Chapter: The crisis threatening Madame Raquin took place. The paralysis, which
for several months had been creeping along her limbs, always ready to
strangle her, at last took her by the throat and linked her body. One
evening, while conversing peacefully with Therese and Laurent, she
remained in the middle of a sentence with her mouth wide open: she felt
as if she was being throttled. When she wanted to cry out and call for
help, she could only splutter a few hoarse sounds. Her hands and feet
were rigid. She found herself struck dumb, and powerless to move.

Therese and Laurent rose from their chairs, terrified at this stroke,
which had contorted the old mercer in less than five seconds. When she
became rigid, and fixed her supplicating eyes on them, they pressed her
with questions in order to ascertain the cause of her suffering. Unable
to reply, she continued gazing at them in profound anguish.

They then understood that they had nothing but a corpse before them, a
corpse half alive that could see and hear, but could not speak to them.
They were in despair at this attack. At the bottom of their hearts, they
cared little for the suffering of the paralysed woman. They mourned over
themselves, who in future would have to live alone, face to face.

From this day the life of the married couple became intolerable. They
passed the most cruel evenings opposite the impotent old lady, who no
longer lulled their terror with her gentle, idle chatter. She reposed in
an armchair, like a parcel, a thing, while they remained alone, one
at each end of the table, embarrassed and anxious. This body no longer
separated them; at times they forgot it, confounding it with the
articles of furniture.

They were now seized with the same terror as at night. The dining-room
became, like the bedroom, a terrible spot, where the spectre of Camille
arose, causing them to suffer an extra four or five hours daily. As soon
as twilight came, they shuddered, lowering the lamp-shade so as not to
see one another, and endeavouring to persuade themselves that Madame
Raquin was about to speak and thus remind them of her presence. If they
kept her with them, if they did not get rid of her, it was because her
eyes were still alive, and they experienced a little relief in watching
them move and sparkle.

They always placed the impotent old lady in the bright beam of the lamp,
so as to thoroughly light up her face and have it always before them.
This flabby, livid countenance would have been a sight that others
could not have borne, but Therese and Laurent experienced such need for
company, that they gazed upon it with real joy.

This face looked like that of a dead person in the centre of which two
living eyes had been fixed. These eyes alone moved, rolling rapidly in
their orbits. The cheeks and mouth maintained such appalling immobility
that they seemed as though petrified. When Madame Raquin fell asleep and
lowered her lids, her countenance, which was then quite white and mute,
was really that of a corpse. Therese and Laurent, who no longer felt
anyone with them, then made a noise until the paralysed woman raised her
eyelids and looked at them. In this manner they compelled her to remain
awake.

They regarded her as a distraction that drew them from their bad dreams.
Since she had been infirm, they had to attend to her like a child. The
care they lavished on her forced them to scatter their thoughts. In the
morning Laurent lifted her up and bore her to her armchair; at night he
placed her on her bed again. She was still heavy, and he had to exert
all his strength to raise her delicately in his arms, and carry her. It
was also he who rolled her armchair along. The other attentions fell
to Therese. She dressed and fed the impotent old lady, and sought to
understand her slightest wish.

For a few days Madame Raquin preserved the use of her hands. She could
write on a slate, and in this way asked for what she required; then the
hands withered, and it became impossible for her to raise them or hold
a pencil. From that moment her eyes were her only language, and it
was necessary for her niece to guess what she desired. The young
woman devoted herself to the hard duties of sick-nurse, which gave her
occupation for body and mind that did her much good.

So as not to remain face to face, the married couple rolled the armchair
of the poor old lady into the dining-room, the first thing in the
morning. They placed her between them, as if she were necessary to their
existence. They caused her to be present at their meals, and at all
their interviews. When she signified the desire to retire to her
bedroom, they feigned not to understand. She was only of use to
interrupt their private conversations, and had no right to live apart.

At eight o'clock, Laurent went to his studio, Therese descended to the
shop, while the paralyzed woman remained alone in the dining-room until
noon; then, after lunch, she found herself without company again until
six o'clock. Frequently, during the day, her niece ran upstairs, and,
hovering round her, made sure she did not require anything. The friends
of the family were at a loss for sufficiently laudatory phrases wherein
to extol the virtues of Therese and Laurent.

The Thursday receptions continued, the impotent old lady being present,
as in the past. Her armchair was advanced to the table, and from eight
o'clock till eleven she kept her eyes open, casting penetrating glances
from one to another of her guests in turn. On the first few of these
evenings, old Michaud and Grivet felt some embarrassment in the presence
of the corpse of their old friend. They did not know what countenance to
put on. They only experienced moderate sorrow, and they were inquiring
in their minds in what measure it would be suitable to display their
grief. Should they speak to this lifeless form? Should they refrain
from troubling about it? Little by little, they decided to treat Madame
Raquin as though nothing had happened to her. They ended by feigning
to completely ignore her condition. They chatted with her, putting
questions and giving the answers, laughing both for her and for
themselves, and never permitting the rigid expression on the countenance
to baffle them.

It was a strange sight: these men who appeared to be speaking sensibly
to a statue, just as little girls talk to their dolls. The paralysed
woman sat rigid and mute before them, while they babbled, multiplying
their gestures in exceedingly animated conversations with her. Michaud
and Grivet prided themselves on their correct attitude. In acting as
they did, they believed they were giving proof of politeness; they,
moreover, avoided the annoyance of the customary condolences. They
fancied that Madame Raquin must feel flattered to find herself treated
as a person in good health; and, from that moment, it became possible
for them to be merry in her presence, without the least scruple.

Grivet had contracted a mania. He affirmed that Madame Raquin and
himself understood one another perfectly; and that she could not look at
him without him at once comprehending what she desired. This was another
delicate attention. Only Grivet was on every occasion in error. He
frequently interrupted the game of dominoes, to observe the infirm woman
whose eyes were quietly following the game, and declare that she wanted
such or such a thing. On further inquiry it was found that she wanted
nothing at all, or that she wanted something entirely different. This
did not discourage Grivet, who triumphantly exclaimed:

"Just as I said!" And he began again a few moments later.

It was quite another matter when the impotent old lady openly expressed
a desire; Therese, Laurent, and the guests named one object after
another that they fancied she might wish for. Grivet then made himself
remarkable by the clumsiness of his offers. He mentioned, haphazard,
everything that came into his head, invariably offering the contrary to
what Madame Raquin desired. But this circumstance did not prevent him
repeating:

"I can read in her eyes as in a book. Look, she says I am right. Is it
not so, dear lady? Yes, yes."

