prompt:
Chapter: The following nights proved still more cruel. The murderers had wished
to pass this part of the twenty-four hours together, so as to be able
to defend themselves against the drowned man, and by a strange effect,
since they had been doing so, they shuddered the more. They were
exasperated, and their nerves so irritated, that they underwent
atrocious attacks of suffering and terror, at the exchange of a simple
word or look. At the slightest conversation between them, at the least
talk, they had alone, they began raving, and were ready to draw blood.

The sort of remorse Laurent experienced was purely physical. His body,
his irritated nerves and trembling frame alone were afraid of the
drowned man. His conscience was for nothing in his terror. He did not
feel the least regret at having killed Camille. When he was calm, when
the spectre did not happen to be there, he would have committed the
murder over again, had he thought his interests absolutely required it.

During the daytime he laughed at himself for his fright, making up his
mind to be stronger, and he harshly rebuked Therese, whom he accused of
troubling him. According to what he said, it was Therese who shuddered,
it was Therese alone who brought on the frightful scenes, at night, in
the bedroom. And, as soon as night came, as soon as he found himself
shut in with his wife, icy perspiration pearled on his skin, and his
frame shook with childish terror.

He thus underwent intermittent nervous attacks that returned nightly,
and threw his senses into confusion while showing him the hideous
green face of his victim. These attacks resembled the accesses of some
frightful illness, a sort of hysteria of murder. The name of illness,
of nervous affection, was really the only one to give to the terror that
Laurent experienced. His face became convulsed, his limbs rigid, his
nerves could be seen knotting beneath his skin. The body suffered
horribly, while the spirit remained absent. The wretch felt no
repentance. His passion for Therese had conveyed a frightful evil to
him, and that was all.

Therese also found herself a prey to these heavy shocks. But, in her
terror, she showed herself a woman: she felt vague remorse, unavowed
regret. She, at times, had an inclination to cast herself on her knees
and beseech the spectre of Camille to pardon her, while swearing
to appease it by repentance. Maybe Laurent perceived these acts of
cowardice on the part of Therese, for when they were agitated by the
common terror, he laid the blame on her, and treated her with brutality.

On the first nights, they were unable to go to bed. They waited for
daylight, seated before the fire, or pacing to and fro as on the evening
of the wedding-day. The thought of lying down, side by side, on the
bed, caused them a sort of terrifying repugnance. By tacit consent, they
avoided kissing one another, and they did not even look at their couch,
which Therese tumbled about in the morning.

When overcome with fatigue, they slept for an hour or two in the
armchairs, to awaken with a start, under the influence of the sinister
denouement of some nightmare. On awakening, with limbs stiff and tired,
shivering all over with discomfort and cold, their faces marbled with
livid blotches, they contemplated one another in bewilderment, astonished
to see themselves there. And they displayed strange bashfulness towards
each other, ashamed at showing their disgust and terror.

But they struggled against sleep as much as they could. They seated
themselves, one on each side of the chimney, and talked of a thousand
trifles, being very careful not to let the conversation drop. There was
a broad space between them in front of the fire. When they turned their
heads, they imagined that Camille had drawn a chair there, and occupied
this space, warming his feet in a lugubrious, bantering fashion. This
vision, which they had seen on the evening of the wedding-day, returned
each night.

And this corpse taking a mute, but jeering part, in their interviews,
this horribly disfigured body ever remaining there, overwhelmed them
with continued anxiety. Not daring to move, they half blinded themselves
staring at the scorching flames, and, when unable to resist any longer,
they cast a timid glance aside, their eyes irritated by the glowing
coal, created the vision, and conveyed to it a reddish glow.

Laurent, in the end, refused to remain seated any longer, without
avowing the cause of this whim to Therese. The latter understood that he
must see Camille as she saw him; and, in her turn, she declared that
the heat made her feel ill, and that she would be more comfortable a few
steps away from the chimney. Pushing back her armchair to the foot of
the bed, she remained there overcome, while her husband resumed his walk
in the room. From time to time, he opened the window, allowing the icy
air of the cold January night to fill the apartment, and this calmed his
fever.

