Matters now took a different aspect. Thérèse, driven into a corner by
fright, not knowing which way to turn for a consoling thought, began to
weep aloud over the drowned man, in the presence of Laurent.
She abruptly became depressed, her overstrained nerves relaxed,
her unfeeling and violent nature softened. She had already felt
compassionate in the early days of her second marriage, and this feeling
now returned, as a necessary and fatal reaction.
When the young woman had struggled with all her nervous energy against
the spectre of Camille, when she had lived in sullen irritation for
several months up in arms against her sufferings, seeking to get the
better of them by efforts of will, she all at once experienced such
extraordinary lassitude that she yielded vanquished. Then, having become
a woman again, even a little girl, no longer feeling the strength
to stiffen herself, to stand feverishly erect before her terror, she
plunged into pity, into tears and regret, in the hope of finding some
relief. She sought to reap advantage from her weakness of body and mind.
Perhaps the drowned man, who had not given way to her irritation, would
be more unbending to her tears.
Her remorse was all calculation. She thought that this would no doubt be
the best way to appease and satisfy Camille. Like certain devotees, who
fancy they will deceive the Almighty, and secure pardon by praying
with their lips, and assuming the humble attitude of penitence, Thérèse
displayed humility, striking her chest, finding words of repentance,
without having anything at the bottom of her heart save fear and
cowardice. Besides, she experienced a sort of physical pleasure in
giving way in this manner, in feeling feeble and undone, in abandoning
herself to grief without resistance.
She overwhelmed Madame Raquin with her tearful despair. The paralysed
woman became of daily use to her. She served as a sort of praying-desk,
as a piece of furniture in front of which Thérèse could fearlessly
confess her faults and plead for forgiveness. As soon as she felt
inclined to cry, to divert herself by sobbing, she knelt before the
impotent old lady, and there, wailing and choking, performed to her
alone a scene of remorse which weakened but relieved her.
“I am a wretch,” she stammered, “I deserve no mercy. I deceived you, I
drove your son to his death. Never will you forgive me. And yet, if
you only knew how I am rent by remorse, if you only knew how I suffer,
perhaps you would have pity. No, no pity for me. I should like to die
here at your feet, overwhelmed by shame and grief.”
She spoke in this manner for hours together, passing from despair to
hope, condemning and then pardoning herself; she assumed the voice,
brief and plaintive in turn, of a little sick girl; she flattened
herself on the ground and drew herself up again, acting upon all the
ideas of humility and pride, of repentance and revolt that entered her
head. Sometimes even, forgetting she was on her knees before Madame
Raquin, she continued her monologue as in a dream. When she had made
herself thoroughly giddy with her own words, she rose staggering and
dazed, to go down to the shop in a calmer frame of mind, no longer
fearing to burst into sobs before her customers. When she again felt
inclined for remorse, she ran upstairs and knelt at the feet of the
impotent woman. This scene was repeated ten times a day.
Thérèse never reflected that her tears, and display of repentance must
impose ineffable anguish on her aunt. The truth was that if she had
desired to invent a torment to torture Madame Raquin, it would not have
been possible to have found a more frightful one than the comedy of
remorse she performed before her. The paralysed woman could see the
egotism concealed beneath these effusions of grief. She suffered
horribly from these long monologues which she was compelled to listen to
at every instant, and which always brought the murder of Camille before
her eyes. She could not pardon, she never departed from the implacable
thought of vengeance that her impotency rendered more keen, and all day
long she had to listen to pleas for pardon, and to humble and cowardly
prayers.
She would have liked to give an answer; certain sentences of her niece
brought crushing refusals to her lips, but she had to remain mute and
allow Thérèse to plead her cause without once interrupting her.
The impossibility of crying out and stopping her ears caused her
inexpressible torture. The words of the young woman entered her mind,
slow and plaintive, as an irritating ditty. At first, she fancied the
murderers inflicted this kind of torture on her out of sheer diabolical
cruelty. Her sole means of defence was to close her eyes, as soon as her
niece knelt before her, then although she heard, she did not see her.
Thérèse, at last, had the impudence to kiss her aunt. One day, in a fit
of repentance, she feigned she had perceived a gleam of mercy in the
eyes of the paralysed woman; and she dragged herself along on her knees,
she raised herself up, exclaiming in a distracted tone:
“You forgive me! You forgive me!”
Then she kissed the forehead and cheeks of the poor old creature, who
was unable to throw her head backward so as to avoid the embrace. The
cold skin on which Thérèse placed her lips, caused her violent disgust.
She fancied this disgust, like the tears of remorse, would be an
excellent remedy to appease her nerves; and she continued to kiss the
impotent old woman daily, by way of penitence, and also to relieve
herself.
“Oh! How good you are!” she sometimes exclaimed. “I can see my tears
have touched you. Your eyes are full of pity. I am saved.”
