Chapter: Therese also had been visited by the spectre of Camille, during this
feverish night.

After over a year of indifference, Laurent's sudden attentions had
aroused her senses. As she tossed herself about in insomnia, she had
seen the drowned man rise up before her; like Laurent she had writhed
in terror, and she had said as he had done, that she would no longer be
afraid, that she would no more experience such sufferings, when she had
her sweetheart in her arms.

This man and woman had experienced at the same hour, a sort of nervous
disorder which set them panting with terror. A consanguinity had become
established between them. They shuddered with the same shudder; their
hearts in a kind of poignant friendship, were wrung with the same
anguish. From that moment they had one body and one soul for enjoyment
and suffering.

This communion, this mutual penetration is a psychological and
physiological phenomenon which is often found to exist in beings who
have been brought into violent contact by great nervous shocks.

For over a year, Therese and Laurent lightly bore the chain riveted to
their limbs that united them. In the depression succeeding the acute
crisis of the murder, amidst the feelings of disgust, and the need for
calm and oblivion that had followed, these two convicts might fancy they
were free, that they were no longer shackled together by iron fetters.
The slackened chain dragged on the ground. They reposed, they found
themselves struck with a sort of delightful insensibility, they sought
to love elsewhere, to live in a state of wise equilibrium. But from
the day when urged forward by events, they came to the point of again
exchanging burning sentences, the chain became violently strained, and
they received such a shock, that they felt themselves for ever linked to
one another.

The day following this first attack of nightmare, Therese secretly set
to work to bring about her marriage with Laurent. It was a difficult
task, full of peril. The sweethearts trembled lest they should commit an
imprudence, arouse suspicions, and too abruptly reveal the interest they
had in the death of Camille.

Convinced that they could not mention marriage themselves, they arranged
a very clever plan which consisted in getting Madame Raquin herself, and
the Thursday evening guests, to offer them what they dared not ask for.
It then only became necessary to convey to these worthy people the idea
of remarrying Therese, and particularly to make them believe that this
idea originated with themselves, and was their own.

The comedy was long and delicate to perform. Therese and Laurent
took the parts adapted to them, and proceeded with extreme prudence,
calculating the slightest gesture, and the least word. At the bottom
of their hearts, they were devoured by a feeling of impatience that
stiffened and strained their nerves. They lived in a state of constant
irritation, and it required all their natural cowardice to compel them
to show a smiling and peaceful exterior.

If they yearned to bring the business to an end, it was because they
could no longer remain separate and solitary. Each night, the drowned
man visited them, insomnia stretched them on beds of live coal and
turned them over with fiery tongs. The state of enervation in which they
lived, nightly increased the fever of their blood, which resulted in
atrocious hallucinations rising up before them.

Therese no longer dared enter her room after dusk. She experienced the
keenest anguish, when she had to shut herself until morning in this
large apartment, which became lit-up with strange glimmers, and peopled
with phantoms as soon as the light was out. She ended by leaving her
candle burning, and by preventing herself falling asleep, so as to
always have her eyes wide open. But when fatigue lowered her lids, she
saw Camille in the dark, and reopened her eyes with a start. In the
morning she dragged herself about, broken down, having only slumbered
for a few hours at dawn.

As to Laurent, he had decidedly become a poltroon since the night he
had taken fright when passing before the cellar door. Previous to that
incident he had lived with the confidence of a brute; now, at the least
sound, he trembled and turned pale like a little boy. A shudder of
terror had suddenly shaken his limbs, and had clung to him. At night,
he suffered even more than Therese; and fright, in this great, soft,
cowardly frame, produced profound laceration to the feelings. He watched
the fall of day with cruel apprehension. On several occasions, he failed
to return home, and passed whole nights walking in the middle of the
deserted streets.

Once he remained beneath a bridge, until morning, while the rain poured
down in torrents; and there, huddled up, half frozen, not daring to rise
and ascend to the quay, he for nearly six hours watched the dirty water
running in the whitish shadow. At times a fit of terror brought him flat
down on the damp ground: under one of the arches of the bridge he seemed
to see long lines of drowned bodies drifting along in the current. When
weariness drove him home, he shut himself in, and double-locked the
door. There he struggled until daybreak amidst frightful attacks of
fever.

The same nightmare returned persistently: he fancied he fell from
the ardent clasp of Therese into the cold, sticky arms of Camille. He
dreamt, first of all, that his sweetheart was stifling him in a warm
embrace, and then that the corpse of the drowned man pressed him to his
chest in an ice-like strain. These abrupt and alternate sensations of
voluptuousness and disgust, these successive contacts of burning love
and frigid death, set him panting for breath, and caused him to shudder
and gasp in anguish.

Each day, the terror of the lovers increased, each day their attacks of
nightmare crushed and maddened them the more. They no longer relied on
their kisses to drive away insomnia. By prudence, they did not dare
make appointments, but looked forward to their wedding-day as a day of
salvation, to be followed by an untroubled night.

It was their desire for calm slumber that made them wish for their
union. They had hesitated during the hours of indifference, both being
oblivious of the egotistic and impassioned reasons that had urged them
to the crime, and which were now dispelled. It was in vague despair that
they took the supreme resolution to unite openly. At the bottom of their
hearts they were afraid. They had leant, so to say, one on the other
above an unfathomable depth, attracted to it by its horror. They
bent over the abyss together, clinging silently to one another, while
feelings of intense giddiness enfeebled their limbs and gave them
falling madness.

But at the present moment, face to face with their anxious expectation
and timorous desires, they felt the imperative necessity of closing
their eyes, and of dreaming of a future full of amorous felicity and
peaceful enjoyment. The more they trembled one before the other, the
better they foresaw the horror of the abyss to the bottom of which
they were about to plunge, and the more they sought to make promises
of happiness to themselves, and to spread out before their eyes the
invincible facts that fatally led them to marriage.

Therese desired her union with Laurent solely because she was afraid
and wanted a companion. She was a prey to nervous attacks that drove her
half crazy. In reality she reasoned but little, she flung herself into
love with a mind upset by the novels she had recently been reading,
and a frame irritated by the cruel insomnia that had kept her awake for
several weeks.

Laurent, who was of a stouter constitution, while giving way to his
terror and his desire, had made up his mind to reason out his decision.
To thoroughly prove to himself that his marriage was necessary, that
he was at last going to be perfectly happy, and to drive away the vague
fears that beset him, he resumed all his former calculations.

His father, the peasant of Jeufosse, seemed determined not to die, and
Laurent said to himself that he might have to wait a long time for the
inheritance. He even feared that this inheritance might escape him, and
go into the pockets of one of his cousins, a great big fellow who turned
the soil over to the keen satisfaction of the old boy. And he would
remain poor; he would live the life of a bachelor in a garret, with a
bad bed and a worse table. Besides, he did not contemplate working all
his life; already he began to find his office singularly tedious. The
light labour entrusted to him became irksome owing to his laziness.

