The shop in the Arcade of the Pont Neuf remained closed for three days.
When it opened again, it appeared darker and damper. The shop-front
display, which the dust had turned yellow, seemed to be wearing the
mourning of the house; the various articles were scattered at sixes
and sevens in the dirty windows. Behind the linen caps hanging from
the rusty iron rods, the face of Thérèse presented a more olive, a more
sallow pallidness, and the immobility of sinister calm.
All the gossips in the arcade were moved to pity. The dealer in
imitation jewelry pointed out the emaciated profile of the young widow
to each of her customers, as an interesting and lamentable curiosity.
For three days, Madame Raquin and Thérèse had remained in bed without
speaking, and without even seeing one another. The old mercer, propped
up by pillows in a sitting posture, gazed vaguely before her with the
eyes of an idiot. The death of her son had been like a blow on the head
that had felled her senseless to the ground. For hours she remained
tranquil and inert, absorbed in her despair; then she was at times
seized with attacks of weeping, shrieking and delirium.
Thérèse in the adjoining room, seemed to sleep. She had turned her face
to the wall, and drawn the sheet over her eyes. There she lay
stretched out at full length, rigid and mute, without a sob raising the
bed-clothes. It looked as if she was concealing the thoughts that made
her rigid in the darkness of the alcove.
Suzanne, who attended to the two women, went feebly from one to the
other, gently dragging her feet along the floor, bending her wax-like
countenance over the two couches, without succeeding in persuading
Thérèse, who had sudden fits of impatience, to turn round, or in
consoling Madame Raquin, whose tears began to flow as soon as a voice
drew her from her prostration.
On the third day, Thérèse, rapidly and with a sort of feverish decision,
threw the sheet from her, and seated herself up in bed. She thrust back
her hair from her temples, and for a moment remained with her hands to
her forehead and her eyes fixed, seeming still to reflect. Then, she
sprang to the carpet. Her limbs were shivering, and red with fever;
large livid patches marbled her skin, which had become wrinkled in
places as if she had lost flesh. She had grown older.
Suzanne, on entering the room, was struck with surprise to find her
up. In a placid, drawling tone, she advised her to go to bed again, and
continue resting. Thérèse paid no heed to her, but sought her clothes
and put them on with hurried, trembling gestures. When she was dressed,
she went and looked at herself in a glass, rubbing her eyes, and passing
her hands over her countenance, as if to efface something. Then, without
pronouncing a syllable, she quickly crossed the dining-room and entered
the apartment occupied by Madame Raquin.
She caught the old mercer in a moment of doltish calm. When Thérèse
appeared, she turned her head following the movements of the young widow
with her eyes, while the latter came and stood before her, mute and
oppressed. The two women contemplated one another for some seconds, the
niece with increasing anxiety, the aunt with painful efforts of memory.
Madame Raquin, at last remembering, stretched out her trembling arms,
and, taking Thérèse by the neck, exclaimed:
“My poor child, my poor Camille!”
She wept, and her tears dried on the burning skin of the young widow,
who concealed her own dry eyes in the folds of the sheet. Thérèse
remained bending down, allowing the old mother to exhaust her outburst
of grief. She had dreaded this first interview ever since the murder;
and had kept in bed to delay it, to reflect at ease on the terrible part
she had to play.
When she perceived Madame Raquin more calm, she busied herself about
her, advising her to rise, and go down to the shop. The old mercer
had almost fallen into dotage. The abrupt apparition of her niece had
brought about a favourable crisis that had just restored her memory, and
the consciousness of things and beings around her. She thanked Suzanne
for her attention. Although weakened, she talked, and had ceased
wandering, but she spoke in a voice so full of sadness that at moments
she was half choked. She watched the movements of Thérèse with sudden
fits of tears; and would then call her to the bedside, and embrace her
amid more sobs, telling her in a suffocating tone that she, now, had
nobody but her in the world.
In the evening, she consented to get up, and make an effort to eat.
Thérèse then saw what a terrible shock her aunt had received. The legs
of the old lady had become so ponderous that she required a stick to
assist her to drag herself into the dining-room, and there she thought
the walls were vacillating around her.
Nevertheless, the following day she wished the shop to be opened. She
feared she would go mad if she continued to remain alone in her room.
She went down the wooden staircase with heavy tread, placing her two
feet on each step, and seated herself behind the counter. From that day
forth, she remained riveted there in placid affliction.
Thérèse, beside her, mused and waited. The shop resumed its gloomy calm.