Then she smothered her with caresses, placing the head of the infirm
old lady on her knees, kissing her hands, smiling at her happily,
and attending to all her requirements with a display of passionate
affection. After a time, she believed in the reality of this comedy,
she imagined she had obtained the pardon of Madame Raquin, and spoke of
nothing but the delight she experienced at having secured her pardon.
This was too much for the paralysed woman. It almost killed her. At the
kisses of her niece, she again felt that sensation of bitter repugnance
and rage which came over her, morning and night, when Laurent took her
in his arms to lift her up, or lay her down. She was obliged to submit
to the disgusting caresses of the wretch who had betrayed and killed her
son. She could not even use her hand to wipe away the kisses that this
woman left on her cheeks; and, for hours and hours together, she felt
these kisses burning her.
She became the doll of the murderers of Camille, a doll that they
dressed, that they turned to right and left, and that they made use of
according to their requirements and whims. She remained inert in their
hands, as if she had been a lay-figure, and yet she lived, and became
excited and indignant at the least contact with Thérèse or Laurent.
What particularly exasperated her was the atrocious mockery of the young
woman, who pretended she perceived expressions of mercy in her eyes,
when she would have liked to have brought down fire from heaven on the
head of the criminal. She frequently made supreme efforts to utter a
cry of protestation, and loaded her looks with hatred. But Thérèse, who
found it answered her purpose to repeat twenty times a day that she
was pardoned, redoubled her caresses, and would see nothing. So the
paralysed woman had to accept the thanks and effusions that her heart
repelled. Henceforth, she lived in a state of bitter but powerless
irritation, face to face with her yielding niece who displayed adorable
acts of tenderness to recompense her for what she termed her heavenly
goodness.
When Thérèse knelt before Madame Raquin, in the presence of her husband,
he brutally brought her to her feet.
“No acting,” said he. “Do I weep, do I prostrate myself? You do all this
to trouble me.”
The remorse of Thérèse caused him peculiar agitation. His suffering
increased now that his accomplice dragged herself about him, with eyes
red by weeping, and supplicating lips. The sight of this living example
of regret redoubled his fright and added to his uneasiness. It was like
an everlasting reproach wandering through the house. Then he feared that
repentance would one day drive his wife to reveal everything. He would
have preferred her to remain rigid and threatening, bitterly defending
herself against his accusations. But she had changed her tactics. She
now readily recognised the share she had taken in the crime. She even
accused herself. She had become yielding and timid, and starting from
this point implored redemption with ardent humility. This attitude
irritated Laurent, and every evening the quarrels of the couple became
more afflicting and sinister.
“Listen to me,” said Thérèse to her husband, “we are very guilty. We
must repent if we wish to enjoy tranquillity. Look at me. Since I have
been weeping I am more peaceable. Imitate me. Let us say together that
we are justly punished for having committed a horrible crime.”
“Bah!” roughly answered Laurent, “you can say what you please. I know
you are deucedly clever and hypocritical. Weep, if that diverts you. But
I must beg you not to worry me with your tears.”
“Ah!” said she, “you are bad. You reject remorse. You are cowardly. You
acted as a traitor to Camille.”
“Do you mean to say that I alone am guilty?” he inquired.
“No,” she replied, “I do not say that. I am guilty, more guilty than you
are. I ought to have saved my husband from your hands. Oh! I am aware
of all the horror of my fault. But I have sought pardon, and I have
succeeded, Laurent, whereas you continue to lead a disconsolate life.
You have not even had the feeling to spare my poor aunt the sight of
your vile anger. You have never even addressed a word of regret to her.”
And she embraced Madame Raquin, who shut her eyes. She hovered round
her, raising the pillow that propped up her head, and showing her all
kinds of attention. Laurent was infuriated.
“Oh, leave her alone,” he cried. “Can’t you see that your services, and
the very sight of you are odious to her. If she could lift her hand she
would slap your face.”
The slow and plaintive words of his wife, and her attitudes of
resignation, gradually drove him into blinding fits of anger. He
understood her tactics; she no longer wished to be at one with him, but
to set herself apart wrapped in her regret, so as to escape the clasp
of the drowned man. And, at moments, he said to himself that she had
perhaps taken the right path, that tears might cure her of her terror,
and he shuddered at the thought of having to suffer, and contend with
fright alone.
He also would have liked to repent, or at least to have performed the
comedy of repentance, to see what effect it would have. Unable to find
the sobs and necessary words, he flung himself into violence again,
stirring up Thérèse so as to irritate her and lead her back with him
to furious madness. But the young woman took care to remain inert,
to answer his cries of anger by tearful submission, and to meet his
coarseness by a proportionate display of humility and repentance.
Laurent was thus gradually driven to fury. To crown his irritation,
Thérèse always ended with the panegyric of Camille so as to display the
virtues of the victim.
“He was good,” said she, “and we must have been very cruel to assail
such a warm-hearted man who had never a bad thought.”
“He was good, yes, I know,” jeered Laurent. “You mean to say he was a
fool. You must have forgotten! You pretended you were irritated at
the slightest thing he said, that he could not open his mouth without
letting out some stupidity.”