The invariable result of these reflections was that supreme happiness
consisted in doing nothing. Then he remembered that if he had drowned
Camille, it was to marry Therese, and work no more. Certainly, the
thought of having his sweetheart all to himself had greatly influenced
him in committing the crime, but he had perhaps been led to it still
more, by the hope of taking the place of Camille, of being looked after
in the same way, and of enjoying constant beatitude. Had passion alone
urged him to the deed, he would not have shown such cowardice and
prudence. The truth was that he had sought by murder to assure himself a
calm, indolent life, and the satisfaction of his cravings.

All these thoughts, avowedly or unconsciously, returned to him. To find
encouragement, he repeated that it was time to gather in the harvest
anticipated by the death of Camille, and he spread out before him the
advantages and blessings of his future existence: he would leave his
office, and live in delicious idleness; he would eat, drink and sleep to
his heart's content; he would have an affectionate wife beside him; and,
he would shortly inherit the 40,000 francs and more of Madame Raquin,
for the poor old woman was dying, little by little, every day; in a
word, he would carve out for himself the existence of a happy brute, and
would forget everything.

Laurent mentally repeated these ideas at every moment, since his
marriage with Therese had been decided on. He also sought other
advantages that would result therefrom, and felt delighted when he found
a new argument, drawn from his egotism, in favour of his union with the
widow of the drowned man. But however much he forced himself to hope,
however much he dreamed of a future full of idleness and pleasure, he
never ceased to feel abrupt shudders that gave his skin an icy chill,
while at moments he continued to experience an anxiety that stifled his
joy in his throat.



In the meanwhile, the secret work of Therese and Laurent was productive
of results. The former had assumed a woeful and despairing demeanour
which at the end of a few days alarmed Madame Raquin. When the old
mercer inquired what made her niece so sad, the young woman played the
part of an inconsolable widow with consummate skill. She spoke in a
vague manner of feeling weary, depressed, of suffering from her nerves,
without making any precise complaint. When pressed by her aunt with
questions, she replied that she was well, that she could not imagine
what it was that made her so low-spirited, and that she shed tears
without knowing why.

Then, the constant choking fits of sobbing, the wan, heartrending
smiles, the spells of crushing silence full of emptiness and despair,
continued.

The sight of this young woman who was always giving way to her grief,
who seemed to be slowly dying of some unknown complaint, ended by
seriously alarming Madame Raquin. She had, now, no one in the whole
world but her niece, and she prayed the Almighty every night to preserve
her this relative to close her eyes. A little egotism was mingled with
this final love of her old age. She felt herself affected in the slight
consolations that still assisted her to live, when it crossed her mind
that she might die alone in the damp shop in the arcade. From that time,
she never took her eyes off her niece, and it was with terror that she
watched her sadness, wondering what she could do to cure her of her
silent despair.

Under these grave circumstances, she thought she ought to take the
advice of her old friend Michaud. One Thursday evening, she detained him
in the shop, and spoke to him of her alarm.

"Of course," answered the old man, with that frank brutality he had
acquired in the performance of his former functions, "I have noticed for
some time past that Therese has been looking sour, and I know very well
why her face is quite yellow and overspread with grief."

"You know why!" exclaimed the widow. "Speak out at once. If we could
only cure her!"

"Oh! the treatment is simple," resumed Michaud with a laugh. "Your niece
finds life irksome because she had been alone for nearly two years. She
wants a husband; you can see that in her eyes."

The brutal frankness of the former commissary, gave Madame Raquin a
painful shock. She fancied that the wound Therese had received through
the fatal accident at Saint-Ouen, was still as fresh, still as cruel
at the bottom of her heart. It seemed to her that her son, once dead,
Therese could have no thought for a husband, and here was Michaud
affirming, with a hearty laugh, that Therese was out of sorts because
she wanted one.

"Marry her as soon as you can," said he, as he took himself off, "if you
do not wish to see her shrivel up entirely. That is my advice, my dear
lady, and it is good, believe me."

Madame Raquin could not, at first, accustom herself to the thought that
her son was already forgotten. Old Michaud had not even pronounced
the name of Camille, and had made a joke of the pretended illness of
Therese. The poor mother understood that she alone preserved at the
bottom of her heart, the living recollection of her dear child, and she
wept, for it seemed to her that Camille had just died a second time.

Then, when she had had a good cry, and was weary of mourning, she
thought, in spite of herself, of what Michaud had said, and became
familiar with the idea of purchasing a little happiness at the cost of a
marriage which, according to her delicate mind, was like killing her son
again.

Frequently, she gave way to feelings of cowardice when she came face to
face with the dejected and broken-down Therese, amidst the icy silence
of the shop. She was not one of those dry, rigid persons who find bitter
delight in living a life of eternal despair. Her character was full of
pliancy, devotedness, and effusion, which contributed to make up her
temperament of a stout and affable good lady, and prompted her to live
in a state of active tenderness.

Since her niece no longer spoke, and remained there pale and feeble, her
own life became intolerable, while the shop seemed to her like a tomb.
What she required was to find some warm affection beside her, some
liveliness, some caresses, something sweet and gay which would help her
to wait peacefully for death. It was these unconscious desires that made
her accept the idea of marrying Therese again; she even forgot her son
a little. In the existence of the tomb that she was leading, came a sort
of awakening, something like a will, and fresh occupation for the mind.
She sought a husband for her niece, and this search gave her matter for
consideration.

The choice of a husband was an important business. The poor old lady
thought much more of her own comfort than of Therese. She wished
to marry her niece in order to be happy herself, for she had keen
misgivings lest the new husband of the young woman should come and
trouble the last hours of her old age. The idea that she was about to
introduce a stranger into her daily existence terrified her. It was this
thought alone that stopped her, that prevented her from talking openly
with her niece about matrimony.

While Therese acted the comedy of weariness and dejection with that
perfect hypocrisy she had acquired by her education, Laurent took the
part of a sensible and serviceable man. He was full of little attentions
for the two women, particularly for Madame Raquin, whom he overwhelmed
with delicate attention. Little by little he made himself indispensable
in the shop; it was him alone who brought a little gaiety into this
black hole. When he did not happen to be there of an evening, the old
mercer searched round her, ill at ease, as if she missed something,
being almost afraid to find herself face to face with the despairing
Therese.

But Laurent only occasionally absented himself to better prove his
power. He went to the shop daily, on quitting his office, and remained
there until the arcade was closed at night. He ran the errands, and
handed Madame Raquin, who could only walk with difficulty, the small
articles she required. Then he seated himself and chatted. He had
acquired the gentle penetrating voice of an actor which he employed to
flatter the ears and heart of the good old lady. In a friendly way,
he seemed particularly anxious about the health of Therese, like a
tender-hearted man who feels for the sufferings of others. On repeated
occasions, he took Madame Raquin to one side, and terrified her by
appearing very much alarmed himself at the changes and ravages he said
he perceived on the face of the young woman.

"We shall soon lose her," he murmured in a tearful voice. "We cannot
conceal from ourselves that she is extremely ill. Ah! alas, for our poor
happiness, and our nice tranquil evenings!"

