In the meanwhile, the secret work of Thérèse and Laurent was productive
of results. The former had assumed a woeful and despairing demeanour
which at the end of a few days alarmed Madame Raquin. When the old
mercer inquired what made her niece so sad, the young woman played the
part of an inconsolable widow with consummate skill. She spoke in a
vague manner of feeling weary, depressed, of suffering from her nerves,
without making any precise complaint. When pressed by her aunt with
questions, she replied that she was well, that she could not imagine
what it was that made her so low-spirited, and that she shed tears
without knowing why.
Then, the constant choking fits of sobbing, the wan, heartrending
smiles, the spells of crushing silence full of emptiness and despair,
continued.
The sight of this young woman who was always giving way to her grief,
who seemed to be slowly dying of some unknown complaint, ended by
seriously alarming Madame Raquin. She had, now, no one in the whole
world but her niece, and she prayed the Almighty every night to preserve
her this relative to close her eyes. A little egotism was mingled with
this final love of her old age. She felt herself affected in the slight
consolations that still assisted her to live, when it crossed her mind
that she might die alone in the damp shop in the arcade. From that time,
she never took her eyes off her niece, and it was with terror that she
watched her sadness, wondering what she could do to cure her of her
silent despair.
Under these grave circumstances, she thought she ought to take the
advice of her old friend Michaud. One Thursday evening, she detained him
in the shop, and spoke to him of her alarm.
“Of course,” answered the old man, with that frank brutality he had
acquired in the performance of his former functions, “I have noticed for
some time past that Thérèse has been looking sour, and I know very well
why her face is quite yellow and overspread with grief.”
“You know why!” exclaimed the widow. “Speak out at once. If we could
only cure her!”
“Oh! the treatment is simple,” resumed Michaud with a laugh. “Your niece
finds life irksome because she had been alone for nearly two years. She
wants a husband; you can see that in her eyes.”
The brutal frankness of the former commissary, gave Madame Raquin a
painful shock. She fancied that the wound Thérèse had received through
the fatal accident at Saint-Ouen, was still as fresh, still as cruel
at the bottom of her heart. It seemed to her that her son, once dead,
Thérèse could have no thought for a husband, and here was Michaud
affirming, with a hearty laugh, that Thérèse was out of sorts because
she wanted one.
“Marry her as soon as you can,” said he, as he took himself off, “if you
do not wish to see her shrivel up entirely. That is my advice, my dear
lady, and it is good, believe me.”
Madame Raquin could not, at first, accustom herself to the thought that
her son was already forgotten. Old Michaud had not even pronounced
the name of Camille, and had made a joke of the pretended illness of
Thérèse. The poor mother understood that she alone preserved at the
bottom of her heart, the living recollection of her dear child, and she
wept, for it seemed to her that Camille had just died a second time.
Then, when she had had a good cry, and was weary of mourning, she
thought, in spite of herself, of what Michaud had said, and became
familiar with the idea of purchasing a little happiness at the cost of a
marriage which, according to her delicate mind, was like killing her son
again.
Frequently, she gave way to feelings of cowardice when she came face to
face with the dejected and broken-down Thérèse, amidst the icy silence
of the shop. She was not one of those dry, rigid persons who find bitter
delight in living a life of eternal despair. Her character was full of
pliancy, devotedness, and effusion, which contributed to make up her
temperament of a stout and affable good lady, and prompted her to live
in a state of active tenderness.
Since her niece no longer spoke, and remained there pale and feeble, her
own life became intolerable, while the shop seemed to her like a tomb.
What she required was to find some warm affection beside her, some
liveliness, some caresses, something sweet and gay which would help her
to wait peacefully for death. It was these unconscious desires that made
her accept the idea of marrying Thérèse again; she even forgot her son
a little. In the existence of the tomb that she was leading, came a sort
of awakening, something like a will, and fresh occupation for the mind.
She sought a husband for her niece, and this search gave her matter for
consideration.
The choice of a husband was an important business. The poor old lady
thought much more of her own comfort than of Thérèse. She wished
to marry her niece in order to be happy herself, for she had keen
misgivings lest the new husband of the young woman should come and
trouble the last hours of her old age. The idea that she was about to
introduce a stranger into her daily existence terrified her. It was this
thought alone that stopped her, that prevented her from talking openly
with her niece about matrimony.
