A shock of terror alone had made the married pair speak, and avow their
crime in the presence of Madame Raquin. Neither one nor the other was
cruel; they would have avoided such a revelation out of feelings of
humanity, had not their own security already made it imperative on their
part to maintain silence.
On the ensuing Thursday, they felt particularly anxious. In the morning,
Thérèse inquired of Laurent whether he considered it prudent to leave
the paralysed woman in the dining-room during the evening. She knew all
and might give the alarm.
“Bah!” replied Laurent, “it is impossible for her to raise her little
finger. How can she babble?”
“She will perhaps discover a way to do so,” answered Thérèse. “I have
noticed an implacable thought in her eyes since the other evening.”
“No,” said Laurent. “You see, the doctor told me it was absolutely
all over with her. If she ever speaks again it will be in the final
death-rattle. She will not last much longer, you may be sure. It would
be stupid to place an additional load on our conscience by preventing
her being present at the gathering this evening.”
Thérèse shuddered.
“You misunderstand me,” she exclaimed. “Oh! You are right. There has
been enough crime. I meant to say that we might shut our aunt up in her
own room, pretending she was not well, and was sleeping.”
“That’s it,” replied Laurent, “and that idiot Michaud would go straight
into the room to see his old friend, notwithstanding. It would be a
capital way to ruin us.”
He hesitated. He wanted to appear calm, and anxiety gave a tremor to his
voice.
“It will be best to let matters take their course,” he continued. “These
people are as silly as geese. The mute despair of the old woman will
certainly teach them nothing. They will never have the least suspicion
of the thing, for they are too far away from the truth. Once the ordeal
is over, we shall be at ease as to the consequences of our imprudence.
All will be well, you will see.”
When the guests arrived in the evening, Madame Raquin occupied her usual
place, between the stove and table. Thérèse and Laurent feigned to be
in good spirits, concealing their shudders and awaiting, in anguish, the
incident that was bound to occur. They had brought the lamp-shade very
low down, so that the oilcloth table covering alone was lit up.
The guests engaged in the usual noisy, common-place conversation that
invariably preceded the first game of dominoes. Grivet and Michaud did
not fail to address the usual questions to the paralysed woman, on the
subject of her health, and to give excellent answers to them, as was
their custom. After which, the company, without troubling any further
about the poor old lady, plunged with delight into the game.
Since Madame Raquin had become aware of the horrible secret, she had
been awaiting this evening with feverish impatience. She had gathered
together all her remaining strength to denounce the culprits. Up to the
last moment, she feared she would not be present at the gathering; she
thought Laurent would make her disappear, perhaps kill her, or at least
shut her up in her own apartment. When she saw that her niece and nephew
allowed her to remain in the dining-room, she experienced lively joy at
the thought of attempting to avenge her son.
Aware that her tongue was powerless, she resorted to a new kind of
language. With astonishing power of will, she succeeded, in a measure,
in galvanising her right hand, in slightly raising it from her knee,
where it always lay stretched out, inert; she then made it creep little
by little up one of the legs of the table before her, and thus succeeded
in placing it on the oilcloth table cover. Then, she feebly agitated the
fingers as if to attract attention.
When the players perceived this lifeless hand, white and nerveless,
before them, they were exceedingly surprised. Grivet stopped short,
with his arm in the air, at the moment when he was about to play the
double-six. Since the impotent woman had been struck down, she had never
moved her hands.
“Hey! Just look, Thérèse,” cried Michaud. “Madame Raquin is agitating
her fingers. She probably wants something.”
Thérèse could not reply. Both she and Laurent had been following the
exertion of the paralysed woman, and she was now looking at the hand
of her aunt, which stood out wan in the raw light of the lamp, like
an avenging hand that was about to speak. The two murderers waited,
breathless.
“Of course,” said Grivet, “she wants something. Oh! We thoroughly
understand one another. She wants to play dominoes. Eh! Isn’t it so,
dear lady?”
Madame Raquin made a violent sign indicating that she wanted nothing of
the kind. She extended one finger, folded up the others with infinite
difficulty, and began to painfully trace letters on the table cover.