Nevertheless, it was no easy matter to grasp the wishes of the poor old
woman. Therese alone possessed this faculty. She communicated fairly
well with this walled-up brain, still alive, but buried in a lifeless
frame. What was passing within this wretched creature, just sufficiently
alive to be present at the events of life, without taking part in them?
She saw and heard, she no doubt reasoned in a distinct and clear
manner. But she was without gesture and voice to express the thoughts
originating in her mind. Her ideas were perhaps choking her, and yet
she could not raise a hand, nor open her mouth, even though one of her
movements or words should decide the destiny of the world.

Her mind resembled those of the living buried by mistake, who awaken
in the middle of the night in the earth, three or four yards below the
surface of the ground. They shout, they struggle, and people pass over
them without hearing their atrocious lamentations.

Laurent frequently gazed at Madame Raquin, his lips pressed together,
his hands stretched out on his knees, putting all his life into his
sparkling and swiftly moving eyes. And he said to himself:

"Who knows what she may be thinking of all alone? Some cruel drama must
be passing within this inanimate frame."

Laurent made a mistake. Madame Raquin was happy, happy at the care and
affection bestowed on her by her dear children. She had always dreamed
of ending in this gentle way, amidst devotedness and caresses. Certainly
she would have been pleased to have preserved her speech, so as to be
able to thank the friends who assisted her to die in peace. But she
accepted her condition without rebellion. The tranquil and retired
life she had always led, the sweetness of her character, prevented her
feeling too acutely the suffering of being mute and unable to make a
movement. She had entered second childhood. She passed days without
weariness, gazing before her, and musing on the past. She even tasted
the charm of remaining very good in her armchair, like a little girl.

Each day the sweetness and brightness of her eyes became more
penetrating. She had reached the point of making them perform the duties
of a hand or mouth, in asking for what she required and in expressing
her thanks. In this way she replaced the organs that were wanting, in a
most peculiar and charming manner. Her eyes, in the centre of her flabby
and grimacing face, were of celestial beauty.

Since her twisted and inert lips could no longer smile, she smiled with
adorable tenderness, by her looks; moist beams and rays of dawn issued
from her orbits. Nothing was more peculiar than those eyes which laughed
like lips in this lifeless countenance. The lower part of the face
remained gloomy and wan, while the upper part was divinely lit up.
It was particularly for her beloved children that she placed all her
gratitude, all the affection of her soul into a simple glance. When
Laurent took her in his arms, morning and night, to carry her, she
thanked him lovingly by looks full of tender effusion.

She lived thus for weeks, awaiting death, fancying herself sheltered
from any fresh misfortune. She thought she had already received her
share of suffering. But she was mistaken. One night she was crushed by a
frightful blow.

Therese and Laurent might well place her between them, in the full
light, but she was no longer sufficiently animated to separate and
defend them against their anguish. When they forgot that she was there
and could hear and see them, they were seized with folly. Perceiving
Camille, they sought to drive him away. Then, in unsteady tones,
they allowed the truth to escape them, uttering words that revealed
everything to Madame Raquin. Laurent had a sort of attack, during
which he spoke like one under the influence of hallucination, and the
paralysed woman abruptly understood.

A frightful contraction passed over her face, and she experienced such
a shock that Therese thought she was about to bound to her feet and
shriek, but she fell backward, rigid as iron. This shock was all the
more terrible as it seemed to galvanise a corpse. Sensibility which had
for a moment returned, disappeared; the impotent woman remained more
crushed and wan than before. Her eyes, usually so gentle, had become
dark and harsh, resembling pieces of metal.

Never had despair fallen more rigorously on a being. The sinister truth,
like a flash of flame, scorched the eyes of the paralysed woman and
penetrated within her with the concussion of a shaft of lightning. Had
she been able to rise, to utter the cry of horror that ascended to her
throat, and curse the murderers of her son, she would have suffered
less. But, after hearing and understanding everything, she was forced
to remain motionless and mute, inwardly preserving all the glare of her
grief.

It seemed to her that Therese and Laurent had bound her, riveted her to
her armchair to prevent her springing up, and that they took atrocious
pleasure in repeating to her, after gagging her to stifle her cries--

"We have killed Camille!"

Terror and anguish coursed furiously in her body unable to find an
issue. She made superhuman efforts to raise the weight crushing her, to
clear her throat and thus give passage to her flood of despair. In vain
did she strain her final energy; she felt her tongue cold against her
palate, she could not tear herself from death. Cadaverous impotence held
her rigid. Her sensations resembled those of a man fallen into lethargy,
who is being buried, and who, bound by the bonds of his own frame, hears
the deadened sound of the shovels of mould falling on his head.

The ravages to which her heart was subjected, proved still more
terrible. She felt a blow inwardly that completely undid her. Her
entire life was afflicted: all her tenderness, all her goodness, all her
devotedness had just been brutally upset and trampled under foot. She
had led a life of affection and gentleness, and in her last hours, when
about to carry to the grave a belief in the delight of a calm life, a
voice shouted to her that all was falsehood and all crime.

The veil being rent, she perceived apart from the love and friendship
which was all she had hitherto been able to see, a frightful picture of
blood and shame. She would have cursed the Almighty had she been able to
shout out a blasphemy. Providence had deceived her for over sixty years,
by treating her as a gentle, good little girl, by amusing her with
lying representations of tranquil joy. And she had remained a child,
senselessly believing in a thousand silly things, and unable to see life
as it really is, dragging along in the sanguinary filth of passions.
Providence was bad; it should have told her the truth before, or have
allowed her to continue in her innocence and blindness. Now, it only
remained for her to die, denying love, denying friendship, denying
devotedness. Nothing existed but murder and lust.

What! Camille had been killed by Therese and Laurent, and they had
conceived the crime in shame! For Madame Raquin, there was such a
fathomless depth in this thought, that she could neither reason it
out, nor grasp it clearly. She experienced but one sensation, that of
a horrible disaster; it seemed to her that she was falling into a dark,
cold hole. And she said to herself:

"I shall be smashed to pieces at the bottom."

After the first shock, the crime appeared to her so monstrous that it
seemed impossible. Then, when convinced of the misbehaviour and murder,
by recalling certain little incidents which she had formerly failed to
understand, she was afraid of going out of her mind. Therese and Laurent
were really the murderers of Camille: Therese whom she had reared,
Laurent whom she had loved with the devoted and tender affection of
a mother. These thoughts revolved in her head like an immense wheel,
accompanied by a deafening noise.

She conjectured such vile details, fathomed such immense hypocrisy,
assisting in thought at a double vision so atrocious in irony, that she
would have liked to die, mechanical and implacable, pounded her brain
with the weight and ceaseless action of a millstone. She repeated to
herself:

"It is my children who have killed my child."

And she could think of nothing else to express her despair.

