Thérèse Raquin Read online

  ‘It’s quite clear. I can guess the whole sentence in Madame’s eyes. She doesn’t have to write it on the table for me; just one look will suffice. What she wanted to say was: “Thérèse and Laurent are taking good care of me.”’

  Grivet could congratulate himself on his imagination, because everyone agreed. The guests started to praise the young couple who were being so kind to the old lady.

  ‘It is certain,’ said Old Michaud gravely, ‘that Mme Raquin wanted to acknowledge the tender care that her children lavish upon her. It’s a tribute to the whole family.

  And, picking his dominoes up again, he added:

  ‘Right, let’s carry on. Where were we? I believe Grivet was about to put down the double six.’

  Grivet did put down the double six. The game went on, stupid and monotonous.

  The paralysed woman looked at her hand, sunk in the most frightful despair. Her hand had just betrayed her. It felt to her as heavy as lead now; never again would she be able to lift it. Heaven did not want Camille to be avenged, but had taken away from his mother the one means she had to let men know that he was the victim of a murder. The unhappy woman told herself that she was no good any longer for anything except to join her child in the ground. She lowered her eyes, feeling useless from now on and trying to believe that she was already in the darkness of the tomb.

  XXIX

  A new phase began. Thérèse, driven to extremes by fear and not knowing where to look for consolation, started to mourn the drowned man openly in front of Laurent.

  She suffered a sudden collapse. Her overstretched nerves snapped and her dry, violent nature softened. Already, in the first days of her marriage, she had experienced emotional outbursts, and these returned, like a necessary and inevitable reaction. After she had struggled with all her nervous energy against Camille’s ghost and when she had lived for several months in a state of vague irritation, rebelling against her sufferings and trying to heal them by sheer effort of will, she suddenly felt such weariness that she was overcome and gave in. So, a woman once more, even a little girl, no longer feeling she had the strength to stiffen herself, stand up and furiously drive off her terrors, she relapsed into pity, tears and regrets, hoping that these would bring her some relief. She tried to take advantage of the weaknesses of the flesh and the spirit that took hold of her: perhaps the drowned man, who had not given way to her annoyance, would give in to her tears. She felt a self-interested remorse, telling herself that this was probably the best way to pacify and please Camille. Like certain pious women who think they can deceive God and gain a pardon by praying with their lips and adopting meek attitudes of penance, Thérèse humbled herself, smote her breast and spoke words of repentance, without having anything more in the depths of her heart but fear and cowardice. Apart from that, she felt a sort of physical pleasure in abandoning herself, feeling soft and broken and offering herself to pain without trying to resist.

  She crushed Mme Raquin with the weight of her tearful despair. She subjected the paralysed woman to daily use, making her a kind of prayer-stool, a piece of furniture before which she could confess her sins without fear and ask for pardon. As soon as she felt the need to weep, or to relieve herself with sobs, she knelt before the cripple and there cried out, panting for breath, playing a scene of remorse all by herself and finding relief in weakness and exhaustion.

  ‘I am a wretch,’ she stammered. ‘I don’t deserve forgiveness. I deceived you, I pushed your son to his death. You will never forgive me ... Yet perhaps if you could see the remorse that is wrenching me apart, if you could know how much I am suffering, then perhaps you would take pity on me ... No, there is no pity for me. I would like to die here at your feet, crushed with shame and sorrow.’

  She would talk in this way for hours on end, swinging from despair to hope, blaming herself, then forgiving herself. She would take on the voice of a sick little girl, now snapping, now pleading. She would lie down on the floor, then get up again, acting according to whatever idea of humility or pride, repentance or revolt came into her head. She would even at times forget that she was kneeling in front of Mme Raquin, and continue her monologue in a dreamlike state. When she had thoroughly numbed herself with her own words, she would stagger to her feet and go back downstairs to the shop, dazed but calm, no longer afraid of bursting into a fit of nervous weeping in front of the customers. When she felt the onset of a new bout of remorse, she hurried back up to kneel, once more, in front of the cripple. And so it went on, ten times a day.