Madame Raquin listened to him with anguish. Laurent even had the
audacity to speak of Camille.

"You see," said he to the mercer, "the death of my poor friend has been
a terrible blow to her. She had been dying for the last two years, since
that fatal day when she lost Camille. Nothing will console her, nothing
will cure her. We must be resigned."

These impudent falsehoods made the old lady shed bitter tears. The
memory of her son troubled and blinded her. Each time the name of
Camille was pronounced, she gave way, bursting into sobs. She would have
embraced the person who mentioned her poor boy. Laurent had noticed
the trouble, and outburst of tender feeling that this name produced. He
could make her weep at will, upset her with such emotion that she failed
to distinguish the clear aspect of things; and he took advantage of this
power to always hold her pliant and in pain in his hand, as it were.

Each evening in spite of the secret revolt of his trembling inner being,
he brought the conversation to bear on the rare qualities, on the tender
heart and mind of Camille, praising his victim with most shameless
impudence. At moments, when he found the eyes of Therese fixed with a
strange expression on his own, he shuddered, and ended by believing
all the good he had been saying about the drowned man. Then he held his
tongue, suddenly seized with atrocious jealousy, fearing that the young
widow loved the man he had flung into the water, and whom he now lauded
with the conviction of an enthusiast.

Throughout the conversation Madame Raquin was in tears, and unable to
distinguish anything around her. As she wept, she reflected that Laurent
must have a loving and generous heart. He alone remembered her son, he
alone still spoke of him in a trembling and affected voice. She dried
her eyes, gazing at the young man with infinite tenderness, and feeling
that she loved him as her own child.

One Thursday evening, Michaud and Grivet were already in the
dining-room, when Laurent coming in, approached Therese, and with gentle
anxiety inquired after her health. He seated himself for a moment beside
her, performing for the edification of the persons present, his part
of an alarmed and affectionate friend. As the young couple sat close
together, exchanging a few words, Michaud, who was observing them,
bent down, and said in a low voice to the old mercer, as he pointed to
Laurent:

"Look, there is the husband who will suit your niece. Arrange this
marriage quickly. We will assist you if it be necessary."

This remark came as a revelation to Madame Raquin. She saw, at once, all
the advantages she would derive, personally, from the union of Therese
and Laurent. The marriage would tighten the bonds already connecting her
and her niece with the friend of her son, with that good-natured fellow
who came to amuse them in the evening.

In this manner, she would not be introducing a stranger into her home,
she would not run the risk of unhappiness. On the contrary, while giving
Therese a support, she added another joy to her old age, she found a
second son in this young man who for three years had shown her such
filial affection.

Then it occurred to her that Therese would be less faithless to the
memory of Camille by marrying Laurent. The religion of the heart
is peculiarly delicate. Madame Raquin, who would have wept to see a
stranger embrace the young widow, felt no repulsion at the thought of
giving her to the comrade of her son.

Throughout the evening, while the guests played at dominoes, the old
mercer watched the couple so tenderly, that they guessed the comedy
had succeeded, and that the denouement was at hand. Michaud, before
withdrawing, had a short conversation in an undertone with Madame
Raquin. Then, he pointedly took the arm of Laurent saying he would
accompany him a bit of the way. As Laurent went off, he exchanged a
rapid glance with Therese, a glance full of urgent enjoinment.

Michaud had undertaken to feel the ground. He found the young man very
much devoted to the two ladies, but exceedingly astonished at the idea
of a marriage between Therese and himself. Laurent added, in an unsteady
tone of voice, that he loved the widow of his poor friend as a sister,
and that it would seem to him a perfect sacrilege to marry her. The
former commissary of police insisted, giving numerous good reasons with
a view to obtaining his consent. He even spoke of devotedness, and went
so far as to tell the young man that it was clearly his duty to give a
son to Madame Raquin and a husband to Therese.

Little by little Laurent allowed himself to be won over, feigning to
give way to emotion, to accept the idea of this marriage as one fallen
from the clouds, dictated by feelings of devotedness and duty, as old
Michaud had said. When the latter had obtained a formal answer in the
affirmative, he parted with his companion, rubbing his hands, for he
fancied he had just gained a great victory. He prided himself on having
had the first idea of this marriage which would convey to the Thursday
evenings all their former gaiety.

While Michaud was talking with Laurent, slowly following the quays,
Madame Raquin had an almost identical conversation with Therese. At the
moment when her niece, pale and unsteady in gait, as usual, was about to
retire to rest, the old mercer detained her an instant. She questioned
her in a tender tone, imploring her to be frank, and confess the cause
of the trouble that overwhelmed her. Then, as she only obtained vague
replies, she spoke of the emptiness of widowhood, and little by little
came to talk in a more precise manner of the offer of a second marriage,
concluding by asking Therese, plainly, whether she had not a secret
desire to marry again.

Therese protested, saying that such a thought had never entered her
mind, and that she intended remaining faithful to Camille. Madame
Raquin began to weep. Pleading against her heart, she gave her niece to
understand that despair should not be eternal; and, finally, in response
to an exclamation of the young woman saying she would never replace
Camille, Madame Raquin abruptly pronounced the name of Laurent. Then she
enlarged with a flood of words on the propriety and advantages of such
an union. She poured out her mind, repeating aloud all she had been
thinking during the evening, depicting with naive egotism, the picture
of her final days of happiness, between her two dear children. Therese,
resigned and docile, listened to her with bowed head, ready to give
satisfaction to her slightest wish.

"I love Laurent as a brother," said she grievously, when her aunt had
ceased speaking. "But, as you desire it, I will endeavour to love him
as a husband. I wish to make you happy. I had hoped that you would
have allowed me to weep in peace, but I will dry my tears, as it is a
question of your happiness."

She kissed the old lady, who remained surprised and frightened at having
been the first to forget her son. As Madame Raquin went to bed, she
sobbed bitterly, accusing herself of having less strength than Therese,
and of desiring, out of egotism, a marriage that the young widow
accepted by simple abnegation.

The following morning, Michaud and his old friend had a short
conversation in the arcade, before the door of the shop, where they
communicated to one another the result of their efforts, and agreed to
hurry matters on by forcing the young people to become affianced the
same evening.

At five o'clock, Michaud was already in the shop when Laurent entered.
As soon as the young man had seated himself, the former commissary of
police said in his ear:

"She accepts."

This blunt remark was overheard by Therese who remained pale, with her
eyes impudently fixed on Laurent. The two sweethearts looked at each
other for a few seconds as if consulting. Both understood that they must
accept the position without hesitation, and finish the business at one
stroke. Laurent, rising, went and took the hand of Madame Raquin, who
made every effort to restrain her tears.

"Dear mother," said he smiling, "I was talking about your felicity, last
night, with M. Michaud. Your children wish to make you happy."

The poor old lady, on hearing herself called "dear mother," allowed her
tears to flow. She quietly seized the hand of Therese and placed it in
that of Laurent, unable to utter a single word.

