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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



The following morning, Laurent awoke fresh and fit. He had slept well.
The cold air entering by the open window, whipped his sluggish blood. He
had no clear recollection of the scenes of the previous day, and had it
not been for the burning sensation at his neck, he might have thought
that he had retired to rest after a calm evening.

But the bite Camille had given him stung as if his skin had been branded
with a red-hot iron. When his thoughts settled on the pain this gash
caused him, he suffered cruelly. It seemed as though a dozen needles
were penetrating little by little into his flesh.

He turned down the collar of his shirt, and examined the wound in a
wretched fifteen sous looking-glass hanging against the wall. It formed
a red hole, as big as a penny piece. The skin had been torn away,
displaying the rosy flesh, studded with dark specks. Streaks of blood
had run as far as the shoulder in thin threads that had dried up. The
bite looked a deep, dull brown colour against the white skin, and was
situated under the right ear. Laurent scrutinised it with curved back
and craned neck, and the greenish mirror gave his face an atrocious
grimace.

Satisfied with his examination, he had a thorough good wash, saying to
himself that the wound would be healed in a few days. Then he dressed,
and quietly repaired to his office, where he related the accident in an
affected tone of voice. When his colleagues had read the account in the
newspapers, he became quite a hero. During a whole week the clerks at
the Orleans Railway had no other subject of conversation: they were all
proud that one of their staff should have been drowned. Grivet never
ceased his remarks on the imprudence of adventuring into the middle
of the Seine, when it was so easy to watch the running water from the
bridges.

Laurent retained a feeling of intense uneasiness. The decease of Camille
had not been formally proved. The husband of Therese was indeed dead,
but the murderer would have liked to have found his body, so as to
obtain a certificate of death. The day following the accident, a
fruitless search had been made for the corpse of the drowned man. It was
thought that it had probably gone to the bottom of some hole near the
banks of the islands, and men were actively dragging the Seine to get
the reward.

In the meantime Laurent imposed on himself the task of passing each
morning by the Morgue, on the way to his office. He had made up his mind
to attend to the business himself. Notwithstanding that his heart rose
with repugnance, notwithstanding the shudders that sometimes ran through
his frame, for over a week he went and examined the countenance of all
the drowned persons extended on the slabs.

When he entered the place an unsavoury odour, an odour of freshly washed
flesh, disgusted him and a chill ran over his skin: the dampness of the
walls seemed to add weight to his clothing, which hung more heavily on
his shoulders. He went straight to the glass separating the spectators
from the corpses, and with his pale face against it, looked. Facing him
appeared rows of grey slabs, and upon them, here and there, the naked
bodies formed green and yellow, white and red patches. While some
retained their natural condition in the rigidity of death, others seemed
like lumps of bleeding and decaying meat. At the back, against the wall,
hung some lamentable rags, petticoats and trousers, puckered against the
bare plaster. Laurent at first only caught sight of the wan ensemble of
stones and walls, spotted with dabs of russet and black formed by
the clothes and corpses. A melodious sound of running water broke the
silence.

Little by little he distinguished the bodies, and went from one to the
other. It was only the drowned that interested him. When several human
forms were there, swollen and blued by the water, he looked at them
eagerly, seeking to recognise Camille. Frequently, the flesh on the
faces had gone away by strips, the bones had burst through the mellow
skins, the visages were like lumps of boned, boiled beef. Laurent
hesitated; he looked at the corpses, endeavouring to discover the lean
body of his victim. But all the drowned were stout. He saw enormous
stomachs, puffy thighs, and strong round arms. He did not know what to
do. He stood there shuddering before those greenish-looking rags, which
seemed like mocking him, with their horrible wrinkles.

One morning, he was seized with real terror. For some moments, he had
been looking at a corpse, taken from the water, that was small in build
and atrociously disfigured. The flesh of this drowned person was so soft
and broken-up that the running water washing it, carried it away bit by
bit. The jet falling on the face, bored a hole to the left of the nose.
And, abruptly, the nose became flat, the lips were detached, showing the
white teeth. The head of the drowned man burst out laughing.

Each time Laurent fancied he recognised Camille, he felt a burning
sensation in the heart. He ardently desired to find the body of his
victim, and he was seized with cowardice when he imagined it before him.
His visits to the Morgue filled him with nightmare, with shudders that
set him panting for breath. But he shook off his fear, taxing himself
with being childish, when he wished to be strong. Still, in spite of
himself, his frame revolted, disgust and terror gained possession of his
being, as soon as ever he found himself in the dampness, and unsavoury
odour of the hall.

When there were no drowned persons on the back row of slabs, he breathed
at ease; his repugnance was not so great. He then became a simple
spectator, who took strange pleasure in looking death by violence in the
face, in its lugubriously fantastic and grotesque attitudes. This sight
amused him, particularly when there were women there displaying their
bare bosoms. These nudities, brutally exposed, bloodstained, and in
places bored with holes, attracted and detained him.

Once he saw a young woman of twenty there, a child of the people, broad
and strong, who seemed asleep on the stone. Her fresh, plump, white form
displayed the most delicate softness of tint. She was half smiling, with
her head slightly inclined on one side. Around her neck she had a black
band, which gave her a sort of necklet of shadow. She was a girl who had
hanged herself in a fit of love madness.

Each morning, while Laurent was there, he heard behind him the coming
and going of the public who entered and left.

The morgue is a sight within reach of everybody, and one to which
passers-by, rich and poor alike, treat themselves. The door stands open,
and all are free to enter. There are admirers of the scene who go out of
their way so as not to miss one of these performances of death. If the
slabs have nothing on them, visitors leave the building disappointed,
feeling as if they had been cheated, and murmuring between their teeth;
but when they are fairly well occupied, people crowd in front of them
and treat themselves to cheap emotions; they express horror, they joke,
they applaud or whistle, as at the theatre, and withdraw satisfied,
declaring the Morgue a success on that particular day.