For a week, the newly-married couple passed the nights in this fashion,
dozing and getting a little rest in the daytime, Therese behind the
counter in the shop, Laurent in his office. At night they belonged to
pain and fear. And the strangest part of the whole business was the
attitude they maintained towards each other. They did not utter one word
of love, but feigned to have forgotten the past; and seemed to accept,
to tolerate one another like sick people, feeling secret pity for their
mutual sufferings.

Both hoped to conceal their disgust and fear, and neither seemed to
think of the peculiar nights they passed, which should have enlightened
them as to the real state of their beings. When they sat up until
morning, barely exchanging a word, turning pale at the least sound, they
looked as if they thought all newly-married folk conducted themselves
in the same way, during the first days of their marriage. This was the
clumsy hypocrisy of two fools.

They were soon so overcome by weariness that they one night decided
to lie on the bed. They did not undress, but threw themselves, as they
were, on the quilt, fearing lest their bare skins should touch, for they
fancied they would receive a painful shock at the least contact. Then,
when they had slept thus, in an anxious sleep, for two nights, they
risked removing their clothes, and slipping between the sheets. But
they remained apart, and took all sorts of precautions so as not to come
together.

Therese got into bed first, and lay down close to the wall. Laurent
waited until she had made herself quite comfortable, and then ventured
to stretch himself out at the opposite edge of the mattress, so that
there was a broad space between them. It was there that the corpse of
Camille lay.

When the two murderers were extended under the same sheet, and had
closed their eyes, they fancied they felt the damp corpse of their
victim, lying in the middle of the bed, and turning their flesh icy
cold. It was like a vile obstacle separating them. They were seized with
fever and delirium, and this obstacle, in their minds, became material.
They touched the corpse, they saw it spread out, like a greenish and
dissolved shred of something, and they inhaled the infectious odour of
this lump of human putrefaction. All their senses were in a state of
hallucination, conveying intolerable acuteness to their sensations.

The presence of this filthy bedfellow kept them motionless, silent,
abstracted with anguish. Laurent, at times, thought of taking Therese
violently in his arms; but he dared not move. He said to himself that he
could not extend his hand, without getting it full of the soft flesh of
Camille. Next he fancied that the drowned man came to sleep between
them so as to prevent them clasping one another, and he ended by
understanding that Camille was jealous.

Nevertheless, ever and anon, they sought to exchange a timid kiss, to
see what would happen. The young man jeered at his wife, and ordered
her to embrace him. But their lips were so cold that it seemed as if
the dead man had got between their mouths. Both felt disgusted. Therese
shuddered with horror, and Laurent who heard her teeth chattering,
railed at her:

"Why are you trembling?" he exclaimed. "Are you afraid of Camille? Ah!
the poor man is as dead as a doornail at this moment."

Both avoided saying what made them shudder. When an hallucination
brought the countenance of the drowned man before Therese, she closed
her eyes, keeping her terror to herself, not daring to speak to her
husband of her vision, lest she should bring on a still more terrible
crisis. And it was just the same with Laurent. When driven to
extremities, he, in a fit of despair, accused Therese of being afraid
of Camille. The name, uttered aloud, occasioned additional anguish. The
murderer raved.

"Yes, yes," he stammered, addressing the young woman, "you are afraid of
Camille. I can see that plain enough! You are a silly thing, you have
no pluck at all. Look here! just go to sleep quietly. Do you think your
husband will come and pull you out of bed by the heels, because I happen
to be sleeping with you?"

This idea that the drowned man might come and pull them out of bed by
the heels, made the hair of Laurent stand on end, and he continued with
greater violence, while still in the utmost terror himself.

"I shall have to take you some night to the cemetery. We will open the
coffin Camille is in, and you will see what he looks like! Then you will
perhaps cease being afraid. Go on, he doesn't know we threw him in the
water."