In the sudden change that had come over her heart, she no longer
recognised herself. She remained weighed down by the brutal invasion of
ideas of vengeance that drove away all the goodness of her life. When
she had been thus transformed, all was dark inwardly; she felt the birth
of a new being within her frame, a being pitiless and cruel, who would
have liked to bite the murderers of her son.

When she had succumbed to the overwhelming stroke of paralysis, when she
understood that she could not fly at the throats of Therese and Laurent,
whom she longed to strangle, she resigned herself to silence and
immobility, and great tears fell slowly from her eyes. Nothing could
be more heartrending than this mute and motionless despair. Those tears
coursing, one by one, down this lifeless countenance, not a wrinkle
of which moved, that inert, wan face which could not weep with its
features, and whose eyes alone sobbed, presented a poignant spectacle.

Therese was seized with horrified pity.

"We must put her to bed," said she to Laurent, pointing to her aunt.

Laurent hastened to roll the paralysed woman into her bedroom. Then, as
he stooped down to take her in his arms, Madame Raquin hoped that some
powerful spring would place her on her feet; and she attempted a supreme
effort. The Almighty would not permit Laurent to press her to his bosom;
she fully anticipated he would be struck down if he displayed such
monstrous impudence. But no spring came into action, and heaven reserved
its lightning. Madame Raquin remained huddled up and passive like
a bundle of linen. She was grasped, raised and carried along by the
assassin; she experienced the anguish of feeling herself feeble and
abandoned in the arms of the murderer of Camille. Her head rolled on to
the shoulder of Laurent, whom she observed with eyes increased in volume
by horror.

"You may look at me," he murmured. "Your eyes will not eat me."

And he cast her brutally on the bed. The impotent old lady fell
unconscious on the mattress. Her last thought had been one of terror and
disgust. In future, morning and night, she would have to submit to the
vile pressure of the arms of Laurent.



A shock of terror alone had made the married pair speak, and avow their
crime in the presence of Madame Raquin. Neither one nor the other was
cruel; they would have avoided such a revelation out of feelings of
humanity, had not their own security already made it imperative on their
part to maintain silence.

On the ensuing Thursday, they felt particularly anxious. In the morning,
Therese inquired of Laurent whether he considered it prudent to leave
the paralysed woman in the dining-room during the evening. She knew all
and might give the alarm.

"Bah!" replied Laurent, "it is impossible for her to raise her little
finger. How can she babble?"

"She will perhaps discover a way to do so," answered Therese. "I have
noticed an implacable thought in her eyes since the other evening."

"No," said Laurent. "You see, the doctor told me it was absolutely
all over with her. If she ever speaks again it will be in the final
death-rattle. She will not last much longer, you may be sure. It would
be stupid to place an additional load on our conscience by preventing
her being present at the gathering this evening."

Therese shuddered.

"You misunderstand me," she exclaimed. "Oh! You are right. There has
been enough crime. I meant to say that we might shut our aunt up in her
own room, pretending she was not well, and was sleeping."

"That's it," replied Laurent, "and that idiot Michaud would go straight
into the room to see his old friend, notwithstanding. It would be a
capital way to ruin us."

He hesitated. He wanted to appear calm, and anxiety gave a tremor to his
voice.

"It will be best to let matters take their course," he continued. "These
people are as silly as geese. The mute despair of the old woman will
certainly teach them nothing. They will never have the least suspicion
of the thing, for they are too far away from the truth. Once the ordeal
is over, we shall be at ease as to the consequences of our imprudence.
All will be well, you will see."

When the guests arrived in the evening, Madame Raquin occupied her usual
place, between the stove and table. Therese and Laurent feigned to be
in good spirits, concealing their shudders and awaiting, in anguish, the
incident that was bound to occur. They had brought the lamp-shade very
low down, so that the oilcloth table covering alone was lit up.

The guests engaged in the usual noisy, common-place conversation that
invariably preceded the first game of dominoes. Grivet and Michaud did
not fail to address the usual questions to the paralysed woman, on the
subject of her health, and to give excellent answers to them, as was
their custom. After which, the company, without troubling any further
about the poor old lady, plunged with delight into the game.

Since Madame Raquin had become aware of the horrible secret, she had
been awaiting this evening with feverish impatience. She had gathered
together all her remaining strength to denounce the culprits. Up to the
last moment, she feared she would not be present at the gathering; she
thought Laurent would make her disappear, perhaps kill her, or at least
shut her up in her own apartment. When she saw that her niece and nephew
allowed her to remain in the dining-room, she experienced lively joy at
the thought of attempting to avenge her son.

Aware that her tongue was powerless, she resorted to a new kind of
language. With astonishing power of will, she succeeded, in a measure,
in galvanising her right hand, in slightly raising it from her knee,
where it always lay stretched out, inert; she then made it creep little
by little up one of the legs of the table before her, and thus succeeded
in placing it on the oilcloth table cover. Then, she feebly agitated the
fingers as if to attract attention.

When the players perceived this lifeless hand, white and nerveless,
before them, they were exceedingly surprised. Grivet stopped short,
with his arm in the air, at the moment when he was about to play the
double-six. Since the impotent woman had been struck down, she had never
moved her hands.

"Hey! Just look, Therese," cried Michaud. "Madame Raquin is agitating
her fingers. She probably wants something."

Therese could not reply. Both she and Laurent had been following the
exertion of the paralysed woman, and she was now looking at the hand
of her aunt, which stood out wan in the raw light of the lamp, like
an avenging hand that was about to speak. The two murderers waited,
breathless.

"Of course," said Grivet, "she wants something. Oh! We thoroughly
understand one another. She wants to play dominoes. Eh! Isn't it so,
dear lady?"

Madame Raquin made a violent sign indicating that she wanted nothing of
the kind. She extended one finger, folded up the others with infinite
difficulty, and began to painfully trace letters on the table cover.
She had barely indicated a stroke or two, when Grivet again exclaimed in
triumph:

"I understand; she says I do right to play the double-six."

The impotent woman cast a terrible glance at the old clerk, and returned
to the word she wished to write. But Grivet interrupted her at every
moment, declaring it was needless, that he understood, and he then
brought out some stupidity. Michaud at last made him hold his tongue.

"The deuce! Allow Madame Raquin to speak," said he. "Speak, my old
friend."

And he gazed at the oilcloth table cover as if he had been listening.
But the fingers of the paralysed woman were growing weary. They had
begun the word more than ten times over, and now, in tracing this word,
they wandered to right and left. Michaud and Olivier bent forward, and
being unable to read, forced the impotent old lady to resume the first
letters.

"Ah! Bravo!" exclaimed Olivier, all at once, "I can read it, this time.
She has just written your name, Therese. Let me see: '_Therese and_----'
Complete the sentence, dear lady."

