In accordance with the hopes of old Michaud, when doing his best to
bring about the marriage of Thérèse and Laurent, the Thursday evenings
resumed their former gaiety, as soon as the wedding was over.
These evenings were in great peril at the time of the death of Camille.
The guests came, in fear, into this house of mourning; each week they
were trembling with anxiety, lest they should be definitely dismissed.
The idea that the door of the shop would no doubt at last be closed to
them, terrified Michaud and Grivet, who clung to their habits with the
instinct and obstinacy of brutes. They said to themselves that the old
woman and young widow would one day go and weep over the defunct at
Vernon or elsewhere, and then, on Thursday nights, they would not know
what to do. In the mind’s eye they saw themselves wandering about the
arcade in a lamentable fashion, dreaming of colossal games at dominoes.
Pending the advent of these bad times, they timidly enjoyed their final
moments of happiness, arriving with an anxious, sugary air at the shop,
and repeating to themselves, on each occasion, that they would perhaps
return no more. For over a year they were beset with these fears. In
face of the tears of Madame Raquin and the silence of Thérèse, they
dared not make themselves at ease and laugh. They felt they were no
longer at home as in the time of Camille; it seemed, so to say, that
they were stealing every evening they passed seated at the dining-room
table. It was in these desperate circumstances that the egotism of
Michaud urged him to strike a masterly stroke by finding a husband for
the widow of the drowned man.
On the Thursday following the marriage, Grivet and Michaud made
a triumphant entry into the dining-room. They had conquered. The
dining-room belonged to them again. They no longer feared dismissal.
They came there as happy people, stretching out their legs, and cracking
their former jokes, one after the other. It could be seen from their
delighted and confident attitude that, in their idea, a revolution had
been accomplished. All recollection of Camille had been dispelled. The
dead husband, the spectre that cast a chill over everyone, had
been driven away by the living husband. The past and its joys were
resuscitated. Laurent took the place of Camille, all cause for sadness
disappeared, the guests could now laugh without grieving anyone; and,
indeed, it was their duty to laugh to cheer up this worthy family who
were good enough to receive them.
Henceforth, Grivet and Michaud, who for nearly eighteen months had
visited the house under the pretext of consoling Madame Raquin, could
set their little hypocrisy aside, and frankly come and doze opposite one
another to the sharp ring of the dominoes.
And each week brought a Thursday evening, each week those lifeless and
grotesque heads which formerly had exasperated Thérèse, assembled round
the table. The young woman talked of showing these folk the door; their
bursts of foolish laughter and silly reflections irritated her. But
Laurent made her understand that such a step would be a mistake; it was
necessary that the present should resemble the past as much as possible;
and, above all, they must preserve the friendship of the police, of
those idiots who protected them from all suspicion. Thérèse gave way.
The guests were well received, and they viewed with delight a future
full of a long string of warm Thursday evenings.
It was about this time that the lives of the couple became, in a way,
divided in two.
In the morning, when day drove away the terror of night, Laurent hastily
dressed himself. But he only recovered his ease and egotistic calm when
in the dining-room, seated before an enormous bowl of coffee and milk,
which Thérèse prepared for him. Madame Raquin, who had become even more
feeble and could barely get down to the shop, watched him eating with a
maternal smile. He swallowed the toast, filled his stomach and little by
little became tranquillised. After the coffee, he drank a small glass of
brandy which completely restored him. Then he said “good-bye” to Madame
Raquin and Thérèse, without ever kissing them, and strolled to his
office.
Spring was at hand; the trees along the quays were becoming covered with
leaves, with light, pale green lacework. The river ran with caressing
sounds below; above, the first sunny rays of the year shed gentle
warmth. Laurent felt himself another man in the fresh air; he freely
inhaled this breath of young life descending from the skies of April
and May; he sought the sun, halting to watch the silvery reflection
streaking the Seine, listening to the sounds on the quays, allowing
the acrid odours of early day to penetrate him, enjoying the clear,
delightful morn.
He certainly thought very little about Camille. Sometimes he listlessly
contemplated the Morgue on the other side of the water, and his mind
then reverted to his victim, like a man of courage might think of
a silly fright that had come over him. With stomach full, and face
refreshed, he recovered his thick-headed tranquillity. He reached his
office, and passed the whole day gaping, and awaiting the time to leave.
He was a mere clerk like the others, stupid and weary, without an
idea in his head, save that of sending in his resignation and taking
a studio. He dreamed vaguely of a new existence of idleness, and this
sufficed to occupy him until evening.
Thoughts of the shop in the arcade never troubled him. At night, after
longing for the hour of release since the morning, he left his office
with regret, and followed the quays again, secretly troubled and
anxious. However slowly he walked, he had to enter the shop at last, and
there terror awaited him.