  It never occurred to Thérèse that her tears and the display of her remorse must be imposing the most unspeakable agony on her aunt. The truth is that, if you were to invent a torture to inflict on Mme Raquin, you could surely not find anything more appalling than the dramas of repentance that her niece played out in front of her. The paralysed woman could perceive the egotism behind these outpourings of pain. She suffered agonies listening to these long monologues, which she was obliged constantly to undergo and which repeatedly reminded her of Camille’s murder. She could not forgive; she shut herself into a pitiless idea of vengeance, which her disability made more acute; yet all day she had to hear these pleas for forgiveness, these despicable, cowardly prayers. She would have liked to reply; some things that her niece said brought crushing responses to her lips, but she had to remain silent, allowing Thérèse to plead her case without ever interrupting her. Her inability to cry out or to stop her ears filled her with inexpressible torment. And, one by one, the young woman’s slow, plaintive words sank into her mind, like an annoying tune. For a while, she thought that the murderers were inflicting this sort of torture on her out of sheer, diabolical cruelty. Her only means of defence was to close her eyes as soon as her niece knelt before her: if she could still hear, at least she could not see her.

  Eventually, Thérèse grew bold enough to kiss her aunt. One day, in a fit of repentance, she pretended that she had seen a hint of mercy in the eyes of the paralysed woman. She crawled along on her knees, then got up and cried in a distraught voice: ‘You forgive me! You forgive me!’ After this, she kissed the forehead and cheeks of the poor old woman, who could not move her head away. Thérèse experienced a sharp feeling of disgust as her lips touched the cold flesh, but she decided that this disgust, like the tears and the remorse, would be a fine way to calm her nerves, so she continued to kiss the cripple every day, as a penance and to give herself relief.

  ‘Oh, how good you are!’ she would exclaim at times. ‘I can see that my tears have moved you. Your look is full of pity. I am saved.’

  She would smother her with caresses, put her head on the old woman’s lap, kiss her hands, smile happily at her and care for her with all the signs of passionate affection. After a while, she came to believe in the reality of this play-acting. She imagined that she had received Mme Raquin’s pardon and from then on talked to her only of her happiness at having her forgiveness.

  This was too much for the paralysed woman. It almost killed her. Her niece’s kisses gave her the same bitter feeling of repugnance and fury that filled her every morning and evening when Laurent picked her up to get her out of bed or to lie her down. She was obliged to suffer the foul embraces of the wretched woman who had betrayed and killed her son. She could not even use her hand to wipe off the kisses that this creature left on her cheeks. For hours on end, she would feel these kisses burning her flesh. This is how she became the plaything of Camille’s murderers, a doll whom they dressed, whom they turned to right or left, and used according to their needs and whims. She remained inert in their hands, as if she had only sawdust in her belly, when in fact her guts came to life, anguished and outraged, at the slightest touch of Thérèse or Laurent. What made her most angry was the frightful mockery of this young woman who claimed to be able to read feelings of mercy in her look, when she would have liked with a look to strike the criminal down. She often made immense efforts to give a cry of protest, and put all her hatred into her eyes. But Thérèse, whom it suited to rep
eat twenty times a day that she had been forgiven, refused to guess the truth and smothered her with more caresses. The paralysed woman had to accept effusive thanks that she rejected in her heart. From now on, she lived in a state of complete, bitter and powerless irritation, confronted with this pliant niece who kept trying to demonstrate new signs of affection to reward her aunt for what Thérèse called her ‘celestial goodness’.

  When Laurent was there and his wife knelt before Mme Raquin, he would lift her up roughly.

  ‘Stop play-acting,’ he would say. ‘Am I crying? Am I down on my knees? You’re doing all this to upset me.’