Therese almost shrieked in anguish. She watched the finger of her aunt
gliding over the oilcloth, and it seemed to her that this finger traced
her name, and the confession of her crime in letters of fire. Laurent
had risen violently, with half a mind to fling himself on the paralysed
woman and break her arm. When he saw this hand return to life to reveal
the murder of Camille, he thought all was lost, and already felt the
weight and frigidity of the knife on the nape of his neck.

Madame Raquin still wrote, but in a manner that became more and more
hesitating.

"This is perfect. I can read it very well indeed," resumed Olivier after
an instant, and with his eyes on the married pair. "Your aunt writes
your two names: '_Therese and Laurent_.'"

The old lady made sign after sign in the affirmative, casting crushing
glances on the murderers. Then she sought to complete the sentence,
but her fingers had stiffened, the supreme will that galvanised them,
escaped her. She felt the paralysis slowly descending her arm and again
grasping her wrist. She hurried on, and traced another word.

Old Michaud read out in a loud voice:

"_Therese and Laurent have----_"

And Olivier inquired:

"What have your dear children?"

The murderers, seized with blind terror, were on the point of completing
the sentence aloud. They contemplated the avenging hand with fixed
and troubled eyes, when, all at once this hand became convulsed, and
flattened out on the table. It slipped down and fell on the knee of the
impotent woman like a lump of inanimate flesh and bone. The paralysis
had returned and arrested the punishment. Michaud and Olivier sat down
again disappointed, while Therese and Laurent experienced such keen joy
that they felt like fainting under the influence of the sudden rush of
blood that beat in their bosoms.

Grivet who felt vexed at not having been believed on trust, thought
the moment had arrived to regain his infallibility, by completing the
unfinished sentence. While every one was endeavouring to supply the
missing words, he exclaimed:

"It is quite clear. I can read the whole phrase in the eyes of the lady.
It is not necessary for her to write on the table to make me understand;
a mere look suffices. She means to say:

"Therese and Laurent have been very kind to me."

Grivet, on this occasion, had cause to be proud of his imagination, for
all the company were of his opinion; and the guests began to sing the
praises of the married couple, who were so good for the poor lady.

"It is certain," old Michaud gravely remarked, "that Madame Raquin
wishes to bear testimony to the tender affection her children lavish on
her, and this does honour to the whole family."

Then, taking up his dominoes again, he added:

"Come, let us continue. Where were we? Grivet was about to play the
double-six, I think."

Grivet played the double six, and the stupid, monotonous game went on.

The paralysed woman, cut up by frightful despair, looked at her hand,
which had just betrayed her. She felt it as heavy as lead, now; never
would she be able to raise it again. Providence would not permit Camille
to be avenged. It withdrew from his mother the only means she had of
making known the crime to which he had fallen a victim. And the wretched
woman said to herself that she was now only fit to go and join her child
underground. She lowered her lids, feeling herself, henceforth, useless,
and with the desire of imagining herself already in the darkness of the
tomb.



For two months, Therese and Laurent had been struggling in the anguish
of their union. One suffered through the other. Then hatred slowly
gained them, and they ended by casting angry glances at one another,
full of secret menace.

Hatred was forced to come. They had loved like brutes, with hot passion,
entirely sanguineous. Then, amidst the enervation of their crime, their
love had turned to fright, and their kisses had produced a sort of
physical terror. At present, amid the suffering which marriage, which
life in common imposed on them, they revolted and flew into anger.

It was a bitter hatred, with terrible outbursts. They felt they were in
the way of one another, and both inwardly said that they would lead a
tranquil existence were they not always face to face. When in presence
of each other, it seemed as if an enormous weight were stifling them,
and they would have liked to remove this weight, to destroy it. Their
lips were pinched, thoughts of violence passed in their clear eyes, and
a craving beset them to devour one another.

In reality, one single thought tormented them: they were irritated at
their crime, and in despair at having for ever troubled their lives.
Hence all their anger and hatred. They felt the evil incurable, that
they would suffer for the murder of Camille until death, and this idea
of perpetual suffering exasperated them. Not knowing whom to strike,
they turned in hatred on one another.

They would not openly admit that their marriage was the final punishment
of the murder; they refused to listen to the inner voice that shouted
out the truth to them, displaying the story of their life before their
eyes. And yet, in the fits of rage that bestirred them, they both saw
clearly to the bottom of their anger, they were aware it was the furious
impulse of their egotistic nature that had urged them to murder in order
to satisfy their desire, and that they had only found in assassination,
an afflicted and intolerable existence. They recollected the past, they
knew that their mistaken hopes of lust and peaceful happiness had alone
brought them to remorse. Had they been able to embrace one another in
peace, and live in joy, they would not have mourned Camille, they would
have fattened on their crime. But their bodies had rebelled, refusing
marriage, and they inquired of themselves, in terror, where horror and
disgust would lead them. They only perceived a future that would be
horrible in pain, with a sinister and violent end.

Then, like two enemies bound together, and who were making violent
efforts to release themselves from this forced embrace, they strained
their muscles and nerves, stiffening their limbs without succeeding in
releasing themselves. At last understanding that they would never be
able to escape from their clasp, irritated by the cords cutting into
their flesh, disgusted at their contact, feeling their discomfort
increase at every moment, forgetful, and unable to bear their bonds a
moment longer, they addressed outrageous reproaches to one another, in
the hope of suffering loss, of dressing the wounds they inflicted on
themselves, by cursing and deafening each other with their shouts and
accusations.

A quarrel broke out every evening. It looked as though the murderers
sought opportunities to become exasperated so as to relax their rigid
nerves. They watched one another, sounded one another with glances,
examined the wounds of one another, discovering the raw parts, and
taking keen pleasure in causing each other to yell in pain. They lived
in constant irritation, weary of themselves, unable to support a word, a
gesture or a look, without suffering and frenzy. Both their beings
were prepared for violence; the least display of impatience, the
most ordinary contrariety increased immoderately in their disordered
organism, and all at once, took the form of brutality. A mere nothing
raised a storm that lasted until the morrow. A plate too warm, an open
window, a denial, a simple observation, sufficed to drive them into
regular fits of madness.

