Therese Raquin - Emile Zola [20]
In the evening, Thérèse, now calm and silent, would sew beside her aunt; her face seemed to be dozing in the light that oozed softly from under the shade of the lamp. Camille, slumped in an armchair, thought about his sums. Only the occasional word, spoken in a low voice, would disturb the tranquillity of this sleepy scene.
Mme Raquin contemplated her children with serene goodwill. She had decided to marry them to each other. She still considered her son to be on the point of death and was terrified by the thought that she would one day die, leaving him alone and ill. So she was counting on Thérèse, telling herself that the girl would keep good watch over Camille. There were no limits to the confidence she felt in her niece, with her quiet manners and silent devotion. She had seen her at work, and she wanted to give her to Camille as a guardian angel. The marriage was decided upon, a foregone conclusion.
The children had long known that they were to marry one day. They had grown up in the idea, so it had become quite natural and familiar to them. In the family, the alliance was spoken of as something necessary, inevitable. Mme Raquin had said: ‘We’ll wait until Thérèse is twenty-one.’ And they waited, patiently, without shame or eagerness.
Camille’s blood had been impoverished by illness and he felt none of the urgent desires of adolescence. With his cousin, he remained a little boy, kissing her as he would kiss his mother, as a matter of habit, abandoning none of his egotistical composure. He saw her as an obliging companion who prevented him from getting too bored and who, from time to time, made him a herbal tea. When he played with her or held her in his arms, he felt as though he were holding a boy; not a shudder passed through him. And it never occurred to him on such occasions to kiss Thérèse’s hot lips as she struggled free with a nervous laugh.
The girl, too, seemed to remain cold and indifferent. Sometimes she would fix her large eyes on Camille and watch him for several minutes with a supremely untroubled stare. Only her lips made slight, barely perceptible movements. There was nothing to be read on this closed face, kept ever sweet and attentive by her implacable will. When there was talk of her marriage, Thérèse took on a serious look and merely nodded approval of everything that Mme Raquin said. Camille fell asleep.
In the evening, in summer, the two young people would make off to the river. Camille was irritated by his mother’s constant attentions; he had moments of rebellion, he wanted to run about, make himself ill, escape from all the petting that nauseated him. So he would drag Thérèse along with him, provoke her to wrestling bouts and rolling around in the grass. One day, he pushed his cousin and she fell over. She leaped up in a single bound, like a wild animal, her face blazing and her eyes red, and rushed at him with both fists raised. Camille slumped to the ground. He was afraid of her.
Months and years went by. The day fixed for the wedding arrived. Mme Raquin took Thérèse aside, spoke to her about her father and mother, and told her the story of her birth. The young woman listened to her aunt, then kissed her without saying a word.
That night, instead of going to her own bedroom on the left of the staircase, Thérèse went to her cousin’s, on the right. This was the only alteration that took place in her life that day. The next morning, when the young couple came down, Camille still had his sickly languor and his saintly, self-centred calm, while Thérèse retained her mild indifference and her restrained expression, terrifying in her impassivity.
III
A week after his wedding, Camille stated plainly to his mother that he intended to leave Vernon and go to live in Paris. Mme Raquin protested: she had arranged