Therese with her head under the bedclothes, was uttering smothered
groans.

"We threw him into the water, because he was in our way," resumed her
husband. "And we'll throw him in again, will we not? Don't act like a
child. Show a little strength. It's silly to trouble our happiness. You
see, my dear, when we are dead and underground, we shall be neither less
nor more happy, because we cast an idiot in the Seine, and we shall have
freely enjoyed our love which will have been an advantage. Come, give me
a kiss."

The young woman kissed him, but she was icy cold, and half crazy, while
he shuddered as much as she did.

For a fortnight Laurent was asking himself how he could kill Camille
again. He had flung him in the water; and yet he was not dead enough,
because he came every night to sleep in the bed of Therese. While the
murderers thought that having committed the crime, they could love one
another in peace, their resuscitated victim arrived to make their touch
like ice. Therese was not a widow. Laurent found that he was mated to a
woman who already had a drowned man for husband.

Little by little, Laurent became furiously mad, and resolved to drive
Camille from his bed. He had first of all slept with his clothes on,
then he had avoided touching Therese. In rage and despair, he wanted, at
last, to take his wife in his arms, and crush the spectre of his victim
rather than leave her to it. This was a superb revolt of brutality.

The hope that the kisses of Therese would cure him of his insomnia, had
alone brought him into the room of the young woman. When he had found
himself there, in the position of master, he had become a prey to such
atrocious attacks, that it had not even occurred to him to attempt
the cure. And he had remained overwhelmed for three weeks, without
remembering that he had done everything to obtain Therese, and now that
she was in his possession, he could not touch her without increased
suffering.

His excessive anguish drew him from this state of dejection. In
the first moment of stupor, amid the strange discouragement of the
wedding-night, he had forgotten the reasons that had urged him to marry.
But his repeated bad dreams had aroused in him a feeling of sullen
irritation, which triumphed over his cowardice, and restored his memory.
He remembered he had married in order to drive away nightmare, by
pressing his wife closely to his breast. Then, one night, he abruptly
took Therese in his arms, and, at the risk of passing over the corpse of
the drowned man, drew her violently to him.

The young woman, who was also driven to extremes, would have cast
herself into the fire had she thought that flames would have purified
her flesh, and delivered her from her woe. She returned Laurent his
advances, determined to be either consumed by the caresses of this man,
or to find relief in them.

And they clasped one another in a hideous embrace. Pain and horror took
the place of love. When their limbs touched, it was like falling on live
coal. They uttered a cry, pressing still closer together, so as not
to leave room for the drowned man. But they still felt the shreds of
Camille, which were ignobly squeezed between them, freezing their skins
in parts, whilst in others they were burning hot.

Their kisses were frightfully cruel. Therese sought the bite
that Camille had given in the stiff, swollen neck of Laurent, and
passionately pressed her lips to it. There was the raw sore; this wound
once healed, and the murderers would sleep in peace. The young woman
understood this, and she endeavoured to cauterise the bad place with the
fire of her caresses. But she scorched her lips, and Laurent thrust her
violently away, giving a dismal groan. It seemed to him that she was
pressing a red-hot iron to his neck. Therese, half mad, came back.
She wanted to kiss the scar again. She experienced a keenly voluptuous
sensation in placing her mouth on this piece of skin wherein Camille had
buried his teeth.

At one moment she thought of biting her husband in the same place, of
tearing away a large piece of flesh, of making a fresh and deeper wound,
that would remove the trace of the old one. And she said to herself that
she would no more turn pale when she saw the marks of her own teeth.
But Laurent shielded his neck from her kisses. The smarting pain he
experienced was too acute, and each time his wife presented her lips, he
pushed her back. They struggled in this manner with a rattling in their
throats, writhing in the horror of their caresses.