In the course of the discussion, they never failed to bring up the
subject of the drowned man. From sentence to sentence they came to
mutual reproaches about this drowning business at Saint-Ouen, casting
the crime in the face of one another. They grew excited to the pitch
of fury, until one felt like murdering the other. Then ensued atrocious
scenes of choking, blows, abominable cries, shameless brutalities. As a
rule, Therese and Laurent became exasperated, in this manner, after the
evening meal. They shut themselves up in the dining-room, so that the
sound of their despair should not be heard. There, they could devour
one another at ease. At the end of this damp apartment, of this sort of
vault, lighted by the yellow beams of the lamp, the tone of their voices
took harrowing sharpness, amidst the silence and tranquillity of the
atmosphere. And they did not cease until exhausted with fatigue; then
only could they go and enjoy a few hours' rest. Their quarrels became,
in a measure, necessary to them--a means of procuring a few hours' rest
by stupefying their nerves.

Madame Raquin listened. She never ceased to be there, in her armchair,
her hands dangling on her knees, her head straight, her face mute. She
heard everything, and not a shudder ran through her lifeless frame.
Her eyes rested on the murderers with the most acute fixedness. Her
martyrdom must have been atrocious. She thus learned, detail by detail,
all the events that had preceded and followed the murder of Camille.
Little by little her ears became polluted with an account of the filth
and crimes of those whom she had called her children.

These quarrels of the married couple placed her in possession of the
most minute circumstances connected with the murder, and spread out,
one by one, before her terrified mind, all the episodes of the horrible
adventure. As she went deeper into this sanguinary filth, she pleaded in
her mind for mercy, at times, she fancied she was touching the bottom of
the infamy, and still she had to descend lower. Each night, she learnt
some new detail. The frightful story continued to expand before her.
It seemed like being lost in an interminable dream of horror. The first
avowal had been brutal and crushing, but she suffered more from these
repeated blows, from these small facts which the husband and wife
allowed to escape them in their fits of anger, and which lit up the
crime with sinister rays. Once a day, this mother heard the account
of the murder of her son; and, each day this account became more
horrifying, more replete with detail, and was shouted into her ears with
greater cruelty and uproar.

On one occasion, Therese, taken aback with remorse, at the sight of
this wan countenance, with great tears slowly coursing down its cheeks,
pointed out her aunt to Laurent, beseeching him with a look to hold his
tongue.

"Well, what of it? Leave me alone!" exclaimed the latter in a brutal
tone, "you know very well that she cannot give us up. Am I more happy
than she is? We have her cash, I have no need to constrain myself."

The quarrel continued, bitter and piercing, and Camille was killed over
again. Neither Therese nor Laurent dared give way to the thoughts of
pity that sometimes came over them, and shut the paralysed woman in
her bedroom, when they quarrelled, so as to spare her the story of the
crime. They were afraid of beating one another to death, if they failed
to have this semi-corpse between them. Their pity yielded to cowardice.
They imposed ineffable sufferings on Madame Raquin because they required
her presence to protect them against their hallucinations.

All their disputes were alike, and led to the same accusations. As soon
as one of them accused the other of having killed this man, there came a
frightful shock.

One night, at dinner, Laurent who sought a pretext for becoming
irritable, found that the water in the decanter was lukewarm. He
declared that tepid water made him feel sick, and that he wanted it
fresh.

"I was unable to procure any ice," Therese answered dryly.

"Very well, I will deprive myself of drinking," retorted Laurent.

"This water is excellent," said she.

"It is warm, and has a muddy taste," he answered. "It's like water from
the river."

"Water from the river?" repeated Therese.

And she burst out sobbing. A juncture of ideas had just occurred in her
mind.

"Why do you cry?" asked Laurent, who foresaw the answer, and turned
pale.

"I cry," sobbed the young woman, "I cry because--you know why--Oh! Great
God! Great God! It was you who killed him."

"You lie!" shouted the murderer vehemently, "confess that you lie. If I
threw him into the Seine, it was you who urged me to commit the murder."

"I! I!" she exclaimed.

"Yes, you! Don't act the ignorant," he replied, "don't compel me to
force you to tell the truth. I want you to confess your crime, to take
your share in the murder. It will tranquillise and relieve me."

"But _I_ did not drown Camille," she pleaded.

"Yes, you did, a thousand times yes!" he shouted. "Oh! You feign
astonishment and want of memory. Wait a moment, I will recall your
recollections."

Rising from table, he bent over the young woman, and with crimson
countenance, yelled in her face:

"You were on the river bank, you remember, and I said to you in an
undertone: 'I am going to pitch him into the water.' Then you agreed to
it, you got into the boat. You see that we murdered him together."

"It is not true," she answered. "I was crazy, I don't know what I did,
but I never wanted to kill him. You alone committed the crime."

These denials tortured Laurent. As he had said, the idea of having an
accomplice relieved him. Had he dared, he would have attempted to prove
to himself that all the horror of the murder fell upon Therese. He
more than once felt inclined to beat the young woman, so as to make her
confess that she was the more guilty of the two.

He began striding up and down, shouting and raving, followed by the
piercing eyes of Madame Raquin.

"Ah! The wretch! The wretch!" he stammered in a choking voice, "she
wants to drive me mad. Look, did you not come up to my room one evening,
did you not intoxicate me with your caresses to persuade me to rid
you of your husband? You told me, when I visited you here, that he
displeased you, that he had the odour of a sickly child. Did I think
of all this three years ago? Was I a rascal? I was leading the peaceful
existence of an upright man, doing no harm to anybody. I would not have
killed a fly."

"It was you who killed Camille," repeated Therese with such desperate
obstinacy that she made Laurent lose his head.

"No, it was you, I say it was you," he retorted with a terrible burst
of rage. "Look here, don't exasperate me, or if you do you'll suffer for
it. What, you wretch, have you forgotten everything? You who maddened me
with your caresses! Confess that it was all a calculation in your mind,
that you hated Camille, and that you had wanted to kill him for a long
time. No doubt you took me as a sweetheart, so as to drive me to put an
end to him."

"It is not true," said she. "What you relate is monstrous. You have no
right to reproach me with my weakness towards you. I can speak in regard
to you, as you speak of me. Before I knew you, I was a good woman, who
never wronged a soul. If I drove you mad, it was you made me madder
still. Listen Laurent, don't let us quarrel. I have too much to reproach
you with."

"What can you reproach me with?" he inquired.

"No, nothing," she answered. "You did not save me from myself, you took
advantage of my surrender, you chose to spoil my life. I forgive you
all that. But, in mercy, do not accuse me of killing Camille. Keep your
crime for yourself. Do not seek to make me more terrified than I am
already."

Laurent raised his hand to strike her in the face.

"Beat me, I prefer that," said she, "I shall suffer less."

And she advanced her head. But he restrained himself, and taking a
chair, sat down beside her.

"Listen," he began in a voice that he endeavoured to render calm, "it is
cowardly to refuse to take your share in the crime. You know perfectly
well that as we did the deed together, you know you are as guilty as I
am. Why do you want to make my load heavier, by saying you are innocent?
If you were so, you would not have consented to marry me. Just recall
what passed during the two years following the murder. Do you want a
proof? If so I will go and relate everything to the Public Prosecutor,
and you will see whether we are not both condemned."