Laurent soon got to know the public frequenting the place, that mixed
and dissimilar public who pity and sneer in common. Workmen looked in
on their way to their work, with a loaf of bread and tools under their
arms. They considered death droll. Among them were comical companions
of the workshops who elicited a smile from the onlookers by making witty
remarks about the faces of each corpse. They styled those who had been
burnt to death, coalmen; the hanged, the murdered, the drowned, the
bodies that had been stabbed or crushed, excited their jeering vivacity,
and their voices, which slightly trembled, stammered out comical
sentences amid the shuddering silence of the hall.

There came persons of small independent means, old men who were thin and
shrivelled-up, idlers who entered because they had nothing to do, and
who looked at the bodies in a silly manner with the pouts of peaceful,
delicate-minded men. Women were there in great numbers: young
work-girls, all rosy, with white linen, and clean petticoats, who
tripped along briskly from one end of the glazed partition to the other,
opening great attentive eyes, as if they were before the dressed shop
window of a linendraper. There were also women of the lower orders
looking stupefied, and giving themselves lamentable airs; and
well-dressed ladies, carelessly dragging their silk gowns along the
floor.

On a certain occasion Laurent noticed one of the latter standing at a
few paces from the glass, and pressing her cambric handkerchief to her
nostrils. She wore a delicious grey silk skirt with a large black lace
mantle; her face was covered by a veil, and her gloved hands seemed
quite small and delicate. Around her hung a gentle perfume of violet.

She stood scrutinising a corpse. On a slab a few paces away, was
stretched the body of a great, big fellow, a mason who had recently
killed himself on the spot by falling from a scaffolding. He had a broad
chest, large short muscles, and a white, well-nourished body; death had
made a marble statue of him. The lady examined him, turned him round
and weighed him, so to say, with her eyes. For a time, she seemed quite
absorbed in the contemplation of this man. She raised a corner of her
veil for one last look. Then she withdrew.

At moments, bands of lads arrived--young people between twelve and
fifteen, who leant with their hands against the glass, nudging one
another with their elbows, and making brutal observations.

At the end of a week, Laurent became disheartened. At night he dreamt
of the corpses he had seen in the morning. This suffering, this daily
disgust which he imposed on himself, ended by troubling him to such a
point, that he resolved to pay only two more visits to the place. The
next day, on entering the Morgue, he received a violent shock in the
chest. Opposite him, on a slab, Camille lay looking at him, extended on
his back, his head raised, his eyes half open.

The murderer slowly approached the glass, as if attracted there,
unable to detach his eyes from his victim. He did not suffer; he merely
experienced a great inner chill, accompanied by slight pricks on his
skin. He would have thought that he would have trembled more violently.
For fully five minutes, he stood motionless, lost in unconscious
contemplation, engraving, in spite of himself, in his memory, all the
horrible lines, all the dirty colours of the picture he had before his
eyes.

Camille was hideous. He had been a fortnight in the water. His face
still appeared firm and rigid; the features were preserved, but the skin
had taken a yellowish, muddy tint. The thin, bony, and slightly tumefied
head, wore a grimace. It was a trifle inclined on one side, with the
hair sticking to the temples, and the lids raised, displaying the dull
globes of the eyes. The twisted lips were drawn to a corner of the mouth
in an atrocious grin; and a piece of blackish tongue appeared
between the white teeth. This head, which looked tanned and drawn out
lengthwise, while preserving a human appearance, had remained all the
more frightful with pain and terror.

The body seemed a mass of ruptured flesh; it had suffered horribly.
You could feel that the arms no longer held to their sockets; and the
clavicles were piercing the skin of the shoulders. The ribs formed black
bands on the greenish chest; the left side, ripped open, was gaping
amidst dark red shreds. All the torso was in a state of putrefaction.
The extended legs, although firmer, were daubed with dirty patches. The
feet dangled down.

Laurent gazed at Camille. He had never yet seen the body of a drowned
person presenting such a dreadful aspect. The corpse, moreover, looked
pinched. It had a thin, poor appearance. It had shrunk up in its decay,
and the heap it formed was quite small. Anyone might have guessed
that it belonged to a clerk at 1,200 francs a year, who was stupid and
sickly, and who had been brought up by his mother on infusions. This
miserable frame, which had grown to maturity between warm blankets, was
now shivering on a cold slab.

When Laurent could at last tear himself from the poignant curiosity that
kept him motionless and gaping before his victim, he went out and begun
walking rapidly along the quay. And as he stepped out, he repeated:

"That is what I have done. He is hideous."

A smell seemed to be following him, the smell that the putrefying body
must be giving off.

He went to find old Michaud, and told him he had just recognized Camille
lying on one of the slabs in the Morgue. The formalities were performed,
the drowned man was buried, and a certificate of death delivered.
Laurent, henceforth at ease, felt delighted to be able to bury his
crime in oblivion, along with the vexatious and painful scenes that had
followed it.



The shop in the Arcade of the Pont Neuf remained closed for three days.
When it opened again, it appeared darker and damper. The shop-front
display, which the dust had turned yellow, seemed to be wearing the
mourning of the house; the various articles were scattered at sixes
and sevens in the dirty windows. Behind the linen caps hanging from
the rusty iron rods, the face of Therese presented a more olive, a more
sallow pallidness, and the immobility of sinister calm.

All the gossips in the arcade were moved to pity. The dealer in
imitation jewelry pointed out the emaciated profile of the young widow
to each of her customers, as an interesting and lamentable curiosity.

For three days, Madame Raquin and Therese had remained in bed without
speaking, and without even seeing one another. The old mercer, propped
up by pillows in a sitting posture, gazed vaguely before her with the
eyes of an idiot. The death of her son had been like a blow on the head
that had felled her senseless to the ground. For hours she remained
tranquil and inert, absorbed in her despair; then she was at times
seized with attacks of weeping, shrieking and delirium.