  Thérèse’s remorse disturbed him to a peculiar degree. He was more troubled, now that his accomplice was dragging herself around, her eyes red with tears and her lips full of pleading. The sight of this repentance made flesh and blood increased his uneasiness. It was like an eternal reproach walking around the house. Apart from that, he was afraid that repentance would one day incite his wife to reveal everything. He would have preferred it if she had stayed stiff and threatening, earnestly defending herself against his accusations. But she had changed her approach and now willingly acknowledged her share in the crime, accusing herself, becoming soft and fearful, and using this as a basis to beg for redemption with humble ardour. Laurent was irritated by this attitude. Every evening now, their arguments would take a more damning and sinister turn.

  ‘Listen,’ Thérèse told her husband, ‘we are guilty of a terrible crime, we must repent if we want to have any peace ... Don’t you see, since I started to cry, I have been calmer. Do as I do. Let’s admit together that we are being rightly punished for committing a frightful crime.’

  ‘Pooh!’ Laurent would answer brusquely. ‘Say what you like. I know how devilishly cunning and hypocritical you are. Weep, if that amuses you. But, please, don’t go on at me with your tears.’

  ‘You’re wicked, you are refusing to feel any remorse. But you’re a coward even so. You caught Camille off guard.’

  ‘Are you saying I’m the only one who’s guilty?’

  ‘No, that’s not what I’m saying. I’m guilty, more guilty than you. I should have saved my husband from your hands. Oh, I know the full horror of my sin! But I shall try to obtain forgiveness, Laurent, and I’ll manage it, while you will go on living a life of desolation. You don’t even have the goodness in your heart to spare my aunt the sight of your shameful anger, and you have never spoken a word of regret to her.’

  And she would kiss Mme Raquin, who closed her eyes. Then she would fuss around her, plumping up the pillow behind her head and showering her with affection. This exasperated Laurent.

  ‘Leave her alone,’ he would say. ‘Can’t you see that she hates you caring for her; she hates the sight of you. If she could lift up her hand, she’d slap your face.’

  His wife’s slow, plaintive words, and her attitude of resignation, would gradually drive him into a blind rage. He could see plainly what she was about: she no longer wanted to make common cause with him, but was trying to separate herself in the depth of her remorse, so as to escape the clutches of the drowned man. At times, he would tell himself that she might have chosen the right course, that tears would cure him of his terrors, and he shuddered at the idea of being the only one to suffer and fear. He would like to repent, too, or at least to act out a scene of remorse, just to see. But he could not find the necessary words and sobs, so he would lapse into violence and shake Thérèse in order to irritate her and bring her back to join him in his raging madness. The young woman worked hard at remaining unexcited, responding to his cries of anger with tearful submission and becoming proportionately more humble and repentant as he became rougher. In this way Laurent would be driven to a fury. To put the final touch to his annoyance, Thérèse would start singing Camille’s praises, listing the qualities of the victim.

  ‘He was a good man,’ she said, ‘and we must have been very cruel to lift a hand against that gentle heart, which never had a bad impulse.’

  ‘Oh, yes, he was certainly good,’ Laurent scoffed. ‘What you mean is that he was stupid, don’t you? Have you forgotten? You used to claim that the slightest word from him got on your nerves and that he could not open his mouth without saying something ridiculous.’

  ‘Don’t mock. That’s the last straw, insulting the man you killed. You don’t know anything about a woman’s heart, Laurent. Camille loved me and I loved him.’

  ‘You loved him! Huh! Did you really? That’s new! I suppose it was because you loved your husband that you took me as a lover. I remember the day when you were lying with your head on my chest and saying that Camille made you feel sick when your fingers sank into his flesh, like sinking into clay ... Oh, I can tell you why you loved me. You needed some more sturdy arms than that poor devil had to hold you with.’

  ‘I loved him like a sister. He was the son of my aunt and benefactress. He had all the gentleness of a delicate nature, and would always behave in a way that was noble and generous, helpful and affectionate. And we killed him! My God, my God!’