While Thérèse acted the comedy of weariness and dejection with that
perfect hypocrisy she had acquired by her education, Laurent took the
part of a sensible and serviceable man. He was full of little attentions
for the two women, particularly for Madame Raquin, whom he overwhelmed
with delicate attention. Little by little he made himself indispensable
in the shop; it was him alone who brought a little gaiety into this
black hole. When he did not happen to be there of an evening, the old
mercer searched round her, ill at ease, as if she missed something,
being almost afraid to find herself face to face with the despairing
Thérèse.
But Laurent only occasionally absented himself to better prove his
power. He went to the shop daily, on quitting his office, and remained
there until the arcade was closed at night. He ran the errands, and
handed Madame Raquin, who could only walk with difficulty, the small
articles she required. Then he seated himself and chatted. He had
acquired the gentle penetrating voice of an actor which he employed to
flatter the ears and heart of the good old lady. In a friendly way,
he seemed particularly anxious about the health of Thérèse, like a
tender-hearted man who feels for the sufferings of others. On repeated
occasions, he took Madame Raquin to one side, and terrified her by
appearing very much alarmed himself at the changes and ravages he said
he perceived on the face of the young woman.
“We shall soon lose her,” he murmured in a tearful voice. “We cannot
conceal from ourselves that she is extremely ill. Ah! alas, for our poor
happiness, and our nice tranquil evenings!”
Madame Raquin listened to him with anguish. Laurent even had the
audacity to speak of Camille.
“You see,” said he to the mercer, “the death of my poor friend has been
a terrible blow to her. She had been dying for the last two years, since
that fatal day when she lost Camille. Nothing will console her, nothing
will cure her. We must be resigned.”
These impudent falsehoods made the old lady shed bitter tears. The
memory of her son troubled and blinded her. Each time the name of
Camille was pronounced, she gave way, bursting into sobs. She would have
embraced the person who mentioned her poor boy. Laurent had noticed
the trouble, and outburst of tender feeling that this name produced. He
could make her weep at will, upset her with such emotion that she failed
to distinguish the clear aspect of things; and he took advantage of this
power to always hold her pliant and in pain in his hand, as it were.
Each evening in spite of the secret revolt of his trembling inner being,
he brought the conversation to bear on the rare qualities, on the tender
heart and mind of Camille, praising his victim with most shameless
impudence. At moments, when he found the eyes of Thérèse fixed with a
strange expression on his own, he shuddered, and ended by believing
all the good he had been saying about the drowned man. Then he held his
tongue, suddenly seized with atrocious jealousy, fearing that the young
widow loved the man he had flung into the water, and whom he now lauded
with the conviction of an enthusiast.
Throughout the conversation Madame Raquin was in tears, and unable to
distinguish anything around her. As she wept, she reflected that Laurent
must have a loving and generous heart. He alone remembered her son, he
alone still spoke of him in a trembling and affected voice. She dried
her eyes, gazing at the young man with infinite tenderness, and feeling
that she loved him as her own child.
One Thursday evening, Michaud and Grivet were already in the
dining-room, when Laurent coming in, approached Thérèse, and with gentle
anxiety inquired after her health. He seated himself for a moment beside
her, performing for the edification of the persons present, his part
of an alarmed and affectionate friend. As the young couple sat close
together, exchanging a few words, Michaud, who was observing them,
bent down, and said in a low voice to the old mercer, as he pointed to
Laurent:
“Look, there is the husband who will suit your niece. Arrange this
marriage quickly. We will assist you if it be necessary.”
This remark came as a revelation to Madame Raquin. She saw, at once, all
the advantages she would derive, personally, from the union of Thérèse
and Laurent. The marriage would tighten the bonds already connecting her
and her niece with the friend of her son, with that good-natured fellow
who came to amuse them in the evening.
In this manner, she would not be introducing a stranger into her home,
she would not run the risk of unhappiness. On the contrary, while giving
Thérèse a support, she added another joy to her old age, she found a
second son in this young man who for three years had shown her such
filial affection.