They shuddered, and Therese resumed:

"Men may, perhaps, condemn me, but Camille knows very well that you did
everything. He does not torment me at night as he does you."

"Camille leaves me in peace," said Laurent, pale and trembling, "it is
you who see him before you in your nightmares. I have heard you shout
out."

"Don't say that," angrily exclaimed the young woman. "I have never
shouted out. I don't wish the spectre to appear. Oh! I understand, you
want to drive it away from yourself. I am innocent, I am innocent!"

They looked at one another in terror, exhausted with fatigue, fearing
they had evoked the corpse of the drowned man. Their quarrels invariably
ended in this way; they protested their innocence, they sought to
deceive themselves, so as to drive away their bad dreams. They made
constant efforts, each in turn, to reject the responsibility of the
crime, defending themselves as though they were before a judge and jury,
and accusing one another.

The strangest part of this attitude was that they did not succeed in
duping themselves by their oaths. Both had a perfect recollection of all
the circumstances connected with the murder, and their eyes avowed what
their lips denied.

Their falsehoods were puerile, their affirmations ridiculous. It was the
wordy dispute of two wretches who lied for the sake of lying, without
succeeding in concealing from themselves that they did so. Each took the
part of accuser in turn, and although the prosecution they instituted
against one another proved barren of result, they began it again every
evening with cruel tenacity.

They were aware that they would prove nothing, that they would not
succeed in effacing the past, and still they attempted this task, still
they returned to the charge, spurred on by pain and terror, vanquished
in advance by overwhelming reality. The sole advantage they derived from
their disputes, consisted in producing a tempest of words and cries, and
the riot occasioned in this manner momentarily deafened them.

And all the time their anger lasted, all the time they were accusing one
another, the paralysed woman never ceased to gaze at them. Ardent joy
sparkled in her eyes, when Laurent raised his broad hand above the head
of Therese.



Matters now took a different aspect. Therese, driven into a corner by
fright, not knowing which way to turn for a consoling thought, began to
weep aloud over the drowned man, in the presence of Laurent.

She abruptly became depressed, her overstrained nerves relaxed,
her unfeeling and violent nature softened. She had already felt
compassionate in the early days of her second marriage, and this feeling
now returned, as a necessary and fatal reaction.

When the young woman had struggled with all her nervous energy against
the spectre of Camille, when she had lived in sullen irritation for
several months up in arms against her sufferings, seeking to get the
better of them by efforts of will, she all at once experienced such
extraordinary lassitude that she yielded vanquished. Then, having become
a woman again, even a little girl, no longer feeling the strength
to stiffen herself, to stand feverishly erect before her terror, she
plunged into pity, into tears and regret, in the hope of finding some
relief. She sought to reap advantage from her weakness of body and mind.
Perhaps the drowned man, who had not given way to her irritation, would
be more unbending to her tears.

Her remorse was all calculation. She thought that this would no doubt be
the best way to appease and satisfy Camille. Like certain devotees, who
fancy they will deceive the Almighty, and secure pardon by praying
with their lips, and assuming the humble attitude of penitence, Therese
displayed humility, striking her chest, finding words of repentance,
without having anything at the bottom of her heart save fear and
cowardice. Besides, she experienced a sort of physical pleasure in
giving way in this manner, in feeling feeble and undone, in abandoning
herself to grief without resistance.

She overwhelmed Madame Raquin with her tearful despair. The paralysed
woman became of daily use to her. She served as a sort of praying-desk,
as a piece of furniture in front of which Therese could fearlessly
confess her faults and plead for forgiveness. As soon as she felt
inclined to cry, to divert herself by sobbing, she knelt before the
impotent old lady, and there, wailing and choking, performed to her
alone a scene of remorse which weakened but relieved her.

"I am a wretch," she stammered, "I deserve no mercy. I deceived you, I
drove your son to his death. Never will you forgive me. And yet, if
you only knew how I am rent by remorse, if you only knew how I suffer,
perhaps you would have pity. No, no pity for me. I should like to die
here at your feet, overwhelmed by shame and grief."

She spoke in this manner for hours together, passing from despair to
hope, condemning and then pardoning herself; she assumed the voice,
brief and plaintive in turn, of a little sick girl; she flattened
herself on the ground and drew herself up again, acting upon all the
ideas of humility and pride, of repentance and revolt that entered her
head. Sometimes even, forgetting she was on her knees before Madame
Raquin, she continued her monologue as in a dream. When she had made
herself thoroughly giddy with her own words, she rose staggering and
dazed, to go down to the shop in a calmer frame of mind, no longer
fearing to burst into sobs before her customers. When she again felt
inclined for remorse, she ran upstairs and knelt at the feet of the
impotent woman. This scene was repeated ten times a day.

Therese never reflected that her tears, and display of repentance must
impose ineffable anguish on her aunt. The truth was that if she had
desired to invent a torment to torture Madame Raquin, it would not have
been possible to have found a more frightful one than the comedy of
remorse she performed before her. The paralysed woman could see the
egotism concealed beneath these effusions of grief. She suffered
horribly from these long monologues which she was compelled to listen to
at every instant, and which always brought the murder of Camille before
her eyes. She could not pardon, she never departed from the implacable
thought of vengeance that her impotency rendered more keen, and all day
long she had to listen to pleas for pardon, and to humble and cowardly
prayers.

She would have liked to give an answer; certain sentences of her niece
brought crushing refusals to her lips, but she had to remain mute and
allow Therese to plead her cause without once interrupting her.
The impossibility of crying out and stopping her ears caused her
inexpressible torture. The words of the young woman entered her mind,
slow and plaintive, as an irritating ditty. At first, she fancied the
murderers inflicted this kind of torture on her out of sheer diabolical
cruelty. Her sole means of defence was to close her eyes, as soon as her
niece knelt before her, then although she heard, she did not see her.

Therese, at last, had the impudence to kiss her aunt. One day, in a fit
of repentance, she feigned she had perceived a gleam of mercy in the
eyes of the paralysed woman; and she dragged herself along on her knees,
she raised herself up, exclaiming in a distracted tone:

"You forgive me! You forgive me!"

Then she kissed the forehead and cheeks of the poor old creature, who
was unable to throw her head backward so as to avoid the embrace. The
cold skin on which Therese placed her lips, caused her violent disgust.
She fancied this disgust, like the tears of remorse, would be an
excellent remedy to appease her nerves; and she continued to kiss the
impotent old woman daily, by way of penitence, and also to relieve
herself.