Therese in the adjoining room, seemed to sleep. She had turned her face
to the wall, and drawn the sheet over her eyes. There she lay
stretched out at full length, rigid and mute, without a sob raising the
bed-clothes. It looked as if she was concealing the thoughts that made
her rigid in the darkness of the alcove.

Suzanne, who attended to the two women, went feebly from one to the
other, gently dragging her feet along the floor, bending her wax-like
countenance over the two couches, without succeeding in persuading
Therese, who had sudden fits of impatience, to turn round, or in
consoling Madame Raquin, whose tears began to flow as soon as a voice
drew her from her prostration.

On the third day, Therese, rapidly and with a sort of feverish decision,
threw the sheet from her, and seated herself up in bed. She thrust back
her hair from her temples, and for a moment remained with her hands to
her forehead and her eyes fixed, seeming still to reflect. Then, she
sprang to the carpet. Her limbs were shivering, and red with fever;
large livid patches marbled her skin, which had become wrinkled in
places as if she had lost flesh. She had grown older.

Suzanne, on entering the room, was struck with surprise to find her
up. In a placid, drawling tone, she advised her to go to bed again, and
continue resting. Therese paid no heed to her, but sought her clothes
and put them on with hurried, trembling gestures. When she was dressed,
she went and looked at herself in a glass, rubbing her eyes, and passing
her hands over her countenance, as if to efface something. Then, without
pronouncing a syllable, she quickly crossed the dining-room and entered
the apartment occupied by Madame Raquin.

She caught the old mercer in a moment of doltish calm. When Therese
appeared, she turned her head following the movements of the young widow
with her eyes, while the latter came and stood before her, mute and
oppressed. The two women contemplated one another for some seconds, the
niece with increasing anxiety, the aunt with painful efforts of memory.
Madame Raquin, at last remembering, stretched out her trembling arms,
and, taking Therese by the neck, exclaimed:

"My poor child, my poor Camille!"

She wept, and her tears dried on the burning skin of the young widow,
who concealed her own dry eyes in the folds of the sheet. Therese
remained bending down, allowing the old mother to exhaust her outburst
of grief. She had dreaded this first interview ever since the murder;
and had kept in bed to delay it, to reflect at ease on the terrible part
she had to play.

When she perceived Madame Raquin more calm, she busied herself about
her, advising her to rise, and go down to the shop. The old mercer
had almost fallen into dotage. The abrupt apparition of her niece had
brought about a favourable crisis that had just restored her memory, and
the consciousness of things and beings around her. She thanked Suzanne
for her attention. Although weakened, she talked, and had ceased
wandering, but she spoke in a voice so full of sadness that at moments
she was half choked. She watched the movements of Therese with sudden
fits of tears; and would then call her to the bedside, and embrace her
amid more sobs, telling her in a suffocating tone that she, now, had
nobody but her in the world.

In the evening, she consented to get up, and make an effort to eat.
Therese then saw what a terrible shock her aunt had received. The legs
of the old lady had become so ponderous that she required a stick to
assist her to drag herself into the dining-room, and there she thought
the walls were vacillating around her.

Nevertheless, the following day she wished the shop to be opened. She
feared she would go mad if she continued to remain alone in her room.
She went down the wooden staircase with heavy tread, placing her two
feet on each step, and seated herself behind the counter. From that day
forth, she remained riveted there in placid affliction.

Therese, beside her, mused and waited. The shop resumed its gloomy calm.



Laurent resumed calling of an evening, every two or three days,
remaining in the shop talking to Madame Raquin for half an hour. Then
he went off without looking Therese in the face. The old mercer regarded
him as the rescuer of her niece, as a noble-hearted young man who had
done his utmost to restore her son to her, and she welcomed him with
tender kindness.

One Thursday evening, when Laurent happened to be there, old Michaud
and Grivet entered. Eight o'clock was striking. The clerk and the former
commissary of police had both thought, independently of one another,
that they could resume their dear custom, without appearing importunate,
and they arrived at the same moment, as if urged by the same impulse.
Behind them, came Olivier and Suzanne.

Everyone went upstairs to the dining-room. Madame Raquin who expected
nobody, hastened to light the lamp, and prepare the tea. When all were
seated round the table, each before a cup, when the box of dominoes
had been emptied on the board, the old mother, with the past suddenly
brought back to her, looked at her guests, and burst into sobs. There
was a vacant place, that of her son.

This despair cast a chill upon the company and annoyed them. Every
countenance wore an air of egotistic beatitude. These people felt ill
at ease, having no longer the slightest recollection of Camille alive in
their hearts.

"Come, my dear lady," exclaimed old Michaud, slightly impatiently, "you
must not give way to despair like that. You will make yourself ill."

"We are all mortal," affirmed Grivet.

"Your tears will not restore your son to you," sententiously observed
Olivier.

"Do not cause us pain, I beg you," murmured Suzanne.

And as Madame Raquin sobbed louder, unable to restrain her tears,
Michaud resumed:

"Come, come, have a little courage. You know we come here to give you
some distraction. Then do not let us feel sad. Let us try to forget. We
are playing two sous a game. Eh! What do you say?"

The mercer stifled her sobs with a violent effort. Perhaps she was
conscious of the happy egotism of her guests. She dried her tears, but
was still quite upset. The dominoes trembled in her poor hands, and the
moisture in her eyes prevented her seeing.

The game began.

Laurent and Therese had witnessed this brief scene in a grave and
impassive manner. The young man was delighted to see these Thursday
evenings resumed. He ardently desired them to be continued, aware that
he would have need of these gatherings to attain his end. Besides,
without asking himself the reason, he felt more at ease among these few
persons whom he knew, and it gave him courage to look Therese in the
face.