The two sweethearts shivered on feeling their skins touch, and remained
with their burning fingers pressed together, in a nervous clasp. After a
pause, the young man, in a hesitating tone, resumed:

"Therese, shall we give your aunt a bright and peaceful existence?"

"Yes," feebly replied the young woman, "we have a duty to perform."

Then Laurent, becoming very pale, turned towards Madame Raquin, and
added:

"When Camille fell into the water, he shouted out to me: 'Save my wife,
I entrust her to you.' I believe I am acting in accordance with his last
wish in marrying Therese."

Therese, on hearing these words, let go the hand of Laurent. She
had received a shock like a blow in the chest. The impudence of her
sweetheart overwhelmed her. She observed him with a senseless look,
while Madame Raquin, half stifled by sobs, stammered:

"Yes, yes, my friend, marry her, make her happy; my son, from the depth
of his tomb, will thank you."

Laurent, feeling himself giving way, leant on the back of a chair, while
Michaud, who was himself moved to tears, pushed him towards Therese with
the remark:

"Kiss one another. It will be your betrothal."

When the lips of the young man came in contact with the cheeks of the
widow, he experienced a peculiarly uncomfortable feeling, while the
latter abruptly drew back, as if the two kisses of her sweetheart burnt
her. This was the first caress he had given her in the presence of
witnesses. All her blood rushed to her face, and she felt herself red
and burning.

After this crisis, the two murderers breathed. Their marriage was
decided on. At last they approached the goal they had so long had in
view. Everything was settled the same evening. The Thursday following,
the marriage was announced to Grivet, as well as to Olivier and his
wife. Michaud, in communicating the news to them, did not conceal his
delight. He rubbed his hands, repeating as he did so:

"It was I who thought of it. It is I who have married them. You will see
what a nice couple they'll make!"

Suzanne silently embraced Therese. This poor creature, who was half
dead, and as white as a sheet, had formed a friendship for the rigid and
sombre young widow. She showed her a sort of childlike affection mingled
with a kind of respectful terror. Olivier complimented the aunt and
niece, while Grivet hazarded a few spicy jokes that met with middling
success. Altogether the company were delighted, enchanted, and declared
that everything was for the best; in reality all they thought about was
the wedding feast.

Therese and Laurent were clever enough to maintain a suitable demeanour,
by simply displaying tender and obliging friendship to one another. They
gave themselves an air of accomplishing an act of supreme devotedness.
Nothing in their faces betrayed a suspicion of the terror and desire
that disturbed them. Madame Raquin watched the couple with faint smiles,
and a look of feeble, but grateful goodwill.

A few formalities required fulfilling. Laurent had to write to his
father to ask his consent to the marriage. The old peasant of Jeufosse
who had almost forgotten that he had a son at Paris, answered him, in
four lines, that he could marry, and go and get hanged if he chose. He
gave him to understand that being resolved never to give him a sou,
he left him master of his body, and authorised him to be guilty of all
imaginable follies. A permission accorded in such terms, caused Laurent
singular anxiety.

Madame Raquin, after reading the letter of this unnatural father, in a
transport of kind-heartedness, acted very foolishly. She made over to
her niece the 40,000 francs and more, that she possessed, stripping
herself entirely for the young couple, on whose affection she relied,
with the desire of being indebted to them for all her happiness.

Laurent brought nothing into the community, and he even gave it to
be understood that he did not always intend to remain in his present
employment, but would perhaps take up painting again. In any case, the
future of the little family was assured; the interest on the money put
aside added to the profit on the mercery business, would be sufficient
to keep three persons comfortably. As a matter of fact it was only just
sufficient to make them happy.

The preparations for the marriage were hurried on, the formalities being
abridged as much as possible, and at last the welcome day arrived.



In the morning, Laurent and Therese, awoke in their respective rooms,
with the same feeling of profound joy in their hearts: both said to
themselves that their last night of terror had passed. They would no
longer have to sleep alone, and they would mutually defend themselves
against the drowned man.

Therese looked around her, giving a strange smile as she measured her
great bed with her eyes. She rose and began to slowly dress herself, in
anticipation of the arrival of Suzanne, who was to come and assist her
with her bridal toilet.

Laurent, on awakening, sat up in bed, and remained in that position for
a few minutes, bidding farewell to his garret, which struck him as vile.
At last he was to quit this kennel and have a wife. It was in the month
of December and he shivered. He sprang on the tile floor, saying to
himself that he would be warm at night.

A week previously, Madame Raquin, knowing how short he was of money, had
slipped a purse into his hand containing 500 francs, which represented
all her savings. The young man had accepted this present without
difficulty, and had rigged himself out from tip to toe. Moreover, the
money of the old mercer permitted him to make Therese the customary
presents.

The black trousers, dress coat, white waistcoat, shirt and cambric tie,
hung spread out on a couple of chairs. Laurent washed, perfumed himself
with a bottle of eau de Cologne, and then proceeded to carefully attire
himself. He wished to look handsome. As he fastened his collar, a collar
which was high and stiff, he experienced keen pain in the neck. The
button escaped from his fingers. He lost patience. The starched linen
seemed to cut into his flesh. Wishing to see what was the matter, he
raised his chin, and perceived the bite Camille had given him looking
quite red. The collar had slightly galled the scar.

Laurent pressed his lips together, and turned pale; the sight of this
mark seaming his neck, frightened and irritated him at this moment. He
crumpled up the collar, and selected another which he put on with every
precaution, and then finished dressing himself. As he went downstairs
his new clothes made him look rigid. With his neck imprisoned in the
inflexible linen, he dared not turn his head. At every movement he made,
a pleat pinched the wound that the teeth of the drowned man had made in
his flesh, and it was under the irritation of these sharp pricks, that
he got into the carriage, and went to fetch Therese to conduct her to
the town-hall and church.

On the way, he picked up a clerk employed at the Orleans Railway
Company, and old Michaud, who were to act as witnesses. When they
reached the shop, everyone was ready: Grivet and Olivier, the witnesses
of Therese, were there, along with Suzanne, who looked at the bride as
little girls look at dolls they have just dressed up. Although Madame
Raquin was no longer able to walk, she desired to accompany the couple
everywhere, so she was hoisted into a conveyance and the party set out.

Everything passed off in a satisfactory manner at the town-hall and
church. The calm and modest attitude of the bride and bridegroom was
remarked and approved. They pronounced the sacramental "yes" with an
emotion that moved Grivet himself. They were as if in a dream. Whether
seated, or quietly kneeling side by side, they were rent by raging
thoughts that flashed through their minds in spite of themselves, and
they avoided looking at one another. When they seated themselves in
their carriage, they seemed to be greater strangers than before.

It had been decided that the wedding feast should be a family affair
at a little restaurant on the heights of Belleville. The Michauds and
Grivet alone were invited. Until six in the evening, the wedding party
drove along the boulevards, and then repaired to the cheap eating-house
where a table was spread with seven covers in a small private room
painted yellow, and reeking of dust and wine.