  She would cry and swoon away. Mme Raquin shot piercing glances at her, indignant at hearing Camille’s praises on such lips. Laurent, powerless against this flood of tears, walked back and forth feverishly, looking for some way of finally crushing Thérèse’s remorse. In the end, all the good that he heard about his victim caused him sharp pangs of anxiety; occasionally, he would really come to believe in Camille’s virtues and this would increase his terror. But what drove him out of his mind and caused him to become violent was the parallel that the drowned man’s widow would inevitably draw between her first and second husbands, entirely to the advantage of the first.

  ‘Why, yes!’ she would exclaim. ‘He was better than you. I would prefer it if he were still alive and you in his place under the ground.’

  At first, Laurent would shrug his shoulders.

  ‘Say what you like,’ she went on, warming to the subject. ‘Perhaps I didn’t love him when he was alive, but now I remember him and I do love him. I love him and hate you, that’s what. You’re a murderer ...’

  ‘Will you be quiet!’ Laurent shouted.

  ‘And he is a victim, a decent man killed by a rogue. Oh, I’m not afraid of you. You know that you’re a wretch, a brute with no heart or soul. How do you expect me to love you, now that you are bathed in Camille’s blood? Camille lavished affection on me and I’d kill you, do you hear, if that could bring him back and restore his love.’

  ‘Shut up, you bitch!’

  ‘Why should I? I’m speaking the truth. I would buy forgiveness at the cost of your blood. Oh, how much I am weeping and suffering! It’s my fault that this scoundrel murdered my husband. One night, I must go and kiss the earth where he lies. That will be the last joy of my flesh.’

  Laurent, driven crazy by these frightful pictures that Thérèse conjured up, flew at her, knocked her down and knelt on her, his fist raised.

  ‘That’s right,’ she cried. ‘Hit me! Kill me! Camille never raised a hand against me, but you are a monster.’

  And Laurent, spurred on by these words, would shake her in his rage, hit her and bruise her body with his clenched fist. On two occasions, he nearly strangled her. Thérèse went limp beneath his blows. She experienced a fierce, bitter pleasure at being struck. She would abandon herself, offer herself up, provoking her husband to hit her again and again. This was another cure for the misery of her life: she would sleep better at night when she had been well beaten in the evening. Mme Raquin experienced an exquisite sense of pleasure when Laurent pulled her niece across the floor in this way, kicking her.

  The murderer’s existence had become truly dreadful since the day when Thérèse had the hellish notion of feeling remorse and openly mourning Camille. From then on, the wretch lived constantly with his victim: at every moment, he had to listen to his wife extolling and bewailing her first husband. The slightest opportunity would set her off: Camille used to do this, Camille used to do that, Camille had th
is quality, Camille loved her in that way. Always Camille, always these sad remarks mourning the death of Camille. Thérèse used all her venom to intensify the cruelty of this torture that she was inflicting on Laurent in order to protect herself. She went into the most intimate details and described the trivial events of her youth with sighs of nostalgia, in this way mingling the memory of the drowned man with every act of her daily routine. The body, which was already haunting the house, was now brought into it openly. It sat on the chairs or at the table, lay down on the bed, and used the furniture or whatever else was lying around. Laurent could not pick up a fork, a brush or anything without Thérèse letting him know that Camille had touched it before him. Constantly running up against the man he had killed, the murderer came to feel an odd sensation that almost drove him mad: through being so often compared to Camille and using things that Camille had used, he came to think that he was Camille; he identified with his victim. His brain was bursting, so he would rush at his wife to make her be quiet, so as not to hear the words that were driving him insane. All their rows would end in blows.

  XXX

  The time came when it occurred to Mme Raquin to let herself die of hunger in order to escape the agony that she had to endure. Her resistance was at an end; she could no longer bear the torment imposed on her by the continual presence of the murderers and she dreamed of finding an end to all her suffering in death. Every day, when Thérèse kissed her, and when Laurent took her in his arms and carried her like a child, her pain intensified. She made up her mind to escape from these caresses and embraces which aroused such horrible repugnance in her. Since she was no longer fully enough alive to revenge her son, she preferred to be entirely dead and leave the killers with nothing except a body, devoid of feeling, which they could treat as they wished.