The young woman, attired in black, pale and meditative, seemed to him to
possess a beauty that he had hitherto ignored. He was happy to meet
her eyes, and to see them rest upon his own with courageous fixedness.
Therese still belonged to him, heart and soul.



A fortnight passed. The bitterness of the first hours was softening;
each day brought additional tranquillity and calm; life resumed its
course with weary languidness, and with the monotonous intellectual
insensibility which follows great shocks. At the commencement, Laurent
and Therese allowed themselves to drift into this new existence which
was transforming them; within their beings was proceeding a silent
labour which would require analysing with extreme delicacy if one
desired to mark all its phases.

It was not long before Laurent came every night to the shop as formerly.
But he no longer dined there, he no longer made the place a lounge
during the entire evening. He arrived at half-past nine, and remained
until he had put up the shutters. It seemed as if he was accomplishing a
duty in placing himself at the service of the two women. If he happened
occasionally to neglect the tiresome job, he apologised with the
humility of a valet the following day. On Thursdays he assisted Madame
Raquin to light the fire, to do the honours of the house, and displayed
all kinds of gentle attentions that charmed the old mercer.

Therese peacefully watched the activity of his movements round about
her. The pallidness of her face had departed. She appeared in better
health, more smiling and gentle. It was only rarely that her lips,
becoming pinched in a nervous contraction, produced two deep pleats
which conveyed to her countenance a strange expression of grief and
fright.

The two sweethearts no longer sought to see one another in private. Not
once did they suggest a meeting, nor did they ever furtively exchange
a kiss. The murder seemed to have momentarily appeased their warmth. In
killing Camille, they had succeeded in satisfying their passion. Their
crime appeared to have given them a keen pleasure that sickened and
disgusted them of their embraces.

They had a thousand facilities for enjoying the freedom that had been
their dream, and the attainment of which had urged them on to murder.
Madame Raquin, impotent and childish, ceased to be an obstacle. The
house belonged to them. They could go abroad where they pleased. But
love did not trouble them, its fire had died out. They remained there,
calmly talking, looking at one another without reddening and without
a thrill. They even avoided being alone. In their intimacy, they found
nothing to say, and both were afraid that they appeared too cold.
When they exchanged a pressure of the hand, they experienced a sort of
discomfort at the touch of their skins.

Both imagined they could explain what made them so indifferent and
alarmed when face to face with one another. They put the coldness of
their attitude down to prudence. Their calm, according to them, was the
result of great caution on their part. They pretended they desired this
tranquillity, and somnolence of their hearts. On the other hand, they
regarded the repugnance, the uncomfortable feeling experienced as a
remains of terror, as the secret dread of punishment. Sometimes, forcing
themselves to hope, they sought to resume the burning dreams of other
days, and were quite astonished to find they had no imagination.

Then, they clung to the idea of their forthcoming marriage. They fancied
that having attained their end, without a single fear to trouble them,
delivered over to one another, their passion would burn again, and
they would taste the delights that had been their dream. This prospect
brought them calm, and prevented them descending to the void hollowed
out beneath them. They persuaded themselves they loved one another as
in the past, and they awaited the moment when they were to be perfectly
happy bound together for ever.

Never had Therese possessed so placid a mind. She was certainly becoming
better. All her implacable, natural will was giving way. She felt happy
at night, alone in her bed; no longer did she find the thin face, and
piteous form of Camille at her side to exasperate her. She imagined
herself a little girl, a maid beneath the white curtains, lying
peacefully amidst the silence and darkness. Her spacious, and slightly
cold room rather pleased her, with its lofty ceiling, its obscure
corners, and its smack of the cloister.

She even ended by liking the great black wall which rose up before her
window. Every night during one entire summer, she remained for hours
gazing at the grey stones in this wall, and at the narrow strips of
starry sky cut out by the chimneys and roofs. She only thought of
Laurent when awakened with a start by nightmare. Then, sitting up,
trembling, with dilated eyes, and pressing her nightdress to her, she
said to herself that she would not experience these sudden fears, if she
had a man lying beside her. She thought of her sweetheart as of a dog
who would have guarded and protected her.

Of a daytime, in the shop, she took an interest in what was going on
outside; she went out at her own instigation, and no longer lived
in sullen revolt, occupied with thoughts of hatred and vengeance. It
worried her to sit musing. She felt the necessity of acting and seeing.
From morning to night, she watched the people passing through the
arcade. The noise, and going and coming diverted her. She became
inquisitive and talkative, in a word a woman, for hitherto she had only
displayed the actions and ideas of a man.

From her point of observation, she remarked a young man, a student, who
lived at an hotel in the neighbourhood, and who passed several times
daily before the shop. This youth had a handsome, pale face, with the
long hair of a poet, and the moustache of an officer. Therese thought
him superior looking. She was in love with him for a week, in love like
a schoolgirl. She read novels, she compared the young man to Laurent,
and found the latter very coarse and heavy. Her reading revealed to her
romantic scenes that, hitherto, she had ignored. She had only loved with
blood and nerves, as yet, and she now began to love with her head. Then,
one day, the student disappeared. No doubt he had moved. In a few hours
Therese had forgotten him.

She now subscribed to a circulating library, and conceived a passion for
the heroes of all the stories that passed under her eyes. This sudden
love for reading had great influence on her temperament. She acquired
nervous sensibility which caused her to laugh and cry without any
motive. The equilibrium which had shown a tendency to be established in
her, was upset. She fell into a sort of vague meditation. At moments,
she became disturbed by thoughts of Camille, and she dreamt of Laurent
and fresh love, full of terror and distrust. She again became a prey
to anguish. At one moment she sought for the means of marrying her
sweetheart at that very instant, at another she had an idea of running
away never to see him again.