"Oh! How good you are!" she sometimes exclaimed. "I can see my tears
have touched you. Your eyes are full of pity. I am saved."

Then she smothered her with caresses, placing the head of the infirm
old lady on her knees, kissing her hands, smiling at her happily,
and attending to all her requirements with a display of passionate
affection. After a time, she believed in the reality of this comedy,
she imagined she had obtained the pardon of Madame Raquin, and spoke of
nothing but the delight she experienced at having secured her pardon.

This was too much for the paralysed woman. It almost killed her. At the
kisses of her niece, she again felt that sensation of bitter repugnance
and rage which came over her, morning and night, when Laurent took her
in his arms to lift her up, or lay her down. She was obliged to submit
to the disgusting caresses of the wretch who had betrayed and killed her
son. She could not even use her hand to wipe away the kisses that this
woman left on her cheeks; and, for hours and hours together, she felt
these kisses burning her.

She became the doll of the murderers of Camille, a doll that they
dressed, that they turned to right and left, and that they made use of
according to their requirements and whims. She remained inert in their
hands, as if she had been a lay-figure, and yet she lived, and became
excited and indignant at the least contact with Therese or Laurent.

What particularly exasperated her was the atrocious mockery of the young
woman, who pretended she perceived expressions of mercy in her eyes,
when she would have liked to have brought down fire from heaven on the
head of the criminal. She frequently made supreme efforts to utter a
cry of protestation, and loaded her looks with hatred. But Therese, who
found it answered her purpose to repeat twenty times a day that she
was pardoned, redoubled her caresses, and would see nothing. So the
paralysed woman had to accept the thanks and effusions that her heart
repelled. Henceforth, she lived in a state of bitter but powerless
irritation, face to face with her yielding niece who displayed adorable
acts of tenderness to recompense her for what she termed her heavenly
goodness.

When Therese knelt before Madame Raquin, in the presence of her husband,
he brutally brought her to her feet.

"No acting," said he. "Do I weep, do I prostrate myself? You do all this
to trouble me."

The remorse of Therese caused him peculiar agitation. His suffering
increased now that his accomplice dragged herself about him, with eyes
red by weeping, and supplicating lips. The sight of this living example
of regret redoubled his fright and added to his uneasiness. It was like
an everlasting reproach wandering through the house. Then he feared that
repentance would one day drive his wife to reveal everything. He would
have preferred her to remain rigid and threatening, bitterly defending
herself against his accusations. But she had changed her tactics. She
now readily recognised the share she had taken in the crime. She even
accused herself. She had become yielding and timid, and starting from
this point implored redemption with ardent humility. This attitude
irritated Laurent, and every evening the quarrels of the couple became
more afflicting and sinister.

"Listen to me," said Therese to her husband, "we are very guilty. We
must repent if we wish to enjoy tranquillity. Look at me. Since I have
been weeping I am more peaceable. Imitate me. Let us say together that
we are justly punished for having committed a horrible crime."

"Bah!" roughly answered Laurent, "you can say what you please. I know
you are deucedly clever and hypocritical. Weep, if that diverts you. But
I must beg you not to worry me with your tears."

"Ah!" said she, "you are bad. You reject remorse. You are cowardly. You
acted as a traitor to Camille."

"Do you mean to say that I alone am guilty?" he inquired.

"No," she replied, "I do not say that. I am guilty, more guilty than you
are. I ought to have saved my husband from your hands. Oh! I am aware
of all the horror of my fault. But I have sought pardon, and I have
succeeded, Laurent, whereas you continue to lead a disconsolate life.
You have not even had the feeling to spare my poor aunt the sight of
your vile anger. You have never even addressed a word of regret to her."

And she embraced Madame Raquin, who shut her eyes. She hovered round
her, raising the pillow that propped up her head, and showing her all
kinds of attention. Laurent was infuriated.

"Oh, leave her alone," he cried. "Can't you see that your services, and
the very sight of you are odious to her. If she could lift her hand she
would slap your face."

The slow and plaintive words of his wife, and her attitudes of
resignation, gradually drove him into blinding fits of anger. He
understood her tactics; she no longer wished to be at one with him, but
to set herself apart wrapped in her regret, so as to escape the clasp
of the drowned man. And, at moments, he said to himself that she had
perhaps taken the right path, that tears might cure her of her terror,
and he shuddered at the thought of having to suffer, and contend with
fright alone.

He also would have liked to repent, or at least to have performed the
comedy of repentance, to see what effect it would have. Unable to find
the sobs and necessary words, he flung himself into violence again,
stirring up Therese so as to irritate her and lead her back with him
to furious madness. But the young woman took care to remain inert,
to answer his cries of anger by tearful submission, and to meet his
coarseness by a proportionate display of humility and repentance.
Laurent was thus gradually driven to fury. To crown his irritation,
Therese always ended with the panegyric of Camille so as to display the
virtues of the victim.

"He was good," said she, "and we must have been very cruel to assail
such a warm-hearted man who had never a bad thought."

"He was good, yes, I know," jeered Laurent. "You mean to say he was a
fool. You must have forgotten! You pretended you were irritated at
the slightest thing he said, that he could not open his mouth without
letting out some stupidity."

"Don't jeer," said Therese. "It only remains for you to insult the man
you murdered. You know nothing about the feelings of a woman, Laurent;
Camille loved me and I loved him."

"You loved him! Ah! Really what a capital idea," exclaimed Laurent. "And
no doubt it was because you loved your husband, that you took me as a
sweetheart. I remember one day when we were together, that you told me
Camille disgusted you, when you felt the end of your fingers enter his
flesh as if it were soft clay. Oh! I know why you loved me. You required
more vigorous arms than those of that poor devil."

"I loved him as a sister," answered Therese. "He was the son of my
benefactress. He had all the delicate feelings of a feeble man. He
showed himself noble and generous, serviceable and loving. And we killed
him, good God! good God!"

She wept, and swooned away. Madame Raquin cast piercing glances at her,
indignant to hear the praise of Camille sung by such a pair of lips.
Laurent who was unable to do anything against this overflow of tears,
walked to and fro with furious strides, searching in his head for some
means to stifle the remorse of Therese.

All the good he heard said of his victim ended by causing him poignant
anxiety. Now and again he let himself be caught by the heartrending
accents of his wife. He really believed in the virtues of Camille, and
his terror redoubled. But what tried his patience beyond measure was
the comparison that the widow of the drowned man never failed to draw
between her first and second husband, and which was all to the advantage
of the former.

"Well! Yes," she cried, "he was better than you. I would sooner he were
alive now, and you in his place underground."

Laurent first of all shrugged his shoulders.