They distinctly felt that they only increased their suffering. They
might well strain one another in these terrible clasps, they cried out
with pain, they burnt and bruised each other, but were unable to calm
their frightfully excited nerves. Each strain rendered their disgust
more intense. While exchanging these ghastly embraces, they were a prey
to the most terrible hallucinations, imagining that the drowned man was
dragging them by the heels, and violently jerking the bedstead.

For a moment they let one another go, feeling repugnance and invincible
nervous agitation. Then they determined not to be conquered. They
clasped each other again in a fresh embrace, and once more were obliged
to separate, for it seemed as if red-hot bradawls were entering their
limbs. At several intervals they attempted in this way to overcome their
disgust, by tiring, by wearing out their nerves. And each time their
nerves became irritated and strained, causing them such exasperation,
that they would perhaps have died of enervation had they remained in the
arms of one another. This battle against their own bodies excited them
to madness, and they obstinately sought to gain the victory. Finally,
a more acute crisis exhausted them. They received a shock of such
incredible violence that they thought they were about to have a fit.

Cast back one on each side of the bed, burning and bruised, they began
to sob. And amidst their tears, they seemed to hear the triumphant
laughter of the drowned man, who again slid, chuckling, under the sheet.
They had been unable to drive him from the bed and were vanquished.
Camille gently stretched himself between them, whilst Laurent deplored
his want of power to thrust him away, and Therese trembled lest the
corpse should have the idea of taking advantage of the victory to press
her, in his turn, in his arms, in the quality of legitimate master.

They had made a supreme effort. In face of their defeat, they understood
that, in future, they dared not exchange the smallest kiss. What they
had attempted, in order to drive away their terror, had plunged them
into greater fright. And, as they felt the chill of the corpse, which
was now to separate them for ever, they shed bitter tears, asking
themselves, with anguish, what would become of them.

In accordance with the hopes of old Michaud, when doing his best to
bring about the marriage of Therese 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 Therese, 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 Therese, 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. Therese 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 Therese 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 Therese, 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.

Therese 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 Therese 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 Therese,
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 Therese, the
latter experienced a beneficent chill in the marrow of her bones.

Therese 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. Therese 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. Therese 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 Therese 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 Therese 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, Therese 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 Therese 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. Therese 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.

At the expiration of four months, Laurent thought of taking advantage
of the profit he had calculated on deriving from his marriage. He would
have abandoned his wife, and fled from the spectre of Camille, three
days after the wedding, had not his interest detained him at the shop in
the arcade. He accepted his nights of terror, he remained in the anguish
that was choking him, so as not to be deprived of the benefit of his
crime.

If he parted from Therese, he would again be plunged in poverty, and
be forced to retain his post; by remaining with her, he would, on the
contrary, be able to satisfy his inclination for idleness, and to live
liberally, doing nothing, on the revenue Madame Raquin had placed in the
name of his wife. Very likely he would have fled with the 40,000 francs,
had he been able to realise them; but the old mercer, on the advice of
Michaud, had shown the prudence to protect the interests of her niece in
the marriage contract.

Laurent, in this manner, found himself attached to Therese by a powerful
bond. As a set-off against his atrocious nights, he determined at least
to be kept in blissful laziness, well fed, warmly clothed, and provided
with the necessary cash in his pocket to satisfy his whims. At this
price alone, would he consent to sleep with the corpse of the drowned
man.

One evening, he announced to Madame Raquin and his wife that he had sent
in his resignation, and would quit his office at the end of a fortnight.
Therese gave a gesture of anxiety. He hastened to add that he intended
taking a small studio where he would go on with his painting. He spoke
at length about the annoyance of his employment, and the broad horizons
that Art opened to him. Now that he had a few sous and could make a
bid for success, he wished to see whether he was not capable of great
achievements.

The speech he made on this subject simply concealed a ferocious desire
to resume his former studio life. Therese sat with pinched lips without
replying; she had no idea of allowing Laurent to squander the small
fortune that assured her liberty. When her husband pressed her with
questions in view of obtaining her consent, she answered curtly, giving
him to understand that if he left his office, he would no longer be
earning any money, and would be living entirely at her expense.