The novels, which spoke to her of chastity and honour, placed a sort
of obstacle between her instincts and her will. She remained the
ungovernable creature who had wanted to struggle with the Seine and who
had thrown herself violently into illicit love; but she was conscious
of goodness and gentleness, she understood the putty face and lifeless
attitude of the wife of Olivier, and she knew it was possible to be
happy without killing one's husband. Then, she did not see herself in a
very good light, and lived in cruel indecision.

Laurent, on his side, passed through several different phases of love
and fever. First of all he enjoyed profound tranquility; he seemed as
if relieved of an enormous weight. At times he questioned himself with
astonishment, fancying he had had a bad dream. He asked himself whether
it was really true that he had flung Camille into the water, and had
seen his corpse on the slab at the Morgue.

The recollection of his crime caused him strange surprise; never could
he have imagined himself capable of murder. He so prudent, so cowardly,
shuddered at the mere thought; ice-like beads of perspiration stood
out on his forehead when he reflected that the authorities might have
discovered his crime and guillotined him. Then he felt the cold knife on
his neck. So long as he had acted, he had gone straight before him, with
the obstinacy and blindness of a brute. Now, he turned round, and at the
sight of the gulf he had just cleared, grew faint with terror.

"Assuredly, I must have been drunk," thought he; "that woman must have
intoxicated me with caresses. Good heavens! I was a fool and mad! I
risked the guillotine in a business like that. Fortunately it passed off
all right. But if it had to be done again, I would not do it."

Laurent lost all his vigor. He became inactive, and more cowardly and
prudent than ever. He grew fat and flabby. No one who had studied this
great body, piled up in a lump, apparently without bones or muscles,
would ever have had the idea of accusing the man of violence and
cruelty.

He resumed his former habits. For several months, he proved himself a
model clerk, doing his work with exemplary brutishness. At night, he
took his meal at a cheap restaurant in the Rue Saint-Victor, cutting his
bread into thin slices, masticating his food slowly, making his repast
last as long as possible. When it was over, he threw himself back
against the wall and smoked his pipe. Anyone might have taken him for
a stout, good-natured father. In the daytime, he thought of nothing; at
night, he reposed in heavy sleep free from dreams. With his face fat and
rosy, his belly full, his brain empty, he felt happy.

His frame seemed dead, and Therese barely entered his mind. Occasionally
he thought of her as one thinks of a woman one has to marry later on, in
the indefinite future. He patiently awaited the time for his marriage,
forgetful of the bride, and dreaming of the new position he would then
enjoy. He would leave his office, he would paint for amusement, and
saunter about hither and thither. These hopes brought him night after
night, to the shop in the arcade, in spite of the vague discomfort he
experienced on entering the place.

One Sunday, with nothing to do and being bored, he went to see his
old school friend, the young painter he had lived with for a time. The
artist was working on a picture of a nude Bacchante sprawled on some
drapery. The model, lying with her head thrown back and her torso
twisted sometimes laughed and threw her bosom forward, stretching her
arms. As Laurent smoked his pipe and chatted with his friend, he kept
his eyes on the model. He took the woman home with him that evening and
kept her as his mistress for many months. The poor girl fell in love
with him. Every morning she went off and posed as a model all day. Then
she came back each evening. She didn't cost Laurent a penny, keeping
herself out of her own earnings. Laurent never bothered to find out
about her, where she went, what she did. She was a steadying influence
in his life, a useful and necessary thing. He never wondered if he loved
her and he never considered that he was being unfaithful to Therese. He
simply felt better and happier.

In the meanwhile the period of mourning that Therese had imposed on
herself, had come to an end, and the young woman put on light-coloured
gowns. One evening, Laurent found her looking younger and handsomer.
But he still felt uncomfortable in her presence. For some time past, she
seemed to him feverish, and full of strange capriciousness, laughing and
turning sad without reason. This unsettled demeanour alarmed him, for he
guessed, in part, what her struggles and troubles must be like.

He began to hesitate, having an atrocious dread of risking his
tranquillity. He was now living peacefully, in wise contentment, and he
feared to endanger the equilibrium of his life, by binding himself to
a nervous woman, whose passion had already driven him crazy. But he did
not reason these matters out, he felt by instinct all the anguish he
would be subjected to, if he made Therese his wife.

The first shock he received, and one that roused him in his
sluggishness, was the thought that he must at length begin to think of
his marriage. It was almost fifteen months since the death of Camille.
For an instant, Laurent had the idea of not marrying at all, of jilting
Therese. Then he said to himself that it was no good killing a man for
nothing. In recalling the crime, and the terrible efforts he had made to
be the sole possessor of this woman who was now troubling him, he felt
that the murder would become useless and atrocious should he not marry
her. Besides, was he not bound to Therese by a bond of blood and horror?
Moreover, he feared his accomplice; perhaps, if he failed to marry her,
she would go and relate everything to the judicial authorities out of
vengeance and jealousy. With these ideas beating in his head the fever
settled on him again.

Now, one Sunday the model did not return; no doubt she had found a
warmer and more comfortable place to lodge. Laurent was only moderately
upset, but he felt a sudden gap in his life without a woman lying beside
him at night. In a week his passions rebelled and he began spending
entire evenings at the shop again. He watched Therese who was still
palpitating from the novels which she read.

After a year of indifferent waiting they both were again tormented by
desire. One evening while shutting up the shop, Laurent spoke to Therese
in the passage.

"Do you want me to come to your room to-night," he asked passionately.

She started with fear. "No, let's wait. Let's be prudent."

"It seems to me that I've already waited a long time," he went on. "I'm
sick of waiting."

Therese, her hands and face burning hot, looked at him wildly. She
seemed to hesitate, and then said quickly:

"Let's get married."