Thérèse experienced the same sensations. So long as Laurent was not
beside her, she felt at ease. She had dismissed her charwoman, saying
that everything was in disorder, and the shop and apartment filthy
dirty. She all at once had ideas of tidiness. The truth was that she
felt the necessity of moving about, of doing something, of exercising
her stiff limbs. She went hither and thither all the morning, sweeping,
dusting, cleaning the rooms, washing up the plates and dishes, doing
work that would have disgusted her formerly. These household duties kept
her on her feet, active and silent, until noon, without allowing her
time to think of aught else than the cobwebs hanging from the ceiling
and the greasy plates.
On the stroke of twelve, she went to the kitchen to prepare lunch. At
table, Madame Raquin was pained to see her always rising to fetch the
dishes; she was touched and annoyed at the activity displayed by her
niece; she scolded her, and Thérèse replied that it was necessary to
economise. When the meal was over, the young woman dressed, and at last
decided to join her aunt behind the counter. There, sleep overtook
her; worn out by her restless nights, she dozed off, yielding to the
voluptuous feeling of drowsiness that gained her, as soon as she sat
down.
These were only light spells of heaviness, replete with vague charm that
calmed her nerves. The thoughts of Camille left her; she enjoyed that
tranquil repose of invalids who are all at once freed from pain.
She felt relieved in body, her mind free, she sank into a gentle and
repairing state of nothingness. Deprived of these few calm moments, she
would have broken down under the tension of her nervous system. These
spells of somnolence gave her strength to suffer again, and become
terrified the ensuing night. As a matter of fact she did not sleep,
she barely closed her lids, and was lost in a dream of peace. When a
customer entered, she opened her eyes, served the few sous worth of
articles asked for, and fell back into the floating reverie.
In this manner she passed three or four hours of perfect happiness,
answering her aunt in monosyllables, and yielding with real enjoyment to
these moments of unconsciousness which relieved her of her thoughts, and
completely overcame her. She barely, at long intervals, cast a glance
into the arcade, and was particularly at her ease in cloudy weather,
when it was dark and she could conceal her lassitude in the gloom.
The damp and disgusting arcade, crossed by a lot of wretched drenched
pedestrians, whose umbrellas dripped upon the tiles, seemed to her like
an alley in a low quarter, a sort of dirty, sinister corridor, where
no one would come to seek and trouble her. At moments, when she saw the
dull gleams of light that hung around her, when she smelt the bitter
odour of the dampness, she imagined she had just been buried alive, that
she was underground, at the bottom of a common grave swarming with dead.
And this thought consoled and appeased her, for she said to herself that
she was now in security, that she was about to die and would suffer no
more.
But sometimes she had to keep her eyes open; Suzanne paid her a visit,
and remained embroidering near the counter all the afternoon. The wife
of Olivier, with her putty face and slow movements, now pleased Thérèse,
who experienced strange relief in observing this poor, broken-up
creature, and had made a friend of her. She loved to see her at her
side, smiling with her faint smile, more dead than alive, and bringing
into the shop the stuffy odour of the cemetery. When the blue eyes of
Suzanne, transparent as glass, rested fixedly on those of Thérèse, the
latter experienced a beneficent chill in the marrow of her bones.
Thérèse remained thus until four o’clock, when she returned to the
kitchen, and there again sought fatigue, preparing dinner for Laurent
with febrile haste. But when her husband appeared on the threshold she
felt a tightening in the throat, and all her being once more became a
prey to anguish.
Each day, the sensations of the couple were practically the same. During
the daytime, when they were not face to face, they enjoyed delightful
hours of repose; at night, as soon as they came together, both
experienced poignant discomfort.
The evenings, nevertheless, were calm. Thérèse and Laurent, who
shuddered at the thought of going to their room, sat up as long as
possible. Madame Raquin, reclining in a great armchair, was placed
between them, and chatted in her placid voice. She spoke of Vernon,
still thinking of her son, but avoiding to mention him from a sort of
feeling of diffidence for the others; she smiled at her dear children,
and formed plans for their future. The lamp shed its faint gleams on her
white face, and her words sounded particularly sweet in the silence and
stillness of the room.
The murderers, one seated on each side of her, silent and motionless,
seemed to be attentively listening to what she said. In truth they did
not attempt to follow the sense of the gossip of the good old lady. They
were simply pleased to hear this sound of soft words which prevented
them attending the crash of their own thoughts. They dared not
cast their eyes on one another, but looked at Madame Raquin to give
themselves countenances. They never breathed a word about going to
bed; they would have remained there until morning, listening to the
affectionate nonsense of the former mercer, amid the appeasement she
spread around her, had she not herself expressed the desire to retire.
