do their duty," he exclaimed in a vexed tone.
"Still we cannot do what is impossible. There are wretches who have
studied crime at Satan's own school; they would escape the Divinity
Himself. Isn't that so, father?"

"Yes, yes," confirmed old Michaud. "Thus, while I was at Vernon—you
perhaps remember the incident, Madame Raquin—a wagoner was murdered
on the highway. The corpse was found cut in pieces, at the bottom of a
ditch. The authorities were never able to lay hands on the culprit. He
is perhaps still living at this hour. Maybe he is our neighbour, and
perhaps M. Grivet will meet him on his way home."

Grivet turned pale as a sheet. He dared not look round. He fancied the
murderer of the wagoner was behind him. But for that matter, he was
delighted to feel afraid.

"Well, no," he faltered, hardly knowing what he said, "well, no, I
cannot believe that. But I also have a story: once upon a time a servant
was put in prison for stealing a silver spoon and fork belonging to
her master and mistress. Two months afterwards, while a tree was being
felled, the knife and fork were discovered in the nest of a magpie. It
was the magpie who was the thief. The servant was released. You see that
the guilty are always punished."

Grivet triumphed. Olivier sneered.

"Then, they put the magpie in prison," said he.

"That is not what M. Grivet meant to say," answered Camille, annoyed to
see his chief turned into ridicule. "Mother, give us the dominoes."

While Madame Raquin went to fetch the box, the young man, addressing
Michaud, continued:

"Then you admit the police are powerless, that there are murderers
walking about in the sunshine?"

"Unfortunately, yes," answered the commissary.

"It is immoral," concluded Grivet.

During this conversation, Therese and Laurent had remained silent. They
had not even smiled at the folly of Grivet. Both leaning with their
arms on the table, looking slightly pale, and with a vague expression in
their eyes, listened. At one moment those dark, ardent orbs had met. And
small drops of perspiration pearled at the roots of the hair of Therese,
while chilly puffs of breath gave imperceptible shivers to the skin of
Laurent.

Sometimes on a Sunday, when the weather was fine, Camille forced Therese
to go out with him, for a walk in the Champs Elysees. The young woman
would have preferred to remain in the damp obscurity of the arcade, for
the exercise fatigued her, and it worried her to be on the arm of her
husband, who dragged her along the pavement, stopping before the shop
windows, expressing his astonishment, making reflections, and then
falling into ridiculous spells of silence.

But Camille insisted on these Sunday outings, which gave him the
satisfaction of showing off his wife. When he met a colleague,
particularly one of his chiefs, he felt quite proud to exchange bows
with him, in the company of Madame. Besides, he walked for the sake
of walking, and he did so almost in silence, stiff and deformed in his
Sunday clothes, dragging along his feet, and looking silly and vain. It
made Therese suffer to be seen arm in arm with such a man.

On these walking-out days, Madame Raquin accompanied her children to the
end of the arcade, where she embraced them as if they were leaving on a
journey, giving them endless advice, accompanied by fervent prayers.

"Particularly, beware of accidents," she would say. "There are so many
vehicles in the streets of Paris! Promise me not to get in a crowd."

At last she allowed them to set out, but she followed them a
considerable distance with her eyes, before returning to the shop. Her
lower limbs were becoming unwieldy which prohibited her taking long
walks.

On other occasions, but more rarely, the married couple went out of
Paris, as far as Saint-Ouen or Asnieres, where they treated themselves
to a dish of fried fish in one of the restaurants beside the river.
These were regarded as days of great revelry which were spoken of a
month beforehand. Therese engaged more willingly, almost with joy, in
these excursions which kept her in the open air until ten or eleven
o'clock at night. Saint-Ouen, with its green isles, reminded her of
Vernon, and rekindled all the wild love she had felt for the Seine when
a little girl.

She seated herself on the gravel, dipped her hands in the water, feeling
full of life in the burning heat of the sun, attenuated by the fresh
puffs of breeze in the shade. While she tore and soiled her frock on
the stones and clammy ground, Camille neatly spread out his
pocket-handkerchief and sank down beside her with endless precautions.
Latterly the young couple almost invariably took Laurent with them. He
enlivened the excursion by his laughter and strength of a peasant.

One Sunday, Camille, Therese and Laurent left for Saint-Ouen after
breakfast, at about eleven o'clock. The outing had been projected a long
time, and was to be the last of the season. Autumn approached, and the
cold breezes at night, began to make the air chilly.

On this particular morning, the sky maintained all its blue serenity.
It proved warm in the sun and tepid in the shade. The party decided that
they must take advantage of the last fine weather.

Hailing a passing cab they set out, accompanied by the pitiful
expressions of uneasiness, and the anxious effusions of the old mercer.
Crossing Paris, they left the vehicle at the fortifications, and gained
Saint-Ouen on foot. It was noon. The dusty road, brightly lit up by the
sun, had the blinding whiteness of snow. The air was intensely warm,
heavy and pungent. Therese, on the arm of Camille, walked with short
steps, concealing herself beneath her umbrella, while her husband fanned
his face with an immense handkerchief. Behind them came Laurent, who had
the sun streaming fiercely on the back of his neck, without appearing to
notice it. He whistled and kicked the stones before him as he strolled
along. Now and again there was a fierce glint in his eyes as he watched
Therese's swinging hips.