Laurent left the arcade with a strained mind. Therese had filled him
with the old longing lusts again. He walked along with his hat in his
hand, so as to get the fresh air full in his face.

On reaching the door of his hotel in the Rue Saint-Victor, he was afraid
to go upstairs, and remain alone. A childish, inexplicable, unforeseen
terror made him fear he would find a man hidden in his garret. Never had
he experienced such poltroonery. He did not even seek to account for
the strange shudder that ran through him. He entered a wine-shop and
remained an hour there, until midnight, motionless and silent at
a table, mechanically absorbing great glasses of wine. Thinking of
Therese, his anger raged at her refusal to have him in her room that
very night. He felt that with her he would not have been afraid.

When the time came for closing the shop, he was obliged to leave. But he
went back again to ask for matches. The office of the hotel was on
the first floor. Laurent had a long alley to follow and a few steps
to ascend, before he could take his candle. This alley, this bit of
staircase which was frightfully dark, terrified him. Habitually, he
passed boldly through the darkness. But on this particular night he
had not even the courage to ring. He said to himself that in a certain
recess, formed by the entrance to the cellar, assassins were perhaps
concealed, who would suddenly spring at his throat as he passed along.

At last he pulled the bell, and lighting a match, made up his mind to
enter the alley. The match went out. He stood motionless, breathless,
without the courage to run away, rubbing lucifers against the damp wall
in such anxiety that his hand trembled. He fancied he heard voices,
and the sound of footsteps before him. The matches broke between his
fingers; but he succeeded in striking one. The sulphur began to boil, to
set fire to the wood, with a tardiness that increased his distress. In
the pale bluish light of the sulphur, in the vacillating glimmer, he
fancied he could distinguish monstrous forms. Then the match crackled,
and the light became white and clear.

Laurent, relieved, advanced with caution, careful not to be without a
match. When he had passed the entrance to the cellar, he clung to the
opposite wall where a mass of darkness terrified him. He next briskly
scaled the few steps separating him from the office of the hotel, and
thought himself safe when he held his candlestick. He ascended to the
other floors more gently, holding aloft his candle, lighting all the
corners before which he had to pass. The great fantastic shadows that
come and go, in ascending a staircase with a light, caused him vague
discomfort, as they suddenly rose and disappeared before him.

As soon as he was upstairs, and had rapidly opened his door and shut
himself in, his first care was to look under his bed, and make a minute
inspection of the room to see that nobody was concealed there. He closed
the window in the roof thinking someone might perhaps get in that
way, and feeling more calm after taking these measures, he undressed,
astonished at his cowardice. He ended by laughing and calling himself a
child. Never had he been afraid, and he could not understand this sudden
fit of terror.

He went to bed. When he was in the warmth beneath the bedclothes, he
again thought of Therese, whom fright had driven from his mind. Do what
he would, obstinately close his eyes, endeavour to sleep, he felt his
thoughts at work commanding his attention, connecting one with the
other, to ever point out to him the advantage he would reap by marrying
as soon as possible. Ever and anon he would turn round, saying to
himself:

"I must not think any more; I shall have to get up at eight o'clock
to-morrow morning to go to my office."

And he made an effort to slip off to sleep. But the ideas returned one
by one. The dull labour of his reasoning began again; and he soon found
himself in a sort of acute reverie that displayed to him in the depths
of his brain, the necessity for his marriage, along with the arguments
his desire and prudence advanced in turn, for and against the possession
of Therese.

Then, seeing he was unable to sleep, that insomnia kept his body in a
state of irritation, he turned on his back, and with his eyes wide open,
gave up his mind to the young woman. His equilibrium was upset, he again
trembled with violent fever, as formerly. He had an idea of getting up,
and returning to the Arcade of the Pont Neuf. He would have the iron
gate opened, and Therese would receive him. The thought sent his blood
racing.

The lucidity of his reverie was astonishing. He saw himself in the
streets walking rapidly beside the houses, and he said to himself:

"I will take this Boulevard, I will cross this Square, so as to arrive
there quicker."

Then the iron gate of the arcade grated, he followed the narrow, dark,
deserted corridor, congratulating himself at being able to go up to
Therese without being seen by the dealer in imitation jewelry. Next
he imagined he was in the alley, in the little staircase he had so
frequently ascended. He inhaled the sickly odour of the passage, he
touched the sticky walls, he saw the dirty shadow that hung about there.
And he ascended each step, breathless, and with his ear on the alert. At
last he scratched against the door, the door opened, and Therese stood
there awaiting him.

His thoughts unfolded before him like real scenes. With his eyes fixed
on darkness, he saw. When at the end of his journey through the streets,
after entering the arcade, and climbing the little staircase, he thought
he perceived Therese, ardent and pale, he briskly sprang from his bed,
murmuring:

"I must go there. She's waiting for me."

This abrupt movement drove away the hallucination. He felt the chill of
the tile flooring, and was afraid. For a moment he stood motionless on
his bare feet, listening. He fancied he heard a sound on the landing.
And he reflected that if he went to Therese, he would again have to pass
before the door of the cellar below. This thought sent a cold shiver
down his back. Again he was seized with fright, a sort of stupid
crushing terror. He looked distrustfully round the room, where he
distinguished shreds of whitish light. Then gently, with anxious, hasty
precautions, he went to bed again, and there huddling himself together,
hid himself, as if to escape a weapon, a knife that threatened him.

The blood had flown violently to his neck, which was burning him. He put
his hand there, and beneath his fingers felt the scar of the bite he
had received from Camille. He had almost forgotten this wound and was
terrified when he found it on his skin, where it seemed to be gnawing
into his flesh. He rapidly withdrew his hand so as not to feel the scar,
but he was still conscious of its being there boring into and devouring
his neck. Then, when he delicately scratched it with his nail, the
terrible burning sensation increased twofold. So as not to tear the
skin, he pressed his two hands between his doubled-up knees, and he
remained thus, rigid and irritated, with the gnawing pain in his neck,
and his teeth chattering with fright.