Then it occurred to her that Thérèse would be less faithless to the
memory of Camille by marrying Laurent. The religion of the heart
is peculiarly delicate. Madame Raquin, who would have wept to see a
stranger embrace the young widow, felt no repulsion at the thought of
giving her to the comrade of her son.
Throughout the evening, while the guests played at dominoes, the old
mercer watched the couple so tenderly, that they guessed the comedy
had succeeded, and that the denouement was at hand. Michaud, before
withdrawing, had a short conversation in an undertone with Madame
Raquin. Then, he pointedly took the arm of Laurent saying he would
accompany him a bit of the way. As Laurent went off, he exchanged a
rapid glance with Thérèse, a glance full of urgent enjoinment.
Michaud had undertaken to feel the ground. He found the young man very
much devoted to the two ladies, but exceedingly astonished at the idea
of a marriage between Thérèse and himself. Laurent added, in an unsteady
tone of voice, that he loved the widow of his poor friend as a sister,
and that it would seem to him a perfect sacrilege to marry her. The
former commissary of police insisted, giving numerous good reasons with
a view to obtaining his consent. He even spoke of devotedness, and went
so far as to tell the young man that it was clearly his duty to give a
son to Madame Raquin and a husband to Thérèse.
Little by little Laurent allowed himself to be won over, feigning to
give way to emotion, to accept the idea of this marriage as one fallen
from the clouds, dictated by feelings of devotedness and duty, as old
Michaud had said. When the latter had obtained a formal answer in the
affirmative, he parted with his companion, rubbing his hands, for he
fancied he had just gained a great victory. He prided himself on having
had the first idea of this marriage which would convey to the Thursday
evenings all their former gaiety.
While Michaud was talking with Laurent, slowly following the quays,
Madame Raquin had an almost identical conversation with Thérèse. At the
moment when her niece, pale and unsteady in gait, as usual, was about to
retire to rest, the old mercer detained her an instant. She questioned
her in a tender tone, imploring her to be frank, and confess the cause
of the trouble that overwhelmed her. Then, as she only obtained vague
replies, she spoke of the emptiness of widowhood, and little by little
came to talk in a more precise manner of the offer of a second marriage,
concluding by asking Thérèse, plainly, whether she had not a secret
desire to marry again.
Thérèse protested, saying that such a thought had never entered her
mind, and that she intended remaining faithful to Camille. Madame
Raquin began to weep. Pleading against her heart, she gave her niece to
understand that despair should not be eternal; and, finally, in response
to an exclamation of the young woman saying she would never replace
Camille, Madame Raquin abruptly pronounced the name of Laurent. Then she
enlarged with a flood of words on the propriety and advantages of such
an union. She poured out her mind, repeating aloud all she had been
thinking during the evening, depicting with naive egotism, the picture
of her final days of happiness, between her two dear children. Thérèse,
resigned and docile, listened to her with bowed head, ready to give
satisfaction to her slightest wish.
“I love Laurent as a brother,” said she grievously, when her aunt had
ceased speaking. “But, as you desire it, I will endeavour to love him
as a husband. I wish to make you happy. I had hoped that you would
have allowed me to weep in peace, but I will dry my tears, as it is a
question of your happiness.”
She kissed the old lady, who remained surprised and frightened at having
been the first to forget her son. As Madame Raquin went to bed, she
sobbed bitterly, accusing herself of having less strength than Thérèse,
and of desiring, out of egotism, a marriage that the young widow
accepted by simple abnegation.
The following morning, Michaud and his old friend had a short
conversation in the arcade, before the door of the shop, where they
communicated to one another the result of their efforts, and agreed to
hurry matters on by forcing the young people to become affianced the
same evening.
At five o’clock, Michaud was already in the shop when Laurent entered.
As soon as the young man had seated himself, the former commissary of
police said in his ear:
“She accepts.”
This blunt remark was overheard by Thérèse who remained pale, with her
eyes impudently fixed on Laurent. The two sweethearts looked at each
other for a few seconds as if consulting. Both understood that they must
accept the position without hesitation, and finish the business at one
stroke. Laurent, rising, went and took the hand of Madame Raquin, who
made every effort to restrain her tears.