On reaching Saint-Ouen, they lost no time in looking for a cluster of
trees, a patch of green grass in the shade. Crossing the water to an
island, they plunged into a bit of underwood. The fallen leaves covered
the ground with a russety bed which cracked beneath their feet with
sharp, quivering sounds. Innumerable trunks of trees rose up erect,
like clusters of small gothic columns; the branches descended to the
foreheads of the three holiday makers, whose only view was the expiring
copper-like foliage, and the black and white stems of the aspens and
oaks. They were in the wilderness, in a melancholy corner, in a narrow
clearing that was silent and fresh. All around them they heard the
murmur of the Seine.

Camille having selected a dry spot, seated himself on the ground, after
lifting up the skirt of his frock coat; while Therese, amid a loud
crumpling of petticoats, had just flung herself among the leaves.
Laurent lay on his stomach with his chin resting on the ground.

They remained three hours in this clearing, waiting until it became
cooler, to take a run in the country before dinner. Camille talked about
his office, and related silly stories; then, feeling fatigued, he let
himself fall backward and went to sleep with the rim of his hat over
his eyes. Therese had closed her eyelids some time previously, feigning
slumber.

Laurent, who felt wide awake, and was tired of his recumbent position,
crept up behind her and kissed her shoe and ankle. For a month his life
had been chaste and this walk in the sun had set him on fire. Here he
was, in a hidden retreat, and unable to hold to his breast the woman
who was really his. Her husband might wake up and all his prudent
calculations would be ruined by this obstacle of a man. So he lay, flat
on the ground, hidden by his lover's skirts, trembling with exasperation
as he pressed kiss after kiss upon the shoe and white stocking. Therese
made no movement. Laurent thought she was asleep.

He rose to his feet and stood with his back to a tree. Then he perceived
that the young woman was gazing into space with her great, sparkling
eyes wide open. Her face, lying between her arms, with her hands clasped
above her head, was deadly pale, and wore an expression of frigid
rigidity. Therese was musing. Her fixed eyes resembled dark,
unfathomable depths, where naught was visible save night. She did not
move, she did not cast a glance at Laurent, who stood erect behind her.

Her sweetheart contemplated her, and was almost affrighted to see her
so motionless and mute. He would have liked to have bent forward, and
closed those great open eyes with a kiss. But Camille lay asleep
close at hand. This poor creature, with his body twisted out of shape,
displaying his lean proportions, was gently snoring. Under the hat,
half concealing his face, could be seen his mouth contorted into a silly
grimace in his slumber. A few short reddish hairs on a bony chin sullied
his livid skin, and his head being thrown backward, his thin wrinkled
neck appeared, with Adam's apple standing out prominently in brick red
in the centre, and rising at each snore. Camille, spread out on the
ground in this fashion, looked contemptible and vile.

Laurent who looked at him, abruptly raised his heel. He was going to
crush his face at one blow.

Therese restrained a cry. She went a shade paler than before, closed
her eyes and turned her head away as if to avoid being bespattered with
blood.

Laurent, for a few seconds, remained with his heel in the air, above the
face of the slumbering Camille. Then slowly, straightening his leg, he
moved a few paces away. He reflected that this would be a form of murder
such as an idiot would choose. This pounded head would have set all the
police on him. If he wanted to get rid of Camille, it was solely for the
purpose of marrying Therese. It was his intention to bask in the sun,
after the crime, like the murderer of the wagoner, in the story related
by old Michaud.

He went as far as the edge of the water, and watched the running river
in a stupid manner. Then, he abruptly turned into the underwood again.
He had just arranged a plan. He had thought of a mode of murder that
would be convenient, and without danger to himself.

He awoke the sleeper by tickling his nose with a straw. Camille sneezed,
got up, and pronounced the joke a capital one. He liked Laurent on
account of his tomfoolery, which made him laugh. He now roused his wife,
who kept her eyes closed. When she had risen to her feet, and shaken her
skirt, which was all crumpled, and covered with dry leaves, the party
quitted the clearing, breaking the small branches they found in their
way.

They left the island, and walked along the roads, along the byways
crowded with groups in Sunday finery. Between the hedges ran girls
in light frocks; a number of boating men passed by singing; files of
middle-class couples, of elderly persons, of clerks and shopmen with
their wives, walked the short steps, besides the ditches. Each roadway
seemed like a populous, noisy street. The sun alone maintained its
great tranquility. It was descending towards the horizon, casting on
the reddened trees and white thoroughfares immense sheets of pale light.
Penetrating freshness began to fall from the quivering sky.

Camille had ceased giving his arm to Therese. He was chatting with
Laurent, laughing at the jests, at the feats of strength of his friend,
who leapt the ditches and raised huge stones above his head. The young
woman, on the other side of the road, advanced with her head bent
forward, stooping down from time to time to gather an herb. When she had
fallen behind, she stopped and observed her sweetheart and husband in
the distance.

"Heh! Aren't you hungry?" shouted Camille at her.

"Yes," she replied.

"Then, come on!" said he.

Therese was not hungry; but felt tired and uneasy. She was in ignorance
as to the designs of Laurent, and her lower limbs were trembling with
anxiety.

The three, returning to the riverside, found a restaurant, where they
seated themselves at table on a sort of terrace formed of planks in an
indifferent eating-house reeking with the odour of grease and wine. This
place resounded with cries, songs, and the clatter of plates and dishes.
In each private room and public saloon, were parties talking in loud
voices, and the thin partitions gave vibrating sonority to all this
riot. The waiters, ascending to the upper rooms, caused the staircase to
shake.