But, as she spoke, Laurent observed her so keenly, that he troubled her,
and arrested on her lips the refusal she was about to utter. She fancied
she read in the eyes of her accomplice, this menacing threat:

"If you do not consent, I shall reveal everything."

She began to stammer, and Madame Raquin exclaimed that the desire of her
dear son was no more than what was just, and that they must give him the
means to become a man of talent. The good lady spoilt Laurent as she had
spoilt Camille. Quite mollified by the caresses the young man lavished
on her, she belonged to him, and never failed to take his part.

It was therefore decided that Laurent should have a studio, and receive
one hundred francs a month pocket-money. The budget of the family was
arranged in this way: the profits realised in the mercery business would
pay the rent of the shop and apartment, and the balance would almost
suffice for the daily expenses of the family; Laurent would receive the
rent of his studio and his one hundred francs a month, out of the two
thousand and a few hundred francs income from the funded money, the
remainder going into the general purse. In that way the capital would
remain intact. This arrangement somewhat tranquillised Therese, who
nevertheless made her husband swear that he would never go beyond the
sum allowed him. But as to that matter, she said to herself that Laurent
could not get possession of the 40,000 francs without her signature, and
she was thoroughly determined that she would never place her name to any
document.

On the morrow, Laurent took a small studio in the lower part of the Rue
Mazarine, which his eye had been fixed on for a month. He did not mean
to leave his office without having a refuge where he could quietly pass
his days far away from Therese. At the end of the fortnight, he bade
adieu to his colleagues. Grivet was stupefied at his departure. A young
man, said he, who had such a brilliant future before him, a young man
who in the space of four years, had reached a salary that he, Grivet,
had taken twenty years to attain! Laurent stupefied him still more, when
he told him he was going to give his whole time to painting.

At last the artist installed himself in his studio, which was a sort
of square loft about seven or eight yards long by the same breadth. The
ceiling which inclined abruptly in a rapid slope, was pierced by a large
window conveying a white raw light to the floor and blackish walls.
The sounds in the street did not ascend so high. This silent, wan room,
opening above on the sky, resembled a hole, or a vault dug out of grey
clay. Laurent furnished the place anywise; he brought a couple of chairs
with holes in the rush seats, a table that he set against the wall so
that it might not slip down, an old kitchen dresser, his colour-box and
easel; all the luxury in the place consisted of a spacious divan which
he purchased for thirty francs from a second-hand dealer.

He remained a fortnight without even thinking of touching his brushes.
He arrived between eight and nine o'clock in the morning, smoked,
stretched himself on the divan, and awaited noon, delighted that it was
morning, and that he had many hours of daylight before him. At twelve
he went to lunch. As soon as the meal was over, he hastened back, to be
alone, and get away from the pale face of Therese. He next went through
the process of digestion, sleeping spread out on the divan until
evening. His studio was an abode of peace where he did not tremble. One
day his wife asked him if she might visit this dear refuge. He refused,
and as, notwithstanding his refusal, she came and knocked at the door,
he refrained from opening to her, telling her in the evening that he
had spent the day at the Louvre Museum. He was afraid that Therese might
bring the spectre of Camille with her.

Idleness ended by weighing heavily on his shoulders, so he purchased a
canvas and colours, and set to work. As he had not sufficient money to
pay models, he resolved to paint according to fancy, without troubling
about nature, and he began the head of a man.

But at this time, he did not shut himself up so much as he had done;
he worked for two or three hours every morning and passed the afternoon
strolling hither and thither in Paris and its vicinity. It was opposite
the Institut, on his return from one of these long walks, that he
knocked up against his old college friend, who had met with a nice
little success, thanks to the good fellowship of his comrades, at the
last Salon.

"What, is it you?" exclaimed the painter. "Ah! my poor Laurent, I hardly
recognise you. You have lost flesh."

"I am married," answered Laurent in an embarrassed tone.