It was only then that they quitted the dining-room and entered their
own apartment in despair, as if casting themselves to the bottom of an
abyss.
But they soon had much more preference for the Thursday gatherings,
than for these family evenings. When alone with Madame Raquin, they were
unable to divert their thoughts; the feeble voice of their aunt, and her
tender gaiety, did not stifle the cries that lacerated them. They could
feel bedtime coming on, and they shuddered when their eyes caught sight
of the door of their room. Awaiting the moment when they would be alone,
became more and more cruel as the evening advanced. On Thursday night,
on the contrary, they were giddy with folly, one forgot the presence of
the other, and they suffered less. Thérèse ended by heartily longing for
the reception days. Had Michaud and Grivet not arrived, she would have
gone and fetched them. When strangers were in the dining-room, between
herself and Laurent, she felt more calm. She would have liked to always
have guests there, to hear a noise, something to divert her, and detach
her from her thoughts. In the presence of other people, she displayed a
sort of nervous gaiety. Laurent also recovered his previous merriment,
returning to his coarse peasant jests, his hoarse laughter, his
practical jokes of a former canvas dauber. Never had these gatherings
been so gay and noisy.
It was thus that Laurent and Thérèse could remain face to face, once a
week, without shuddering.
But they were soon beset with further anxiety. Paralysis was little by
little gaining on Madame Raquin, and they foresaw the day when she
would be riveted to her armchair, feeble and doltish. The poor old lady
already began to stammer fragments of disjointed phrases; her voice was
growing weaker, and her limbs were one by one losing their vitality.
She was becoming a thing. It was with terror that Thérèse and Laurent
observed the breaking up of this being who still separated them, and
whose voice drew them from their bad dreams. When the old mercer lost
her intelligence, and remained stiff and silent in her armchair, they
would find themselves alone, and in the evening would no longer be able
to escape the dreadful face to face conversation. Then their terror
would commence at six o’clock instead of midnight. It would drive them
mad.
They made every effort to give Madame Raquin that health which had
become so necessary to them. They called in doctors, and bestowed on the
patient all sorts of little attentions. Even this occupation of nurses
caused them to forget, and afforded them an appeasement that encouraged
them to double in zeal. They did not wish to lose a third party
who rendered their evenings supportable; and they did not wish the
dining-room and the whole house to become a cruel and sinister spot like
their room.
Madame Raquin was singularly touched at the assiduous care they took of
her. She applauded herself, amid tears, at having united them, and at
having abandoned to them her forty thousand francs. Never, since the
death of her son, had she counted on so much affection in her final
moments. Her old age was quite softened by the tenderness of her dear
children. She did not feel the implacable paralysis which, in spite of
all, made her more and more rigid day by day.
Nevertheless, Thérèse and Laurent continued to lead their double
existence. In each of them there were like two distinct beings: a
nervous, terrified being who shuddered as soon as dusk set in, and a
torpid forgetful being, who breathed at ease when the sun rose. They
lived two lives, crying out in anguish when alone, and peacefully
smiling in company. Never did their faces, in public, show the slightest
trace of the sufferings that had reached them in private. They appeared
calm and happy, and instinctively concealed their troubles.
To see them so tranquil in the daytime, no one would have suspected
the hallucinations that tortured them every night. They would have been
taken for a couple blessed by heaven, and living in the enjoyment of
full felicity. Grivet gallantly called them the “turtle-doves.” When
he jested about their fatigued looks, Laurent and Thérèse barely turned
pale, and even succeeded in forcing on a smile. They became accustomed
to the naughty jokes of the old clerk.
So long as they remained in the dining-room, they were able to keep
their terror under control. The mind could not imagine the frightful
change that came over them, as soon as they were shut up in their
bedroom. On the Thursday night, particularly, this transformation was
so violently brutal, that it seemed as if accomplished in a supernatural
world. The drama in the bedroom, by its strangeness, by its savage
passion, surpassed all belief, and remained deeply concealed within
their aching beings. Had they spoken of it, they would have been taken
for mad.
“How happy those sweethearts are!” frequently remarked old Michaud.
“They hardly say a word, but that does not prevent them thinking. I bet
they devour one another with kisses when we have gone.”
Such was the opinion of the company. Thérèse and Laurent came to be
spoken of as a model couple. All the tenants in the Arcade of the Pont
Neuf extolled the affection, the tranquil happiness, the everlasting
honeymoon of the married pair. They alone knew that the corpse of
Camille slept between them; they alone felt, beneath the calm exterior
of their faces, the nervous contractions that, at night, horribly
distorted their features, and changed the placid expression of their
physiognomies into hideous masks of pain.