The repast was not accompanied by much gaiety. The newly married pair
were grave and thoughtful. Since the morning, they had been experiencing
strange sensations, which they did not seek to fathom. From the
commencement, they had felt bewildered at the rapidity with which
the formalities and ceremony were performed, that had just bound them
together for ever.

Then, the long drive on the boulevards had soothed them and made them
drowsy. It appeared to them that this drive lasted months. Nevertheless,
they allowed themselves to be taken through the monotonous streets
without displaying impatience, looking at the shops and people with
sparkless eyes, overcome by a numbness that made them feel stupid, and
which they endeavoured to shake off by bursting into fits of laughter.
When they entered the restaurant, they were weighed down by oppressive
fatigue, while increasing stupor continued to settle on them.

Placed at table opposite one another, they smiled with an air of
constraint, and then fell into the same heavy reverie as before, eating,
answering questions, moving their limbs like machines. Amidst the idle
lassitude of their minds, the same string of flying thoughts returned
ceaselessly. They were married, and yet unconscious of their new
condition, which caused them profound astonishment. They imagined an
abyss still separated them, and at moments asked themselves how they
could get over this unfathomable depth. They fancied they were living
previous to the murder, when a material obstacle stood between them.

Then they abruptly remembered they would occupy the same apartment that
night, in a few hours, and they gazed at one another in astonishment,
unable to comprehend why they should be permitted to do so. They did not
feel they were united, but, on the contrary, were dreaming that they had
just been violently separated, and one cast far from the other.

The silly chuckling of the guests beside them, who wished to hear them
talk familiarly, so as to dispel all restraint, made them stammer and
colour. They could never make up their minds to treat one another as
sweethearts in the presence of company.

Waiting had extinguished the flame that had formerly fired them. All
the past had disappeared. They had forgotten their violent passion,
they forgot even their joy of the morning, that profound joy they had
experienced at the thought that they would no more be afraid. They were
simply wearied and bewildered at all that was taking place. The
events of the day turned round and round in their heads, appearing
incomprehensible and monstrous. They sat there mute and smiling,
expecting nothing, hoping for nothing. Mingled with their dejection of
spirits, was a restless anxiety that proved vaguely painful.

At every movement Laurent made with his neck, he felt a sharp burn
devouring his flesh; his collar cut and pinched the bite of Camille.
While the mayor read out to him the law bearing on marriage, while the
priest spoke to him of the Almighty, at every minute of this long day,
he had felt the teeth of the drowned man entering his skin. At times,
he imagined a streak of blood was running down his chest, and would
bespatter his white waistcoat with crimson.

Madame Raquin was inwardly grateful to the newly married couple for
their gravity. Noisy joy would have wounded the poor mother. In her
mind, her son was there, invisible, handing Therese over to Laurent.

Grivet had other ideas. He considered the wedding party sad, and wanted
to enliven it, notwithstanding the looks of Michaud and Olivier which
riveted him to his chair each time he wished to get up and say something
silly. Nevertheless, he managed to rise once and propose a toast.

"I drink to the offspring of monsieur and madame," quoth he in a
sprightly tone.

It was necessary to touch glasses. Therese and Laurent had turned
extremely pale on hearing this sentence. They had never dreamed that
they might have children. The thought flashed through them like an icy
shiver. They nervously joined glasses with the others, examining one
another, surprised and alarmed to find themselves there, face to face.

The party rose from table early. The guests wished to accompany the
newly married pair to the nuptial chamber. It was barely half-past
nine when they all returned to the shop in the arcade. The dealer in
imitation jewelry was still there in her cupboard, before the box lined
with blue velvet. She raised her head inquisitively, gazing at the
young husband and wife with a smile. The latter caught her eyes, and was
terrified. It struck her that perhaps this old woman was aware of their
former meetings, by having noticed Laurent slipping into the little
corridor.

When they all arrived on the upper floor, Therese withdrew almost
immediately, with Madame Raquin and Suzanne, the men remaining in
the dining-room, while the bride performed her toilet for the night.
Laurent, nerveless and depressed, did not experience the least
impatience, but listened complacently to the coarse jokes of old Michaud
and Grivet, who indulged themselves to their hearts' content, now
that the ladies were no longer present. When Suzanne and Madame Raquin
quitted the nuptial apartment, and the old mercer in an unsteady voice
told the young man that his wife awaited him, he started. For an instant
he remained bewildered. Then he feverishly grasped the hands extended
to him, and entered the room, clinging to the door like a man under the
influence of drink.



Laurent carefully closed the door behind him, and for a moment or two
stood leaning against it, gazing round the apartment in anxiety and
embarrassment.

A clear fire burned on the hearth, sending large sheets of light dancing
on ceiling and walls. The room was thus lit-up by bright vacillating
gleams, that in a measure annulled the effects of the lamp placed on
a table in their midst. Madame Raquin had done her best to convey
a coquettish aspect to the apartment. It was one mass of white, and
perfumed throughout, as if to serve as a nest for young, fresh love. The
good lady, moreover, had taken pleasure in adding a few bits of lace to
the bed, and in filling the vases on the chimney-piece with bunches of
roses. Gentle warmth and pleasant fragrance reigned over all, and not a
sound broke the silence, save the crackling and little sharp reports of
the wood aglow on the hearth.

Therese was seated on a low chair to the right of the chimney, staring
fixedly at the bright flames, with her chin in her hand. She did not
turn her head when Laurent entered. Clothed in a petticoat and linen
night-jacket bordered with lace, she looked snowy white in the bright
light of the fire. Her jacket had become disarranged, and part of her
rosy shoulder appeared, half hidden by a tress of raven hair.

Laurent advanced a few paces without speaking, and took off his coat
and waistcoat. When he stood in his shirt sleeves, he again looked at
Therese, who had not moved, and he seemed to hesitate. Then, perceiving
the bit of shoulder, he bent down quivering, to press his lips to it.
The young woman, abruptly turning round, withdrew her shoulder, and in
doing so, fixed on Laurent such a strange look of repugnance and horror,
that he shrank back, troubled and ill at ease, as if himself seized with
terror and disgust.

Laurent then seated himself opposite Therese, on the other side of the
chimney, and they remained thus, silent and motionless, for fully five
minutes. At times, tongues of reddish flame escaped from the wood, and
then the faces of the murderers were touched with fleeting gleams of
blood.

It was more than a couple of years since the two sweethearts had
found themselves shut up alone in this room. They had arranged
no love-meetings since the day when Therese had gone to the Rue
Saint-Victor to convey to Laurent the idea of murder. Prudence had kept
them apart. Barely had they, at long intervals, ventured on a pressure
of the hand, or a stealthy kiss. After the murder of Camille, they had
restrained their passion, awaiting the nuptial night. This had at last
arrived, and now they remained anxiously face to face, overcome with
sudden discomfort.