"Married, you!" said the other. "Then I am not surprised to see you look
so funny: and what are you doing now?"

"I have taken a small studio," replied Laurent; "and I paint a little,
in the morning."

Then, in a feverish voice, he briefly related the story of his marriage,
and explained his future plans. His friend observed him with an air
of astonishment that troubled and alarmed him. The truth was that the
painter no longer found in the husband of Therese, the coarse, common
fellow he had known formerly. It seemed to him that Laurent was
acquiring a gentlemanly bearing; his face had grown thinner, and had
taken the pale tint of good taste, while his whole frame looked more
upright and supple.

"But you are becoming a handsome chap," the artist could not refrain
from exclaiming. "You are dressed like an ambassador, in the latest
style. Who's your model?"

Laurent, who felt the weight of the examination he was undergoing, did
not dare to abruptly take himself off.

"Will you come up to my studio for a moment?" he at last asked his
friend, who showed no signs of leaving him.

"Willingly," answered the latter.

The painter, who could not understand the change he noticed in his old
comrade, was anxious to visit his studio. He had no idea of climbing
five floors to gaze on the new pictures of Laurent, which assuredly
would disgust him; he merely wished to satisfy his curiosity.

When he had reached the studio, and had glanced at the canvases hanging
against the walls, his astonishment redoubled. They comprised five
studies, two heads of women, and three of men painted with real vigour.
They looked thick and substantial, each part being dashed off with
magnificent dabs of colour on a clear grey background. The artist
quickly approached, and was so astounded that he did not even seek to
conceal his amazement.

"Did you do those?" he inquired of Laurent.

"Yes," replied the latter. "They are studies that I intend to utilise in
a large picture I am preparing."

"Come, no humbug, are you really the author of those things?"

"Eh! Yes. Why should I not be the author of them?"

The painter did not like to answer what he thought, which was as
follows:

"Because those canvases are the work of an artist, and you have never
been anything but a vile bungler."

For a long time, he remained before the studies in silence. Certainly
they were clumsy, but they were original, and so powerfully executed
that they indicated a highly developed idea of art. They were life-like.
Never had this friend of Laurent seen rough painting so full of high
promise. When he had examined all the canvases, he turned to the author
of them and said:

"Well, frankly, I should never have thought you capable of painting like
that. Where the deuce did you learn to have talent? It is not usually a
thing that one acquires."

And he considered Laurent, whose voice appeared to him more gentle,
while every gesture he made had a sort of elegance. The artist had
no idea of the frightful shock this man had received, and which had
transformed him, developing in him the nerves of a woman, along with
keen, delicate sensations. No doubt a strange phenomenon had been
accomplished in the organism of the murderer of Camille. It is difficult
for analysis to penetrate to such depths. Laurent had, perhaps, become
an artist as he had become afraid, after the great disorder that had
upset his frame and mind.

Previously, he had been half choked by the fulness of his blood, blinded
by the thick vapour of breath surrounding him. At present, grown
thin, and always shuddering, his manner had become anxious, while he
experienced the lively and poignant sensations of a man of nervous
temperament. In the life of terror that he led, his mind had grown
delirious, ascending to the ecstasy of genius. The sort of moral malady,
the neurosis wherewith all his being was agitated, had developed an
artistic feeling of peculiar lucidity. Since he had killed, his frame
seemed lightened, his distracted mind appeared to him immense; and, in
this abrupt expansion of his thoughts, he perceived exquisite creations,
the reveries of a poet passing before his eyes. It was thus that his
gestures had suddenly become elegant, that his works were beautiful, and
were all at once rendered true to nature, and life-like.

The friend did not seek further to fathom the mystery attending this
birth of the artist. He went off carrying his astonishment along with
him. But before he left, he again gazed at the canvases and said to
Laurent:

"I have only one thing to reproach you with: all these studies have
a family likeness. The five heads resemble each other. The women,
themselves, have a peculiarly violent bearing that gives them the
appearance of men in disguise. You will understand that if you desire
to make a picture out of these studies, you must change some of the
physiognomies; your personages cannot all be brothers, or brothers and
sisters, it would excite hilarity."