"Say what you will," she continued, becoming animated, "although I
perhaps failed to love him in his lifetime, yet I remember all his good
qualities now, and do love him. Yes, I love him and hate you, do you
hear? For you are an assassin."

"Will you hold your tongue?" yelled Laurent.

"And he is a victim," she went on, notwithstanding the threatening
attitude of her husband, "an upright man killed by a rascal. Oh! I am
not afraid of you. You know well enough that you are a miserable wretch,
a brute of a man without a heart, and without a soul. How can you expect
me to love you, now that you are reeking with the blood of Camille?
Camille was full of tenderness for me, and I would kill you, do you
hear, if that could bring him to life again, and give me back his love."

"Will you hold your tongue, you wretch?" shouted Laurent.

"Why should I hold my tongue?" she retorted. "I am speaking the truth.
I would purchase forgiveness at the price of your blood. Ah! How I
weep, and how I suffer! It is my own fault if a scoundrel, such as you,
murdered my husband. I must go, one of these nights, and kiss the ground
where he rests. That will be my final rapture."

Laurent, beside himself, rendered furious by the atrocious pictures that
Therese spread out before his eyes, rushed upon her, and threw her down,
menacing her with his uplifted fist.

"That's it," she cried, "strike me, kill me! Camille never once raised
his hand to me, but you are a monster."

And Laurent, spurred on by what she said, shook her with rage, beat her,
bruised her body with his clenched fists. In two instances he almost
strangled her. Therese yielded to his blows. She experienced keen
delight in being struck, delivering herself up, thrusting her body
forward, provoking her husband in every way, so that he might half kill
her again. This was another remedy for her suffering. She slept better
at night when she had been thoroughly beaten in the evening. Madame
Raquin enjoyed exquisite pleasure, when Laurent dragged her niece along
the floor in this way, belabouring her with thumps and kicks.

The existence of the assassin had become terrible since the day when
Therese conceived the infernal idea of feeling remorse and of mourning
Camille aloud. From that moment the wretch lived everlastingly with
his victim. At every hour, he had to listen to his wife praising and
regretting her first husband. The least incident became a pretext:
Camille did this, Camille did that, Camille had such and such qualities,
Camille loved in such and such a way.

It was always Camille! Ever sad remarks bewailing his death. Therese
had recourse to all her spitefulness to render this torture, which she
inflicted on Laurent so as to shield her own self, as cruel as possible.
She went into details, relating a thousand insignificant incidents
connected with her youth, accompanied by sighs and expressions of
regret, and in this manner, mingled the remembrance of the drowned man
with every action of her daily life.

The corpse which already haunted the house, was introduced there openly.
It sat on the chairs, took its place at table, extended itself on the
bed, making use of the various articles of furniture, and of the objects
lying about hither and thither. Laurent could touch nothing, not a fork,
not a brush, without Therese making him feel that Camille had touched it
before him.

The murderer being ceaselessly thrust, so to say, against the man he had
killed, ended by experiencing a strange sensation that very nearly drove
him out of his mind. By being so constantly compared to Camille, by
making use of the different articles Camille had used, he imagined he
was Camille himself, that he was identical with his victim. Then, with
his brain fit to burst, he flew at his wife to make her hold her tongue,
so as to no longer hear the words that drove him frantic. All their
quarrels now ended in blows.

 After watching her body weaken and her joints stiffen, Mme Raquin finds herself reduced to a completely paralyzed state by a sudden stroke. And with Mme Raquin's absolute paralysis, a new stage is opened in Therese and Laurent's life of despair. Without the old woman's distracting chatter, they have no choice but to face their murderous choice and the terrors of Camille's lingering presence. Therese, however, finds a diversion and a little comfort in caring for the immobile old woman, and becomes very good at administering to Mme Raquin's every need. The Thursday evening guests have their own way of coping with the change; they pretend that nothing has happened to Mme Raquin. Grivet even jokes with the paralyzed woman and acts as though he understands her perfectly, though in fact he misreads or misconstrues her every wish. Yet the paralyzed Mme Raquin is still able to communicate quite effectively; her eyes can take on an astonishing range of expressions and reveal with great accuracy what she is feeling and thinking. Mme Raquin believes that she will die in peace, surrounded by her beloved little family. However, she is in for a rude shock. After closely observing Therese and Laurent for several weeks, Mme Raquin intuits the true, anguished relationship between the young couple and understands what is at the root of their actions - the murder of Camille. And Mme Raquin is transformed. She wants to repudiate God for misleading her for so long, for making her believe in human goodness. She is motivated, now, by a desire to see vengeance enacted upon her son's killers. Therese and Laurent quickly become aware that their secret has been uncovered by the old woman, but they continue to minister to her needs. Now, being carried around by Laurent and being looked after by Therese is torture to Mme Raquin. Since they know that their secret is out, Therese and Laurent must decide how to deal with Mme Raquin. Therese believes that Mme Raquin will find a way to communicate her knowledge, despite her paralysis, yet Laurent is more afraid of arousing suspicions by keeping Mme Raquin out of sight. So the two accomplices decide that Mme Raquin will continue to attend the Thursday evenings. At the next gathering, Mme Raquin gathers the last of her strength and attempts to make the murder known; she can only communicate by moving her right hand, but even this is enough. Unfortunately for her, her attempts to deliver her knowledge are hampered by Grivet, who tries to decipher her meaning. Mme Raquin is nonetheless able to trace out the following message: "Therese and Laurent are..." And then her strength fails. Grivet unhelpfully finishes the sentence by claiming that Mme Raquin meant to write "Therese and Laurent are taking good care of me." The old woman is crushed, trapped by her own sense of defeat and uselessness. The relationship between Therese and Laurent is marked by increasing rancor and violence. Every evening a loud quarrel breaks out, and the two murderers - now feeling mutually, inescapably trapped - cast blame on each other for Camille's murder and their ensuing misfortunes. Forced to listen to these altercations, Mme Raquin learns the details of her son's death. The old woman is annoyed to see that Therese, on occasion, strikes a remorseful tone and asks forgiveness for her crimes against Camille. Mme Raquin is, however, delighted by the direction that these quarrels soon take; rather than just answering Therese's accusations and crafting insults of his own, Laurent soon begins to beat his wife. Now Therese's attempts to escape her past deeds enter a new phase. The young woman regularly approaches Mme Raquin to beg her forgiveness, often using elaborate speeches and tearful demonstrations, and often in Laurent's presence. Therese makes a point of criticizing Laurent and of praising the departed Camille. For Laurent, these demonstrations are simply an aggravating hypocrisy and his state of maddened fury becomes even more extreme. He now assaults Therese regularly, yet he also suffers from the troubling, brain-bursting sensation that he is becoming Camille himself.