They had but to stretch forth their arms to clasp one another in a
passionate embrace, and their arms remained lifeless, as if worn out
with fatigue. The depression they had experienced during the daytime,
now oppressed them more and more. They observed one another with timid
embarrassment, pained to remain so silent and cold. Their burning dreams
ended in a peculiar reality: it sufficed that they should have succeeded
in killing Camille, and have become married, it sufficed that the lips
of Laurent should have grazed the shoulder of Therese, for their lust to
be satisfied to the point of disgust and horror.

In despair, they sought to find within them a little of that passion
which formerly had devoured them. Their frames seemed deprived of
muscles and nerves, and their embarrassment and anxiety increased. They
felt ashamed of remaining so silent and gloomy face to face with one
another. They would have liked to have had the strength to squeeze each
other to death, so as not to pass as idiots in their own eyes.

What! they belonged one to the other, they had killed a man, and played
an atrocious comedy in order to be able to love in peace, and they sat
there, one on either side of a mantelshelf, rigid, exhausted, their
minds disturbed and their frames lifeless! Such a denouement appeared
to them horribly and cruelly ridiculous. It was then that Laurent
endeavoured to speak of love, to conjure up the remembrances of other
days, appealing to his imagination for a revival of his tenderness.

"Therese," he said, "don't you recall our afternoons in this room? Then
I came in by that door, but today I came in by this one. We are free
now. We can make love in peace."

He spoke in a hesitating, spiritless manner, and the young woman,
huddled up on her low chair, continued gazing dreamily at the flame
without listening. Laurent went on:

"Remember how I used to dream of staying a whole night with you? I
dreamed of waking up in the morning to your kisses, now it can come
true."

Therese all at once started as though surprised to hear a voice
stammering in her ears. Turning towards Laurent, on whose countenance
the fire, at this moment, cast a broad reddish reflection, she gazed at
his sanguinary face, and shuddered.

The young man, more troubled and anxious, resumed:

"We have succeeded, Therese; we have broken through all obstacles, and
we belong to one another. The future is ours, is it not? A future of
tranquil happiness, of satisfied love. Camille is no longer here----"

Laurent ceased speaking. His throat had suddenly become dry, and he was
choking, unable to continue. On hearing the name of Camille, Therese
received a violent shock. The two murderers contemplated one another,
stupefied, pale, and trembling. The yellow gleams of light from the
fire continued to dance on ceiling and walls, the soft odour of roses
lingered in the air, the crackling of the wood broke the silence with
short, sharp reports.

Remembrances were abandoned. The spectre of Camille which had been
evoked, came and seated itself between the newly married pair, in front
of the flaming fire. Therese and Laurent recognised the cold, damp smell
of the drowned man in the warm air they were breathing. They said to
themselves that a corpse was there, close to them, and they examined
one another without daring to move. Then all the terrible story of their
crime was unfolded in their memory. The name of their victim sufficed
to fill them with thoughts of the past, to compel them to go through all
the anguish of the murder over again. They did not open their lips, but
looked at one another, and both at the same time were troubled with the
same nightmare, both with their eyes broached the same cruel tale.

This exchange of terrified looks, this mute narration they were about
to make to themselves of the murder, caused them keen and intolerable
apprehension. The strain on their nerves threatened an attack, they
might cry out, perhaps fight. Laurent, to drive away his recollections,
violently tore himself from the ecstasy of horror that enthralled him in
the gaze of Therese. He took a few strides in the room; he removed his
boots and put on slippers; then, returning to his former place, he
sat down at the chimney corner, and tried to talk on matters of
indifference.

Therese, understanding what he desired, strove to answer his questions.
They chatted about the weather, endeavouring to force on a commonplace
conversation. Laurent said the room was warm, and Therese replied that,
nevertheless, a draught came from under the small door on the staircase,
and both turned in that direction with a sudden shudder. The young man
hastened to speak about the roses, the fire, about everything he saw
before him. The young woman, with an effort, rejoined in monosyllables,
so as not to allow the conversation to drop. They had drawn back from
one another, and were giving themselves easy airs, endeavouring to
forget whom they were, treating one another as strangers brought
together by chance.

But, in spite of themselves, by a strange phenomenon, whilst they
uttered these empty phrases, they mutually guessed the thoughts
concealed in their banal words. Do what they would, they both thought
of Camille. Their eyes continued the story of the past. They still
maintained by looks a mute discourse, apart from the conversation they
held aloud, which ran haphazard. The words they cast here and there
had no signification, being disconnected and contradictory; all their
intelligence was bent on the silent exchange of their terrifying
recollections.

When Laurent spoke of the roses, or of the fire, of one thing or
another, Therese was perfectly well aware that he was reminding her
of the struggle in the skiff, of the dull fall of Camille; and, when
Therese answered yes or no to an insignificant question, Laurent
understood that she said she remembered or did not remember a detail of
the crime. They charted it in this manner open-heartedly without needing
words, while they spoke aloud of other matters.

Moreover, unconscious of the syllables they pronounced, they followed
their secret thoughts sentence by sentence; they might abruptly have
continued their confidences aloud, without ceasing to understand each
other. This sort of divination, this obstinacy of their memory in
presenting to themselves without pause, the image of Camille, little
by little drove them crazy. They thoroughly well perceived that they
guessed the thoughts of one another, and that if they did not hold their
tongues, the words would rise of themselves to their mouths, to name the
drowned man, and describe the murder. Then they closely pinched their
lips and ceased their conversation.

In the overwhelming silence that ensued, the two murderers continued
to converse about their victim. It appeared to them that their eyes
mutually penetrated their flesh, and buried clear, keen phrases in their
bodies. At moments, they fancied they heard themselves speaking aloud.
Their senses changed. Sight became a sort of strange and delicate
hearing. They so distinctly read their thoughts upon their countenances,
that these thoughts took a peculiarly piercing sound that agitated all
their organism. They could not have understood one another better, had
they shouted in a heartrending voice:

"We have killed Camille, and his corpse is there, extended between us,
making our limbs like ice."

And the terrible confidence continued, more manifest, more resounding,
in the calm moist air of the room.

Laurent and Therese had commenced the mute narration from the day of
their first interview in the shop. Then the recollections had come one
by one in order; they had related their hours of love, their moments of
hesitation and anger, the terrible incident of the murder. It was then
that they pinched their lips, ceasing to talk of one thing and another,
in fear lest they should all at once name Camille without desiring to do
so.

But their thoughts failing to cease, had then led them into great
distress, into the affrighted period of expectancy following the crime.
They thus came to think of the corpse of the drowned man extended on a
slab at the Morgue. Laurent, by a look, told Therese all the horror he
had felt, and the latter, driven to extremities, compelled by a hand of
iron to part her lips, abruptly continued the conversation aloud:

"You saw him at the Morgue?" she inquired of Laurent without naming
Camille.

Laurent looked as if he expected this question. He had been reading it
for a moment on the livid face of the young woman.

"Yes," answered he in a choking voice.

The murderers shivered, and drawing nearer the fire, extended their
hands towards the flame as if an icy puff of wind had suddenly passed
through the warm room. For an instant they maintained silence, coiled up
like balls, cowering on their chairs. Then Therese, in a hollow voice,
resumed:

"Did he seem to have suffered much?"

