Therese Raquin - Emile Zola [26]
Laurent spoke quite calmly. In a few words, he had just made a quite typical statement that entirely summed up his character. Underneath, he was lazy, with strong appetites and a well-defined urge to seek easy, lasting pleasures. His great, powerful body asked for nothing better than to lie idle, wallowing in constant indolence and gratification. He would have liked to eat well, sleep long and fully satisfy his desires, without moving from the spot or running the risk of exhausting himself in any way.
He had been appalled at the prospect of becoming a lawyer and shuddered at the idea of tilling the soil. He had thrown himself into art, hoping to find it a profession for the idle: the brush seemed a light tool to handle and he also believed that success would come easily. He dreamed of a life of fleshly pleasures, cheaply purchased, a life full of women, of resting on sofas, eating and getting drunk. The dream lasted as long as Old Laurent kept on supplying the readies; but when the young man, who was thirty by then, saw poverty looming, he started to think. He had no stomach for privation; he would not have gone through a single day without food for the greater glory of art. As he said, he let painting go to hell as soon as he realized that it would never satisfy his large appetites. His first attempts had been worse than mediocre: his peasant’s eye observed Nature as awkward and dirty; his canvases, muddy, badly composed and grimacing, were beneath criticism. In any event, his artistic ambition did not extend far and he was not too depressed when he had to put down his brushes. His only real regret was at leaving his schoolfriend’s studio, a huge studio in which he had lounged about so self-indulgently for four or five years. He did still miss the women who came there to pose, whose favours were within reach of his purse. This world of animal pleasures had left him with urgent lusts. None the less, he did enjoy his job as a clerk; where his basic needs were concerned, he lived very well, liking the routine work which took little out of him and lulled his mind. Only two things got on his nerves: the lack of women and the food in eighteen-sou restaurants which did not satisfy the cravings of his greedy stomach.
Camille listened to him and looked at him with naïve astonishment. This feeble boy, whose soft, prostrate body had never felt a shudder of desire, childishly imagined the studio life that his friend was describing. He conjured up the spectacle of those women exhibiting their naked flesh. He questioned Laurent about it.
‘So,’ he asked, ‘were there really women who took off their blouses in front of you like that?’
‘Certainly there were,’ Laurent replied, with a smile, looking at Thérèse, who had gone quite pale.
‘It must give you an odd feeling,’ Camille went on, with a childish titter. ‘I’d be embarrassed. The first time, you must have wondered where to look.’
Laurent had opened up one of his large hands and was looking closely at the palm. His fingers trembled slightly and a flush of red rose to his cheeks.
‘The first time,’ he repeated, as though talking to himself, ‘I think I found it quite natural ... It’s great fun, that art game; just a pity it doesn’t pay ... As my model I had a redhead who was quite adorable: firm, gleaming flesh, superb bosom and hips as wide — ’
Laurent looked up and saw Thérèse in front of him, silent and motionless. The young woman was staring at him intently. Her eyes, dull black, looked like two bottomless pits, and there were glimpses of pinkness shining in her mouth through half-open lips. She seemed to be hunched and gathered into herself; she