Therese Raquin: Chapter 12

Chapter 12

Laurent, in the dark corner of the omnibus that took him back to Paris,
continued perfecting his plan. He was almost certain of impunity, and
he felt heavy, anxious joy, the joy of having got over the crime. On
reaching the gate at Clichy, he hailed a cab, and drove to the residence
of old Michaud in the Rue de Seine. It was nine o'clock at night when he
arrived.

He found the former commissary of police at table, in the company of
Olivier and Suzanne. The motive of his visit was to seek protection, in
case he should be suspected, and also to escape breaking the frightful
news to Madame Raquin himself. Such an errand was strangely repugnant to
him. He anticipated encountering such terrible despair that he feared he
would be unable to play his part with sufficient tears. Then the grief
of this mother weighed upon him, although at the bottom of his heart, he
cared but little about it.

When Michaud saw him enter, clothed in coarse-looking garments that were
too tight for him, he questioned him with his eyes, and Laurent gave an
account of the accident in a broken voice, as if exhausted with grief
and fatigue.

"I have come to you," said he in conclusion, "because I do not know what
to do about the two poor women so cruelly afflicted. I dare not go to
the bereaved mother alone, and want you to accompany me."

As he spoke, Olivier looked at him fixedly, and with so straight a
glance that he terrified him. The murderer had flung himself head down
among these people belonging to the police, with an audacity calculated
to save him. But he could not repress a shudder as he felt their eyes
examining him. He saw distrust where there was naught but stupor and
pity.

Suzanne weaker and paled than usual, seemed ready to faint. Olivier, who
was alarmed at the idea of death, but whose heart remained absolutely
cold, made a grimace expressing painful surprise, while by habit
he scrutinised the countenance of Laurent, without having the least
suspicion of the sinister truth. As to old Michaud, he uttered
exclamations of fright, commiseration, and astonishment; he fidgeted
on his chair, joined his hands together, and cast up his eyes to the
ceiling.

"Ah! good heavens," said he in a broken voice, "ah! good heavens, what
a frightful thing! To leave one's home, and die, like that, all of a
sudden. It's horrible. And that poor Madame Raquin, his mother, whatever
shall we say to her? Certainly, you were quite right to come and find
us. We will go with you."

Rising from his seat, he walked hither and thither about the apartment,
stamping with his feet, in search of his hat and walking-stick; and, as
he bustled from corner to corner, he made Laurent repeat the details of
the catastrophe, giving utterance to fresh exclamations at the end of
each sentence.

At last all four went downstairs. On reaching the entrance to the Arcade
of the Pont Neuf, Laurent was stopped by Michaud.

"Do not accompany us any further," said he; "your presence would be a
sort of brutal avowal which must be avoided. The wretched mother would
suspect a misfortune, and this would force us to confess the truth
sooner than we ought to tell it to her. Wait for us here."

This arrangement relieved the murderer, who shuddered at the thought
of entering the shop in the arcade. He recovered his calm, and began
walking up and down the pavement, going and coming, in perfect peace of
mind. At moments, he forgot the events that were passing. He looked at
the shops, whistled between his teeth, turned round to ogle the women
who brushed past him. He remained thus for a full half-hour in the
street, recovering his composure more and more.

He had not eaten since the morning, and feeling hungry he entered a
pastrycook's and stuffed himself with cakes.

A heartrending scene was passing at the shop in the arcade.
Notwithstanding precautions, notwithstanding the soft, friendly
sentences of old Michaud, there came a moment when Madame Raquin
understood that her son had met with misfortune. From that moment,
she insisted on knowing the truth with such a passionate outburst of
despair, with such a violent flow of tears and shrieks, that her old
friend could not avoid giving way to her.

And when she learnt the truth, her grief was tragic. She gave hollow
sobs, she received shocks that threw her backward, in a distracting
attack of terror and anguish. She remained there choking, uttering
from time to time a piercing scream amidst the profound roar of her
affliction. She would have dragged herself along the ground, had not
Suzanne taken her round the waist, weeping on her knees, and raising
her pale countenance towards her. Olivier and his father on their feet,
unnerved and mute, turned aside their heads, being disagreeably affected
at this painful sight which wounded them in their egotism.

The poor mother saw her son rolling along in the thick waters of the
Seine, a rigid and horribly swollen corpse; while at the same time, she
perceived him a babe, in his cradle, when she drove away death bending
over him. She had brought him back into the world on more than ten
occasions; she loved him for all the love she had bestowed on him during
thirty years. And now he had met his death far away from her, all at
once, in the cold and dirty water, like a dog.

Then she remembered the warm blankets in which she had enveloped him.
What care she had taken of her boy! What a tepid temperature he had been
reared in! How she had coaxed and fondled him! And all this to see him
one day miserably drown himself! At these thoughts Madame Raquin felt a
tightening at the throat, and she hoped she was going to die, strangled
by despair.

Old Michaud hastened to withdraw. Leaving Suzanne behind to look after
the mercer, he and Olivier went to find Laurent, so that they might
hurry to Saint-Ouen with all speed.

During the journey, they barely exchanged a few words. Each of them
buried himself in a corner of the cab which jolted along over the
stones. There they remained motionless and mute in the obscurity that
prevailed within the vehicle. Ever and anon a rapid flash from a gas
lamp, cast a bright gleam on their faces. The sinister event that had
brought them together, threw a sort of dismal dejection upon them.

When they at length arrived at the restaurant beside the river, they
found Therese in bed with burning head and hands. The landlord told them
in an undertone, that the young woman had a violent fever. The truth was
that Therese, feeling herself weak in character and wanting in courage,
feared she might confess the crime in one of her nervous attacks, and
had decided to feign illness.

