Henceforth, Laurent called almost every evening on the Raquins. He lived
in the Rue Saint-Victor, opposite the Port aux Vins, where he rented a
small furnished room at 18 francs a month. This attic, pierced at the
top by a lift-up window, measured barely nine square yards, and Laurent
was in the habit of going home as late as possible at night. Previous to
his meeting with Camille, the state of his purse not permitting him to
idle away his time in the cafes, he loitered at the cheap eating-houses
where he took his dinner, smoking his pipe and sipping his coffee
and brandy which cost him three sous. Then he slowly gained the Rue
Saint-Victor, sauntering along the quays, where he seated himself on the
benches, in mild weather.
The shop in the Arcade of the Pont Neuf became a charming retreat, warm
and quiet, where he found amicable conversation and attention. He
saved the three sous his coffee and brandy cost him, and gluttonously
swallowed the excellent tea prepared by Madame Raquin. He remained
there until ten o’clock, dozing and digesting as if he were at home; and
before taking his departure, assisted Camille to put up the shutters and
close the shop for the night.
One evening, he came with his easel and box of colours. He was to
commence the portrait of Camille on the morrow. A canvas was purchased,
minute preparations made, and the artist at last took the work in hand
in the room occupied by the married couple, where Laurent said the light
was the best.
He took three evenings to draw the head. He carefully trailed the
charcoal over the canvas with short, sorry strokes, his rigid, cold
drawing recalling in a grotesque fashion that of the primitive masters.
He copied the face of Camille with a hesitating hand, as a pupil copies
an academical figure, with a clumsy exactitude that conveyed a scowl to
the face. On the fourth day, he placed tiny little dabs of colour on
his palette, and commenced painting with the point of the brush; he
then dotted the canvas with small dirty spots, and made short strokes
altogether as if he had been using a pencil.
At the end of each sitting, Madame Raquin and Camille were in ecstasies.
But Laurent said they must wait, that the resemblance would soon come.
Since the portrait had been commenced, Thérèse no longer quitted the
room, which had been transformed into a studio. Leaving her aunt alone
behind the counter, she ran upstairs at the least pretext, and forgot
herself watching Laurent paint.
Still grave and oppressed, paler and more silent, she sat down and
observed the labour of the brushes. But this sight did not seem to amuse
her very much. She came to the spot, as though attracted by some power,
and she remained, as if riveted there. Laurent at times turned round,
with a smile, inquiring whether the portrait pleased her. But she barely
answered, a shiver ran through her frame, and she resumed her meditative
trance.
Laurent, returning at night to the Rue Saint-Victor, reasoned with
himself at length, discussing in his mind, whether he should become the
lover of Thérèse, or not.
“Here is a little woman,” said he to himself, “who will be my sweetheart
whenever I choose. She is always there, behind my back, examining,
measuring me, summing me up. She trembles. She has a strange face that
is mute and yet impassioned. What a miserable creature that Camille is,
to be sure.”
And Laurent inwardly laughed as he thought of his pale, thin friend.
Then he resumed:
“She is bored to death in that shop. I go there, because I have nowhere
else to go to, otherwise they would not often catch me in the Arcade
of the Pont Neuf. It is damp and sad. A woman must be wearied to death
there. I please her, I am sure of it; then, why not me rather than
another?”
He stopped. Self-conceit was getting the better of him. Absorbed in
thought, he watched the Seine running by.
“Anyhow, come what may,” he exclaimed, “I shall kiss her at the first
opportunity. I bet she falls at once into my arms.”
As he resumed his walk, he was seized with indecision.
“But she is ugly,” thought he. “She has a long nose, and a big mouth.
Besides, I have not the least love for her. I shall perhaps get myself
into trouble. The matter requires reflection.”
Laurent, who was very prudent, turned these thoughts over in his head
for a whole week. He calculated all the possible inconveniences of an
intrigue with Thérèse, and only decided to attempt the adventure, when
he felt convinced that it could be attended by no evil consequences.
Thérèse would have every interest to conceal their intimacy, and he
could get rid of her whenever he pleased. Even admitting that Camille
discovered everything, and got angry, he would knock him down, if
he became spiteful. From every point of view that matter appeared to
Laurent easy and engaging.
Henceforth he enjoyed gentle quietude, waiting for the hour to strike.
He had made up his mind to act boldly at the first opportunity. In the
future he saw comfortable evenings, with all the Raquins contributing to
his enjoyment: Thérèse giving him her love, Madame Raquin wheedling him
like a mother, and Camille chatting with him so that he might not feel
too dull, at night, in the shop.
The portrait was almost completed, but the opportunity he desired did
not occur. Thérèse, depressed and anxious, continued to remain in the
room. But so did Camille, and Laurent was in despair at being unable
to get rid of him. Nevertheless, the time came when he found himself
obliged to mention that the portrait would be finished on the morrow,
and Madame Raquin thereupon announced that they would celebrate the
completion of the work of the artist by dining together.
The next day, when Laurent had given the canvas the last touch, all the
family assembled to go into raptures over the striking resemblance. The
portrait was vile, a dirty grey colour with large violescent patches.
Laurent could not use even the brightest colours, without making
them dull and muddy. In spite of himself he had exaggerated the wan
complexion of his model, and the countenance of Camille resembled the
greenish visage of a person who had met death by drowning. The grimacing
drawing threw the features into convulsions, thus rendering the sinister
resemblance all the more striking. But Camille was delighted; he
declared that he had the appearance of a person of distinction on the
canvas.
When he had thoroughly admired his own face, he declared he would go and
fetch a couple of bottles of champagne. Madame Raquin went down to the
shop, and the artist was alone with Thérèse.
The young woman had remained seated, gazing vaguely in front of her.
Laurent hesitated. He examined the portrait, and played with his
brushes. There was not much time to lose. Camille might come back, and
the opportunity would perhaps not occur again. The painter abruptly
turned round, and found himself face to face with Thérèse.
They contemplated one another for a few seconds. Then, with a violent
movement, Laurent bent down, and pressed the young woman to him.
Throwing back her head he crushed her mouth beneath his lips. She made
a savage, angry effort at revolt, and, then all at once gave in. They
exchanged not a word. The act was silent and brutal.