“Don’t jeer,” said Thérèse. “It only remains for you to insult the man
you murdered. You know nothing about the feelings of a woman, Laurent;
Camille loved me and I loved him.”
“You loved him! Ah! Really what a capital idea,” exclaimed Laurent. “And
no doubt it was because you loved your husband, that you took me as a
sweetheart. I remember one day when we were together, that you told me
Camille disgusted you, when you felt the end of your fingers enter his
flesh as if it were soft clay. Oh! I know why you loved me. You required
more vigorous arms than those of that poor devil.”
“I loved him as a sister,” answered Thérèse. “He was the son of my
benefactress. He had all the delicate feelings of a feeble man. He
showed himself noble and generous, serviceable and loving. And we killed
him, good God! good God!”
She wept, and swooned away. Madame Raquin cast piercing glances at her,
indignant to hear the praise of Camille sung by such a pair of lips.
Laurent who was unable to do anything against this overflow of tears,
walked to and fro with furious strides, searching in his head for some
means to stifle the remorse of Thérèse.
All the good he heard said of his victim ended by causing him poignant
anxiety. Now and again he let himself be caught by the heartrending
accents of his wife. He really believed in the virtues of Camille, and
his terror redoubled. But what tried his patience beyond measure was
the comparison that the widow of the drowned man never failed to draw
between her first and second husband, and which was all to the advantage
of the former.
“Well! Yes,” she cried, “he was better than you. I would sooner he were
alive now, and you in his place underground.”
Laurent first of all shrugged his shoulders.
“Say what you will,” she continued, becoming animated, “although I
perhaps failed to love him in his lifetime, yet I remember all his good
qualities now, and do love him. Yes, I love him and hate you, do you
hear? For you are an assassin.”
“Will you hold your tongue?” yelled Laurent.
“And he is a victim,” she went on, notwithstanding the threatening
attitude of her husband, “an upright man killed by a rascal. Oh! I am
not afraid of you. You know well enough that you are a miserable wretch,
a brute of a man without a heart, and without a soul. How can you expect
me to love you, now that you are reeking with the blood of Camille?
Camille was full of tenderness for me, and I would kill you, do you
hear, if that could bring him to life again, and give me back his love.”
“Will you hold your tongue, you wretch?” shouted Laurent.
“Why should I hold my tongue?” she retorted. “I am speaking the truth.
I would purchase forgiveness at the price of your blood. Ah! How I
weep, and how I suffer! It is my own fault if a scoundrel, such as you,
murdered my husband. I must go, one of these nights, and kiss the ground
where he rests. That will be my final rapture.”
Laurent, beside himself, rendered furious by the atrocious pictures that
Thérèse spread out before his eyes, rushed upon her, and threw her down,
menacing her with his uplifted fist.
“That’s it,” she cried, “strike me, kill me! Camille never once raised
his hand to me, but you are a monster.”
And Laurent, spurred on by what she said, shook her with rage, beat her,
bruised her body with his clenched fists. In two instances he almost
strangled her. Thérèse yielded to his blows. She experienced keen
delight in being struck, delivering herself up, thrusting her body
forward, provoking her husband in every way, so that he might half kill
her again. This was another remedy for her suffering. She slept better
at night when she had been thoroughly beaten in the evening. Madame
Raquin enjoyed exquisite pleasure, when Laurent dragged her niece along
the floor in this way, belabouring her with thumps and kicks.
The existence of the assassin had become terrible since the day when
Thérèse conceived the infernal idea of feeling remorse and of mourning
Camille aloud. From that moment the wretch lived everlastingly with
his victim. At every hour, he had to listen to his wife praising and
regretting her first husband. The least incident became a pretext:
Camille did this, Camille did that, Camille had such and such qualities,
Camille loved in such and such a way.
It was always Camille! Ever sad remarks bewailing his death. Thérèse
had recourse to all her spitefulness to render this torture, which she
inflicted on Laurent so as to shield her own self, as cruel as possible.
She went into details, relating a thousand insignificant incidents
connected with her youth, accompanied by sighs and expressions of
regret, and in this manner, mingled the remembrance of the drowned man
with every action of her daily life.
The corpse which already haunted the house, was introduced there openly.
It sat on the chairs, took its place at table, extended itself on the
bed, making use of the various articles of furniture, and of the objects
lying about hither and thither. Laurent could touch nothing, not a fork,
not a brush, without Thérèse making him feel that Camille had touched it
before him.
The murderer being ceaselessly thrust, so to say, against the man he had
killed, ended by experiencing a strange sensation that very nearly drove
him out of his mind. By being so constantly compared to Camille, by
making use of the different articles Camille had used, he imagined he
was Camille himself, that he was identical with his victim. Then, with
his brain fit to burst, he flew at his wife to make her hold her tongue,
so as to no longer hear the words that drove him frantic. All their
quarrels now ended in blows.