“Dear mother,” said he smiling, “I was talking about your felicity, last
night, with M. Michaud. Your children wish to make you happy.”
The poor old lady, on hearing herself called “dear mother,” allowed her
tears to flow. She quietly seized the hand of Thérèse and placed it in
that of Laurent, unable to utter a single word.
The two sweethearts shivered on feeling their skins touch, and remained
with their burning fingers pressed together, in a nervous clasp. After a
pause, the young man, in a hesitating tone, resumed:
“Thérèse, shall we give your aunt a bright and peaceful existence?”
“Yes,” feebly replied the young woman, “we have a duty to perform.”
Then Laurent, becoming very pale, turned towards Madame Raquin, and
added:
“When Camille fell into the water, he shouted out to me: ‘Save my wife,
I entrust her to you.’ I believe I am acting in accordance with his last
wish in marrying Thérèse.”
Thérèse, on hearing these words, let go the hand of Laurent. She
had received a shock like a blow in the chest. The impudence of her
sweetheart overwhelmed her. She observed him with a senseless look,
while Madame Raquin, half stifled by sobs, stammered:
“Yes, yes, my friend, marry her, make her happy; my son, from the depth
of his tomb, will thank you.”
Laurent, feeling himself giving way, leant on the back of a chair, while
Michaud, who was himself moved to tears, pushed him towards Thérèse with
the remark:
“Kiss one another. It will be your betrothal.”
When the lips of the young man came in contact with the cheeks of the
widow, he experienced a peculiarly uncomfortable feeling, while the
latter abruptly drew back, as if the two kisses of her sweetheart burnt
her. This was the first caress he had given her in the presence of
witnesses. All her blood rushed to her face, and she felt herself red
and burning.
After this crisis, the two murderers breathed. Their marriage was
decided on. At last they approached the goal they had so long had in
view. Everything was settled the same evening. The Thursday following,
the marriage was announced to Grivet, as well as to Olivier and his
wife. Michaud, in communicating the news to them, did not conceal his
delight. He rubbed his hands, repeating as he did so:
“It was I who thought of it. It is I who have married them. You will see
what a nice couple they’ll make!”
Suzanne silently embraced Thérèse. This poor creature, who was half
dead, and as white as a sheet, had formed a friendship for the rigid and
sombre young widow. She showed her a sort of childlike affection mingled
with a kind of respectful terror. Olivier complimented the aunt and
niece, while Grivet hazarded a few spicy jokes that met with middling
success. Altogether the company were delighted, enchanted, and declared
that everything was for the best; in reality all they thought about was
the wedding feast.
Thérèse and Laurent were clever enough to maintain a suitable demeanour,
by simply displaying tender and obliging friendship to one another. They
gave themselves an air of accomplishing an act of supreme devotedness.
Nothing in their faces betrayed a suspicion of the terror and desire
that disturbed them. Madame Raquin watched the couple with faint smiles,
and a look of feeble, but grateful goodwill.
A few formalities required fulfilling. Laurent had to write to his
father to ask his consent to the marriage. The old peasant of Jeufosse
who had almost forgotten that he had a son at Paris, answered him, in
four lines, that he could marry, and go and get hanged if he chose. He
gave him to understand that being resolved never to give him a sou,
he left him master of his body, and authorised him to be guilty of all
imaginable follies. A permission accorded in such terms, caused Laurent
singular anxiety.
Madame Raquin, after reading the letter of this unnatural father, in a
transport of kind-heartedness, acted very foolishly. She made over to
her niece the 40,000 francs and more, that she possessed, stripping
herself entirely for the young couple, on whose affection she relied,
with the desire of being indebted to them for all her happiness.
Laurent brought nothing into the community, and he even gave it to
be understood that he did not always intend to remain in his present
employment, but would perhaps take up painting again. In any case, the
future of the little family was assured; the interest on the money put
aside added to the profit on the mercery business, would be sufficient
to keep three persons comfortably. As a matter of fact it was only just
sufficient to make them happy.
The preparations for the marriage were hurried on, the formalities being
abridged as much as possible, and at last the welcome day arrived.