Laurent could not answer. He made a terrified gesture as if to put aside
some hideous vision, and rising went towards the bed. Then, returning
violently with open arms, he advanced towards Therese.

"Kiss me," said he, extending his neck.

Therese had risen, looking quite pale in her nightdress, and stood half
thrown back, with her elbow resting on the marble mantelpiece. She gazed
at the neck of her husband. On the white skin she had just caught sight
of a pink spot. The rush of blood to the head, increased the size of
this spot, turning it bright red.

"Kiss me, kiss me," repeated Laurent, his face and neck scarlet.

The young woman threw her head further back, to avoid an embrace,
and pressing the tip of her finger on the bite Camille had given her
husband, addressed him thus:

"What have you here? I never noticed this wound before."

It seemed to Laurent as if the finger of Therese was boring a hole in
his throat. At the contact of this finger, he suddenly started backward,
uttering a suppressed cry of pain.

"That," he stammered, "that----"

He hesitated, but he could not lie, and in spite of himself, he told the
truth.

"That is the bite Camille gave me. You know, in the boat. It is nothing.
It has healed. Kiss me, kiss me."

And the wretch craned his neck which was burning him. He wanted Therese
to kiss the scar, convinced that the lips of this woman would appease
the thousand pricks lacerating his flesh, and with raised chin he
presented his extended neck for the embrace. Therese, who was almost
lying back on the marble chimney-piece, gave a supreme gesture of
disgust, and in a supplicating voice exclaimed:

"Oh! no, not on that part. There is blood."

She sank down on the low chair, trembling, with her forehead between
her hands. Laurent remained where he stood for a moment, looking stupid.
Then, all at once, with the clutch of a wild beast, he grasped the head
of Therese in his two great hands, and by force brought her lips to the
bite he had received from Camille on his neck. For an instant he kept,
he crushed, this head of a woman against his skin. Therese had given
way, uttering hollow groans. She was choking on the neck of Laurent.
When she had freed herself from his hands, she violently wiped her
mouth, and spat in the fire. She had not said a word.

Laurent, ashamed of his brutality, began walking slowly from the bed
to the window. Suffering alone--the horrible burn--had made him exact a
kiss from Therese, and when her frigid lips met the scorching scar,
he felt the pain more acutely. This kiss obtained by violence had just
crushed him. The shock had been so painful, that for nothing in the
world would he have received another.

He cast his eyes upon the woman with whom he was to live, and who sat
shuddering, doubled up before the fire, turning her back to him; and he
repeated to himself that he no longer loved this woman, and that she no
longer loved him.

For nearly an hour Therese maintained her dejected attitude,
while Laurent silently walked backward and forward. Both inwardly
acknowledged, with terror, that their passion was dead, that they had
killed it in killing Camille. The embers on the hearth were gently dying
out; a sheet of bright, clear fire shone above the ashes. Little by
little, the heat of the room had become stifling; the flowers were
fading, making the thick air sickly, with their heavy odour.

Laurent, all at once, had an hallucination. As he turned round, coming
from the window to the bed, he saw Camille in a dark corner, between
the chimney and wardrobe. The face of his victim looked greenish and
distorted, just as he had seen it on the slab at the Morgue. He remained
glued to the carpet, fainting, leaning against a piece of furniture for
support. At a hollow rattle in his throat, Therese raised her head.

"There, there!" exclaimed Laurent in a terrified tone.

With extended arm, he pointed to the dark corner where he perceived
the sinister face of Camille. Therese, infected by his terror, went and
pressed against him.

"It is his portrait," she murmured in an undertone, as if the face of
her late husband could hear her.

"His portrait?" repeated Laurent, whose hair stood on end.

"Yes, you know, the painting you did," she replied. "My aunt was to have
removed it to her room. No doubt she forgot to take it down."

"Really; his portrait," said he.

The murderer had some difficulty in recognising the canvas. In his
trouble he forgot that it was he who had drawn those clashing strokes,
who had spread on those dirty tints that now terrified him. Terror made
him see the picture as it was, vile, wretchedly put together, muddy,
displaying the grimacing face of a corpse on a black ground. His own
work astonished and crushed him by its atrocious ugliness; particularly
the two eyes which seemed floating in soft, yellowish orbits, reminding
him exactly of the decomposed eyes of the drowned man at the Morgue.
For a moment, he remained breathless, thinking Therese was telling an
untruth to allay his fears. Then he distinguished the frame, and little
by little became calm.

"Go and take it down," said he in a very low tone to the young woman.

"Oh! no, I'm afraid," she answered with a shiver.

Laurent began to tremble again. At moments the frame of the picture
disappeared, and he only saw the two white eyes giving him a long,
steady look.

"I beg you to go and unhook it," said he, beseeching his companion.

"No, no," she replied.

"We will turn it face to the wall, and then it will not frighten us," he
suggested.

"No," said she, "I cannot do it."

The murderer, cowardly and humble, thrust the young woman towards the
canvas, hiding behind her, so as to escape the gaze of the drowned man.
But she escaped, and he wanted to brazen the matter out. Approaching the
picture, he raised his hand in search of the nail, but the portrait gave
such a long, crushing, ignoble look, that Laurent after seeking to
stare it out, found himself vanquished, and started back overpowered,
murmuring as he did so:

"No, you are right, Therese, we cannot do it. Your aunt shall take it
down to-morrow."

He resumed his walk up and down, with bowed head, feeling the portrait
was staring at him, following him with its eyes. At times, he could not
prevent himself casting a side glance at the canvas; and, then, in the
depth of the darkness, he still perceived the dull, deadened eyes of the
drowned man. The thought that Camille was there, in a corner, watching
him, present on his wedding night, examining Therese and himself, ended
by driving him mad with terror and despair.

One circumstance, which would have brought a smile to the lips of anyone
else, made him completely lose his head. As he stood before the fire, he
heard a sort of scratching sound. He turned pale, imagining it came
from the portrait, that Camille was descending from his frame. Then
he discovered that the noise was at the small door opening on the
staircase, and he looked at Therese who also showed signs of fear.

"There is someone on the staircase," he murmured. "Who can be coming
that way?"

The young woman gave no answer. Both were thinking of the drowned man,
and their temples became moist with icy perspiration. They sought refuge
together at the end of the room, expecting to see the door suddenly
open, and the corpse of Camille fall on the floor. As the sound
continued, but more sharply and irregularly, they thought their victim
must be tearing away the wood with his nails to get in. For the space of
nearly five minutes, they dared not stir. Finally, a mewing was heard,
and Laurent advancing, recognised the tabby cat belonging to Madame
Raquin, which had been accidentally shut up in the room, and was
endeavouring to get out by clawing at the door.

Francois, frightened by Laurent, sprang upon a chair at a bound. With
hair on end and stiffened paws, he looked his new master in the face, in
a harsh and cruel manner. The young man did not like cats, and Francois
almost terrified him. In this moment of excitement and alarm, he
imagined the cat was about to fly in his face to avenge Camille. He
fancied the beast must know everything, that there were thoughts in
his strangely dilated round eyes. The fixed gaze of the animal caused
Laurent to lower his lids. As he was about to give Francois a kick,
Therese exclaimed:

"Don't hurt him."