She had barely indicated a stroke or two, when Grivet again exclaimed in
triumph:
“I understand; she says I do right to play the double-six.”
The impotent woman cast a terrible glance at the old clerk, and returned
to the word she wished to write. But Grivet interrupted her at every
moment, declaring it was needless, that he understood, and he then
brought out some stupidity. Michaud at last made him hold his tongue.
“The deuce! Allow Madame Raquin to speak,” said he. “Speak, my old
friend.”
And he gazed at the oilcloth table cover as if he had been listening.
But the fingers of the paralysed woman were growing weary. They had
begun the word more than ten times over, and now, in tracing this word,
they wandered to right and left. Michaud and Olivier bent forward, and
being unable to read, forced the impotent old lady to resume the first
letters.
“Ah! Bravo!” exclaimed Olivier, all at once, “I can read it, this time.
She has just written your name, Thérèse. Let me see: ‘_Thérèse and_----’
Complete the sentence, dear lady.”
Thérèse almost shrieked in anguish. She watched the finger of her aunt
gliding over the oilcloth, and it seemed to her that this finger traced
her name, and the confession of her crime in letters of fire. Laurent
had risen violently, with half a mind to fling himself on the paralysed
woman and break her arm. When he saw this hand return to life to reveal
the murder of Camille, he thought all was lost, and already felt the
weight and frigidity of the knife on the nape of his neck.
Madame Raquin still wrote, but in a manner that became more and more
hesitating.
“This is perfect. I can read it very well indeed,” resumed Olivier after
an instant, and with his eyes on the married pair. “Your aunt writes
your two names: ‘_Thérèse and Laurent_.’”
The old lady made sign after sign in the affirmative, casting crushing
glances on the murderers. Then she sought to complete the sentence,
but her fingers had stiffened, the supreme will that galvanised them,
escaped her. She felt the paralysis slowly descending her arm and again
grasping her wrist. She hurried on, and traced another word.
Old Michaud read out in a loud voice:
“_Thérèse and Laurent have----_”
And Olivier inquired:
“What have your dear children?”
The murderers, seized with blind terror, were on the point of completing
the sentence aloud. They contemplated the avenging hand with fixed
and troubled eyes, when, all at once this hand became convulsed, and
flattened out on the table. It slipped down and fell on the knee of the
impotent woman like a lump of inanimate flesh and bone. The paralysis
had returned and arrested the punishment. Michaud and Olivier sat down
again disappointed, while Thérèse and Laurent experienced such keen joy
that they felt like fainting under the influence of the sudden rush of
blood that beat in their bosoms.
Grivet who felt vexed at not having been believed on trust, thought
the moment had arrived to regain his infallibility, by completing the
unfinished sentence. While every one was endeavouring to supply the
missing words, he exclaimed:
“It is quite clear. I can read the whole phrase in the eyes of the lady.
It is not necessary for her to write on the table to make me understand;
a mere look suffices. She means to say:
“Thérèse and Laurent have been very kind to me.”
Grivet, on this occasion, had cause to be proud of his imagination, for
all the company were of his opinion; and the guests began to sing the
praises of the married couple, who were so good for the poor lady.
“It is certain,” old Michaud gravely remarked, “that Madame Raquin
wishes to bear testimony to the tender affection her children lavish on
her, and this does honour to the whole family.”
Then, taking up his dominoes again, he added:
“Come, let us continue. Where were we? Grivet was about to play the
double-six, I think.”
Grivet played the double six, and the stupid, monotonous game went on.
The paralysed woman, cut up by frightful despair, looked at her hand,
which had just betrayed her. She felt it as heavy as lead, now; never
would she be able to raise it again. Providence would not permit Camille
to be avenged. It withdrew from his mother the only means she had of
making known the crime to which he had fallen a victim. And the wretched
woman said to herself that she was now only fit to go and join her child
underground. She lowered her lids, feeling herself, henceforth, useless,
and with the desire of imagining herself already in the darkness of the
tomb.