He left the studio, and on the landing merrily added:

"Really, my dear boy, I am very pleased to have seen you. Henceforth, I
shall believe in miracles. Good heavens! How highly respectable you do
look!"

As he went downstairs, Laurent returned to the studio, feeling very much
upset. When his friend had remarked that all his studies of heads bore
a family likeness, he had abruptly turned round to conceal his paleness.
The fact was that he had already been struck by this fatal resemblance.
Slowly entering the room, he placed himself before the pictures, and
as he contemplated them, as he passed from one to the other, ice-like
perspiration moistened his back.

"He is quite right," he murmured, "they all resemble one another. They
resemble Camille."

He retired a step or two, and seated himself on the divan, unable to
remove his eyes from the studies of heads. The first was an old man with
a long white beard; and under this white beard, the artist traced the
lean chin of Camille. The second represented a fair young girl, who
gazed at him with the blue eyes of his victim. Each of the other three
faces presented a feature of the drowned man. It looked like Camille
with the theatrical make-up of an old man, of a young girl, assuming
whatever disguise it pleased the painter to give him, but still
maintaining the general expression of his own countenance.

There existed another terrible resemblance among these heads: they all
appeared suffering and terrified, and seemed as though overburdened with
the same feeling of horror. Each of them had a slight wrinkle to the
left of the mouth, which drawing down the lips, produced a grimace. This
wrinkle, which Laurent remembered having noticed on the convulsed face
of the drowned man, marked them all with a sign of vile relationship.

Laurent understood that he had taken too long a look at Camille at the
Morgue. The image of the drowned man had become deeply impressed on his
mind; and now, his hand, without his being conscious of it, never failed
to draw the lines of this atrocious face which followed him everywhere.

Little by little, the painter, who was allowing himself to fall back
on the divan, fancied he saw the faces become animated. He had five
Camilles before him, five Camilles whom his own fingers had powerfully
created, and who, by terrifying peculiarity were of various ages and of
both sexes. He rose, he lacerated the pictures and threw them outside.
He said to himself that he would die of terror in his studio, were he to
people it with portraits of his victim.

A fear had just come over him: he dreaded that he would no more be able
to draw a head without reproducing that of the drowned man. He wished to
ascertain, at once, whether he were master of his own hand. He placed a
white canvas on his easel; and, then, with a bit of charcoal, sketched
out a face in a few lines. The face resembled Camille. Laurent swiftly
effaced this drawing and tried another.

For an hour he struggled against futility, which drove along his
fingers. At each fresh attempt, he went back to the head of the drowned
man. He might indeed assert his will, and avoid the lines he knew so
well. In spite of himself, he drew those lines, he obeyed his muscles
and his rebellious nerves. He had first of all proceeded rapidly with
his sketches; he now took pains to pass the stick of charcoal slowly
over the canvas. The result was the same: Camille, grimacing and in
pain, appeared ceaselessly.

The artist sketched the most different heads successively: the heads of
angels, of virgins with aureoles, of Roman warriors with their helmets,
of fair, rosy children, of old bandits seamed with scars; and the
drowned man always, always reappeared; he became, in turn, angel,
virgin, warrior, child and bandit.

Then, Laurent plunged into caricature: he exaggerated the features,
he produced monstrous profiles, he invented grotesque heads, but
only succeeded in rendering the striking portrait of his victim more
horrible. He finished by drawing animals, dogs and cats; but even the
dogs and cats vaguely resembled Camille.

Laurent then became seized with sullen rage. He smashed the canvas with
his fist, thinking in despair of his great picture. Now, he must put
that idea aside; he was convinced that, in future, he would draw nothing
but the head of Camille, and as his friend had told him, faces all alike
would cause hilarity. He pictured to himself what his work would have
been, and perceived upon the shoulders of his personages, men and women,
the livid and terrified face of the drowned man. The strange picture he
thus conjured up, appeared to him atrociously ridiculous and exasperated
him.