His mind now settled on Camille with frightful tenacity. Hitherto the
drowned man had not troubled him at night. And behold the thought of
Therese brought up the spectre of her husband. The murderer dared not
open his eyes, afraid of perceiving his victim in a corner of the room.
At one moment, he fancied his bedstead was being shaken in a peculiar
manner. He imagined Camille was beneath it, and that it was he who was
tossing him about in this way so as to make him fall and bite him. With
haggard look and hair on end, he clung to his mattress, imagining the
jerks were becoming more and more violent.

Then, he perceived the bed was not moving, and he felt a reaction. He
sat up, lit his candle, and taxed himself with being an idiot. He next
swallowed a large glassful of water to appease his fever.

"I was wrong to drink at that wine-shop," thought he. "I don't know
what is the matter with me to-night. It's silly. I shall be worn out
to-morrow at my office. I ought to have gone to sleep at once, when I
got into bed, instead of thinking of a lot of things. That is what gave
me insomnia. I must get to sleep at once."

Again he blew out the light. He buried his head in the pillow, feeling
slightly refreshed, and thoroughly determined not to think any more, and
to be no more afraid. Fatigue began to relax his nerves.

He did not fall into his usual heavy, crushing sleep, but glided lightly
into unsettled slumber. He simply felt as if benumbed, as if plunged
into gentle and delightful stupor. As he dozed, he could feel his limbs.
His intelligence remained awake in his deadened frame. He had driven
away his thoughts, he had resisted the vigil. Then, when he became
appeased, when his strength failed and his will escaped him, his
thoughts returned quietly, one by one, regaining possession of his
faltering being.

His reverie began once more. Again he went over the distance separating
him from Therese: he went downstairs, he passed before the cellar at a
run, and found himself outside the house; he took all the streets he had
followed before, when he was dreaming with his eyes open; he entered the
Arcade of the Pont Neuf, ascended the little staircase and scratched at
the door. But instead of Therese, it was Camille who opened the door,
Camille, just as he had seen him at the Morgue, looking greenish, and
atrociously disfigured. The corpse extended his arms to him, with a vile
laugh, displaying the tip of a blackish tongue between its white teeth.

Laurent shrieked, and awoke with a start. He was bathed in perspiration.
He pulled the bedclothes over his eyes, swearing and getting into a rage
with himself. He wanted to go to sleep again. And he did so as before,
slowly.

The same feeling of heaviness overcame him, and as soon as his will had
again escaped in the languidness of semi-slumber, he set out again. He
returned where his fixed idea conducted him; he ran to see Therese, and
once more it was the drowned man who opened the door.

The wretch sat up terrified. He would have given anything in the world
to be able to drive away this implacable dream. He longed for heavy
sleep to crush his thoughts. So long as he remained awake, he had
sufficient energy to expel the phantom of his victim; but as soon as he
lost command of his mind it led him to the acme of terror.

He again attempted to sleep. Then came a succession of delicious
spells of drowsiness, and abrupt, harrowing awakenings. In his furious
obstinacy, he still went to Therese, but only to always run against the
body of Camille. He performed the same journey more than ten times over.
He started all afire, followed the same itinerary, experienced the same
sensations, accomplished the same acts, with minute exactitude; and
more than ten times over, he saw the drowned man present himself to be
embraced, when he extended his arms to seize and clasp his love.

This same sinister catastrophe which awoke him on each occasion, gasping
and distracted, did not discourage him. After an interval of a few
minutes, as soon as he had fallen asleep again, forgetful of the hideous
corpse awaiting him, he once more hurried away to seek the young woman.

Laurent passed an hour a prey to these successive nightmares, to these
bad dreams that followed one another ceaselessly, without any warning,
and he was struck with more acute terror at each start they gave him.

The last of these shocks proved so violent, so painful that he
determined to get up, and struggle no longer. Day was breaking. A gleam
of dull, grey light was entering at the window in the roof which cut out
a pale grey square in the sky.

Laurent slowly dressed himself, with a feeling of sullen irritation,
exasperated at having been unable to sleep, exasperated at allowing
himself to be caught by a fright which he now regarded as childish. As
he drew on his trousers he stretched himself, he rubbed his limbs,
he passed his hands over his face, harassed and clouded by a feverish
night. And he repeated:

"I ought not to have thought of all that, I should have gone to sleep.
Had I done so, I should be fresh and well-disposed now."

Then it occurred to him that if he had been with Therese, she would have
prevented him being afraid, and this idea brought him a little calm. At
the bottom of his heart he dreaded passing other nights similar to the
one he had just gone through.

After splashing some water in his face, he ran the comb through his
hair, and this bit of toilet while refreshing his head, drove away the
final vestiges of terror. He now reasoned freely, and experienced no
other inconvenience from his restless night, than great fatigue in all
his limbs.

"I am not a poltroon though," he said to himself as he finished
dressing. "I don't care a fig about Camille. It's absurd to think that
this poor devil is under my bed. I shall, perhaps, have the same idea,
now, every night. I must certainly marry as soon as possible. When
Therese has me in her arms, I shall not think much about Camille. She
will kiss me on the neck, and I shall cease to feel the atrocious burn
that troubles me at present. Let me examine this bite."

He approached his glass, extended his neck and looked. The scar
presented a rosy appearance. Then, Laurent, perceiving the marks of the
teeth of his victim, experienced a certain emotion. The blood flew
to his head, and he now observed a strange phenomenon. The ruby flood
rushing to the scar had turned it purple, it became raw and sanguineous,
standing out quite red against the fat, white neck. Laurent at the same
time felt a sharp pricking sensation, as if needles were being thrust
into the wound, and he hurriedly raised the collar of his shirt again.