Maintaining sullen silence, she kept her lips and eyes closed, unwilling
to see anyone lest she should speak. With the bedclothes to her chin,
her face half concealed by the pillow, she made herself quite small,
anxiously listening to all that was said around her. And, amidst the
reddish gleam that passed beneath her closed lids, she could still see
Camille and Laurent struggling at the side of the boat. She perceived
her husband, livid, horrible, increased in height, rearing up straight
above the turbid water, and this implacable vision heightened the
feverish heat of her blood.

Old Michaud endeavoured to speak to her and console her. But she made a
movement of impatience, and turning round, broke out into a fresh fit of
sobbing.

"Leave her alone, sir," said the restaurant keeper, "she shudders at the
slightest sound. You see, she wants rest."

Below, in the general room, was a policeman drawing up a statement of
the accident. Michaud and his son went downstairs, followed by Laurent.
When Olivier had made himself known as an upper official at the
Prefecture of Police, everything was over in ten minutes. The boating
men, who were still there, gave an account of the drowning in its
smallest details, describing how the three holiday-makers had fallen
into the water, as if they themselves had witnessed the misfortune. Had
Olivier and his father the least suspicion, it would have been dispelled
at once by this testimony.

But they had not doubted the veracity of Laurent for an instant. On the
contrary, they introduced him to the policeman as the best friend of the
victim, and they were careful to see inserted in the report, that
the young man had plunged into the water to save Camille Raquin. The
following day, the newspapers related the accident with a great display
of detail: the unfortunate mother, the inconsolable widow, the noble and
courageous friend, nothing was missing from this event of the day, which
went the round of the Parisian press, and then found an echo in the
provinces.

When the report was completed, Laurent experienced lively joy, which
penetrated his being like new life. From the moment his victim had
buried his teeth in his neck, he had been as if stiffened, acting
mechanically, according to a plan arranged long in advance. The instinct
of self-preservation alone impelled him, dictating to him his words,
affording him advice as to his gestures.

At this hour, in the face of the certainty of impunity, the blood
resumed flowing in his veins with delicious gentleness. The police had
passed beside his crime, and had seen nothing. They had been duped, for
they had just acquitted him. He was saved. This thought caused him to
experience a feeling of delightful moisture all along his body, a warmth
that restored flexibility to his limbs and to his intelligence. He
continued to act his part of a weeping friend with incomparable science
and assurance. At the bottom of his heart, he felt brutal satisfaction;
and he thought of Therese who was in bed in the room above.

"We cannot leave this unhappy woman here," said he to Michaud. "She is
perhaps threatened with grave illness. We must positively take her back
to Paris. Come, let us persuade her to accompany us."

Upstairs, he begged and prayed of Therese to rise and dress, and allow
herself to be conducted to the Arcade of the Pont Neuf. When the young
woman heard the sound of his voice, she started, and stared at him with
eyes wide open. She seemed as if crazy, and was shuddering. Painfully
she raised herself into a sitting posture without answering. The men
quitted the room, leaving her alone with the wife of the restaurant
keeper. When ready to start, she came downstairs staggering, and was
assisted into the cab by Olivier.

The journey was a silent one. Laurent, with perfect audacity and
impudence, slipped his hand along the skirt of Therese and caught her
fingers. He was seated opposite her, in a floating shadow, and could not
see her face which she kept bowed down on her breast. As soon as he
had grasped her hand, he pressed it vigorously, retaining it until
they reached the Rue Mazarine. He felt the hand tremble; but it was not
withdrawn. On the contrary it ever and anon gave a sudden caress.

These two hands, one in the other, were burning; the moist palms
adhered, and the fingers tightly held together, were hurt at each
pressure. It seemed to Laurent and Therese that the blood from one
penetrated the chest of the other, passing through their joined fists.
These fists became a live fire whereon their lives were boiling. Amidst
the night, amidst the heartrending silence that prevailed, the furious
grips they exchanged, were like a crushing weight cast on the head of
Camille to keep him under water.

When the cab stopped, Michaud and his son got out the first, and Laurent
bending towards his sweetheart gently murmured:

"Be strong, Therese. We have a long time to wait. Recollect."

Then the young woman opened her lips for the first time since the death
of her husband.

"Oh! I shall recollect," said she with a shudder, and in a voice light
as a puff of breath.

Olivier extended his hand, inviting her to get down. On this occasion,
Laurent went as far as the shop. Madame Raquin was abed, a prey to
violent delirium. Therese dragged herself to her room, where Suzanne
had barely time to undress her before she gave way. Tranquillised,
perceiving that everything was proceeding as well as he could wish,
Laurent withdrew, and slowly gained his wretched den in the rue
Saint-Victor.

It was past midnight. Fresh air circulated in the deserted, silent
streets. The young man could hear naught but his own footsteps
resounding on the pavement. The nocturnal coolness of the atmosphere
cheered him up; the silence, the darkness gave him sharp sensations of
delight, and he loitered on his way.

At last he was rid of his crime. He had killed Camille. It was a matter
that was settled, and would be spoken of no more. He was now going to
lead a tranquil existence, until he could take possession of Therese.
The thought of the murder had at times half choked him, but now that it
was accomplished, he felt a weight removed from his chest, and breathed
at ease, cured of the suffering that hesitation and fear had given him.

At the bottom of his heart, he was a trifle hebetated. Fatigue had
rendered his limbs and thoughts heavy. He went in to bed and slept
soundly. During his slumber slight nervous crispations coursed over his
face.

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