This sentence produced a strange impression on Laurent, and an absurd
idea got into his head.

"Camille has entered into this cat," thought he. "I shall have to kill
the beast. It looks like a human being."

He refrained from giving the kick, being afraid of hearing Francois
speak to him with the voice of Camille. Then he said to himself that
this animal knew too much, and that he should have to throw it out of
the window. But he had not the pluck to accomplish his design. Francois
maintained a fighting attitude. With claws extended, and back curved
in sullen irritation, he followed the least movement of his enemy with
superb tranquillity. The metallic sparkle of his eyes troubled Laurent,
who hastened to open the dining-room door, and the cat fled with a
shrill mew.

Therese had again seated herself before the extinguished fire. Laurent
resumed his walk from bed to window. It was thus that they awaited
day-light. They did not think of going to bed; their hearts were
thoroughly dead. They had but one, single desire: to leave the room they
were in, and where they were choking. They experienced a real discomfort
in being shut up together, and in breathing the same atmosphere. They
would have liked someone to be there to interrupt their privacy, to
drag them from the cruel embarrassment in which they found themselves,
sitting one before the other without opening their lips, and unable
to resuscitate their love. Their long silences tortured them, silence
loaded with bitter and despairing complaints, with mute reproaches,
which they distinctly heard in the tranquil air.

Day came at last, a dirty, whitish dawn, bringing penetrating cold with
it. When the room had filled with dim light, Laurent, who was shivering,
felt calmer. He looked the portrait of Camille straight in the face,
and saw it as it was, commonplace and puerile. He took it down, and
shrugging his shoulders, called himself a fool. Therese had risen
from the low chair, and was tumbling the bed about for the purpose of
deceiving her aunt, so as to make her believe they had passed a happy
night.

"Look here," Laurent brutally remarked to her, "I hope we shall sleep
well to-night! There must be an end to this sort of childishness."

Therese cast a deep, grave glance at him.

"You understand," he continued. "I did not marry for the purpose of
passing sleepless nights. We are just like children. It was you who
disturbed me with your ghostly airs. To-night you will try to be gay,
and not frighten me."

He forced himself to laugh without knowing why he did so.

"I will try," gloomily answered the young woman.

Such was the wedding night of Therese and Laurent.

 Therese is reeling from the same nightmare - the horrifying ghost of Camille - that has begun to plague Laurent. Desperate for solace and peace, and convinced that Laurent's presence will protect her against Camille's phantom, she decides to set the marriage in rapid motion. However, the lovers have somewhat different motives for making their marriage a reality. Therese is motivated mainly by passion and panic; her nerves stretched to the breaking point, she feels instinctively that she will be driven out of her mind without Laurent to comfort her. Laurent takes a more rational approach. He realizes that he will probably not get any money from his father under any circumstances, and he also realizes that Mme Raquin has savings worth 40,000 francs at her disposal. Obtaining this money would ensure a comfortable life and would justify Camille's murder. In order to bring about their marriage without arousing suspicions, Therese and Laurent begin to manipulate Mme Raquin and her Thursday evening guests. Therese puts on a mood of extreme melancholy, which leads Mme Raquin to worry. Old Michaud, however, is convinced that he has the solution to Therese's downcast mood. He advises Mme Raquin to marry off Therese as quickly as possible; a proposal that initially disconcerts the old haberdasher. Soon, however, Mme Raquin is revitalized by the task of arranging a good marriage for Therese and reinvigorated by the prospect of opening a new, positive chapter in her life. While Therese continues to sulk, Laurent manipulates and deceives Mme Raquin in his own way. He appears frequently at the Passage du Pont-Neuf, attending to the needs of the household, and constantly voices his sorrow over Camille's untimely death. Mme Raquin is won over by this attitude of concern, as are her guests. It soon occurs to Old Michaud, without any direct statements on Therese's or Laurent's part, that Therese and Laurent would make a fine pair. Together, Mme Raquin and Old Michaud decide to broker the marriage; Mme Raquin counsels Therese, while Old Michaud deals with Laurent. The two lovers pretend to resist the idea, out of respect for one another and for Camille's memory, but they eventually give in. In the presence of Mme Raquin and Old Michaud, the betrothed Therese and Laurent enact a scene that is outwardly touching - and that hides their real discomfort. The lovers link hands, but recoil at the cold touch of one another's skin. Laurent, moreover, claims that Camille had called out to him during the fatal catastrophe on the Seine, imploring him to save Therese. Therese is aghast at this lie, yet she continues to remain composed and is eager to see the marriage take place, if only because it will free her of Camille's haunting influence. Therese and Laurent wake up happy on the day of their wedding; they are convinced that their nights of terror will soon be at an end. Yet on the morning of the wedding, Laurent is discomfited by the scar that Camille left on his neck. He manages to keep his composure and adorns himself in his new wedding clothes - a gift from Mme Raquin to the impoverished Laurent. The wedding itself proceeds smoothly, with all the Thursday evening regulars in attendance. Following the official ceremonies at the town hall and at church, Therese, Laurent, and the Thursday evening guests adjourn to small restaurant for the wedding reception. The mood is fairly reserved and somber, partially because Therese and Laurent have new cares of their own; the scar has begun to pain Laurent again and both newlyweds feel dull and morose. Grivet, however, makes an off-color comment about the future children of Therese and Laurent. Bride and groom turn pale, and their state of exhaustion and anxiety continues until, at last, they reach their bedchamber in the Passage du Pont-Neuf. Laurent and Therese find themselves in their bedroom - once the site of their passionate affair - which Mme Raquin has heated with a hearty fire and adorned with bunches of roses. Despite these inviting settings, the two newlyweds regard one another with timidity, and even disgust. They try to muster new passion, yet Laurent makes the mistake of speaking Camille's name - a mistake that unleashes horrible memories and makes any attempt at intimacy impossible. Nonetheless, the husband and wife try to chat and begin to disrobe for bed. They find that it is impossible to drive Camille out of their minds and even seem to follow one another's anguished reflections on the dead man. Therese asks Laurent about the Morgue, whether he had seen Camille's body. And Laurent, wanting closure of his own, implores Therese to kiss the scar on his neck, hoping that her lips will sooth the burning mark. Yet these efforts to find solace are always defeated. Soon, the contents of the room begin to plague the two lovers. Camille's portrait remains on the wall, since Mme Raquin had neglected to move it elsewhere. Both Therese and Laurent are haunted by the drowned man's disturbing, crudely-painted visage. The cat Francois also makes an appearance, creating eerie scratching noises and driving the superstitious Laurent even deeper into panic. After a sleepless night - which Therese spends sitting by the dying fire, and which Laurent spends pacing mechanically to and fro - the two resolve to try to make the most of their situation and live together pleasantly. The resolution, however, seems difficult, and perhaps doomed.