"Bah!" he exclaimed, "Therese will cure that. A few kisses will suffice.
What a fool I am to think of these matters!"

He put on his hat, and went downstairs. He wanted to be in the open
air and walk. Passing before the door of the cellar, he smiled.
Nevertheless, he made sure of the strength of the hook fastening the
door. Outside, on the deserted pavement, he moved along with short steps
in the fresh matutinal air. It was then about five o'clock.

Laurent passed an atrocious day. He had to struggle against the
overpowering drowsiness that settled on him in the afternoon at his
office. His heavy, aching head nodded in spite of himself, but he
abruptly brought it up, as soon as he heard the step of one of his
chiefs. This struggle, these shocks completed wearing out his limbs,
while causing him intolerable anxiety.

In the evening, notwithstanding his lassitude, he went to see Therese,
only to find her feverish, extremely low-spirited, and as weary as
himself.

"Our poor Therese has had a bad night," Madame Raquin said to him,
as soon as he had seated himself. "It seems she was suffering from
nightmare, and terrible insomnia. I heard her crying out on several
occasions. This morning she was quite ill."

Therese, while her aunt was speaking, looked fixedly at Laurent. No
doubt, they guessed their common terror, for a nervous shudder ran over
their countenances. Until ten o'clock they remained face to face with
one another, talking of commonplace matters, but still understanding
each other, and mutually imploring themselves with their eyes, to hasten
the moment when they could unite against the drowned man.

 Instead of going directly to Mme Raquin with the disturbing news, Laurent decides to seek out Old Michaud and enlist his aid in dealing with Camille's mother. The old police commissioner is temporarily distraught, and Suzanne and Olivier are also deeply upset. Yet Old Michaud decides to go and deal with Mme Raquin, mustering all the tact and kindness he can in order to inform the old woman of Camille's death. It doesn't take long for Mme Raquin to guess Old Michaud's purpose, and she imagines her son tossed along in the relentless Seine, claimed by death at last despite her efforts. Laurent then returns to retrieve Therese from the restaurant and bring her home. The young woman is moody, tense, and mostly silent. Laurent's reaction is quite different; he feels relieved of a great psychological burden, now that the murder is done, and sinks into a tired yet peaceful sleep once he returns home. The following day, Camille's death is reported in the Parisian press. Laurent is portrayed as a minor hero, and is noted for his energetic though unsuccessful attempts to find and save Camille. Laurent wakes up the next day, still in a generally cheerful mood though now facing a new, comparatively small discomfort. During the struggle in the boat, Camille tore a small, coin-shaped patch of flesh off Laurent's neck. For the time being, Laurent disregards this disturbing mark and returns to work, though he also has to tie up a few loose ends regarding the murder. In an attempt to lend his deed a sense of finality, Laurent begins to frequent the Paris Morgue in hopes of recognizing and claiming Camille's corpse. The Morgue is a source of sinister fascination for many Parisians, who treat it as a perversely entertaining spectacle. Laurent himself is both intrigued and horrified by the corpses on display, and a few stand out to him: the corpse of a sturdy and pretty young woman, who hanged herself after a disappointment in love; and another, rotten, horrifying corpse that begins crumbling before Laurent's eyes. After a week of visits, Laurent at last sees Camille's body. His former friend is still recognizable, or at least his face is; the rest of Camille's body has become a horrible mess of mangled, bloated flesh. Laurent claims the corpse and Camille is quickly buried. Following Camille's death, both Therese and Mme Raquin are reduced to stunned inaction and remain in their beds for three days. At last, Therese takes the initiative, puts on her clothes, and begins to minister to her aunt. Suzanne also stops by the apartment. Despite her state of grief, Mme Raquin soon agrees to re-open the shop; though her joints are growing stiff and she has lost all initiative, the old woman is afraid of going mad if she remains in shut up in her apartment. Slowly, the Thursday evening guests begin to return to Mme Raquin's apartment. Laurent often stops by to talk with Mme Raquin herself, and one evening, Grivet and Old Michaud arrive at the same time, driven by the same impulse to resume their old habits. All together, the Thursday guests eagerly return to their domino games and usual chatter. Only Mme Raquin - who has one brief, tearful outburst at the start of the proceedings - is unable to ignore Camille's death. Both Therese and Laurent are present at this Thursday evening. As he looks at his mistress, Laurent feels confident that her heart belongs to him alone. Eighteen months pass, and both Therese and Laurent undergo noticeable changes. The lovers no longer feel the passion for one another that they once did, perhaps because they have found other objects of interest and attraction. Therese begins to read novels and briefly finds herself infatuated with a young student. And Laurent, after a reunion with one of his painter friends, strikes up a casual and mostly satisfying affair with a nude model. Laurent reconsiders his position. Though he is now disconcerted by Therese's passionate and volatile nature, he is also troubled by the possibility that he had murdered Camille for no purpose. The abrupt departure of the model helps him come to a decision. Laurent tells Therese that they should be married, and Therese consents. When Laurent returns home, he feels a new and unexpected sensation: a childlike terror of the dark passageway that leads to his apartment. He obtains matches and nervously lights his way, reassuring himself that his fears will go away once Therese is a constant part of his life, there to comfort him through uneasy nights. He tries to sleep, yet he is soon afflicted with a new panic. Insomnia tortures Laurent, and he is beset by horrible visions. Though Laurent tries to envision Therese, every time he does so, the figure of his beloved is transformed into the gruesome corpse of Camille. After this night of waking nightmares, Laurent tries once again to muster courage. As he freshens up, he reassures himself that Therese's embraces and kisses will be the antidote to his haunting memories of Camille. He then makes his way to Therese's apartment. There, Mme Raquin informs Laurent of a piece of disturbing news: that Therese herself had suffered a terrible bout of insomnia the night before.