He no longer dared to paint, always dreading that he would resuscitate
his victim at the least stroke of his brush. If he desired to live
peacefully in his studio he must never paint there. This thought that
his fingers possessed the fatal and unconscious faculty of reproducing
without end the portrait of Camille, made him observe his hand in
terror. It seemed to him that his hand no longer belonged to him.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Instead of fighting off Camille's ghostly presence, Therese and Laurent sink deeper and deeper into their state of maddened despair. Now, both of them succumb to the worst aspects of Therese's temperament: her over-sensitivity, fretfulness, and neuroses. Morality plays no part in these disturbances; rather, animalistic fear drives these two contrasting personalities to the breaking point. For a week, Laurent and Therese are afflicted with insomnia. Even though all their affection for one another is gone, weariness at last drives them to take to the same bed and attempt to sleep. They wear their clothes under the sheets, and whenever they try to ease their wretchedness by exchanging a touch or a kiss, they find themselves pulling back in revulsion. Despite his own weakened and pitiful state, Laurent urges Therese to be strong and courageous. He asks himself how he can finally drive away Camille's influence. Harrowed and distraught, Laurent and Therese try a new desperate tactic to drive away Camille's corpse. Laurent grasps Therese while they are sleeping, and the two exchange ferocious kisses and engage in vicious, exhausting intercourse. But when they are done, husband and wife burst into hopeless tears. They know that Camille's ghastly, vengeful body will occupy their bed, and they sorrowfully wonder what will become of them. Meanwhile, Grivet and Old Michaud are thoroughly delighted by the marriage of Therese and Laurent. The two men had been depressed by the somber mood of the Thursday gatherings after Camille's death, and had feared that the Raquins might leave Paris altogether. Surprisingly, Therese is content to see the Thursday evenings continue. Her real moments of torture are the moments when she is with Laurent, and anything that allows her to be distracted from his presence is thoroughly welcome. Laurent's feelings towards Therese are much the same. Because Therese and Laurent are most afraid of their wedding chamber and of each other's company, they begin to attend to Mme Raquin and find relief in her constant stream of chatter. Yet this form of relief may not last long, since Mme Raquin is gradually being overtaken by paralysis. Therese and Laurent fear the day when her talk will no longer be there to distract them. Despite these constant anxieties, the couple manages to deceive the Thursday evening guests, sometimes without trying; Grivet, for instance, jokes that the bags under Therese's eyes are due to all-night lovemaking, never suspecting the horrible truth. It takes four months of inertia, marked by psychological torture, before Laurent decides to cash in on his marriage and secure a few lasting benefits. In a move that shocks the veteran office worker Grivet, Laurent leaves his job with the Railway, rents a studio, and decides to pursue the leisurely life of an artist. Mme Raquin agrees to Laurent's new plan and Therese welcomes it as a way of removing her husband's hated presence from her life, at least intermittently. Laurent paints not as a career, but as a diversion. One day as he is walking along, he meets an old friend who has met with real critical success in the world of art. He invites the friend to the studio, and this acquaintance - remembering Laurent's lack of talent but still eager to satisfy his curiosity - accompanies Laurent. As soon as Laurent shows his recent figure paintings, the friend is reduced to disbelieving astonishment. Now, miraculously, Laurent has obtained sound painting techniques and evinces real inspiration. The friend expresses his admiration, but also makes one constructive criticism: all of the faces that Laurent has painted look the same. When the friend is gone, Laurent re-examines his canvases. It is true; all his figures, in fact, look just like Camille. In a frenzy, Laurent tries to paint a new figure that will not resemble the drowned man - trying girls, caricatures, even cats and dogs. It is no use. He stops his feverish drawing and, in despair, realizes that he will never escape these vestiges of Camille.