Therese Raquin - Emile Zola [28]
With the first kiss, she revealed the instincts of a courtesan. Her thirsting body gave itself wildly up to lust. It was as though she were awakening from a dream and being born to passion. She went from the feeble arms of Camille to the vigorous arms of Laurent, and the approach of a potent man gave her a shake that woke her flesh from its slumber. All the instincts of a highly-strung woman burst forth with exceptional violence. Her mother’s blood, that African blood burning in her veins, began to flow and pound furiously in her thin, still almost virginal body. She opened up and offered herself with a sovereign lack of shame. From head to toe, she was shaken by long shudders of desire.
Laurent had never known such a woman. He was astonished, uneasy. Normally, his mistresses did not welcome him with such ardour; he was used to cold, indifferent kisses and to languid, sated loving. Thérèse’s sobs and fits almost scared him, even as they excited his voluptuous curiosity. When he left her, he would be staggering like a drunken man. The following day, when he recovered his sly mood of calm caution, he wondered if he should go back to this lover, whose kisses inflamed him. At first, he firmly decided to stay at home. Then he wavered. He tried to forget, not to see Thérèse, naked, with her soft, urgent caresses; but she was always there, relentless, holding out her arms. The physical pain that he felt from this spectacle became intolerable.
He gave in, made a new arrangement to meet her and went back to the Passage du Pont-Neuf.
From that day onwards, Thérèse became part of his life. He did not yet accept her, but he gave in to her. He experienced hours of terror and moments of caution; and, in brief, the liaison disturbed him considerably; but his fears and uneasiness ceded to his desires. Their meetings multiplied, one after another.
Thérèse had no such doubts. She gave herself to him without reserve, going directly where her passions drove her. This woman, who had bowed to circumstances, was now standing up to reveal her whole being, to lay her life bare.
Sometimes she would put her arms round Laurent’s neck, rest her head against his chest and say, in a voice still breathless:
‘If only you knew how I’ve suffered! I was brought up in the damp warmth of a sickroom. I used to sleep beside Camille; in the night, I would move away from him, disgusted by the musty smell of his body. He was spiteful and stubborn. He wouldn’t take any medicine unless I shared it with him, so to please my aunt I had to drink all sorts of potions ... I don’t know why I didn’t die ... They made me ugly, my poor dear, they stole everything I had, and you can’t love me as I love you.’
She cried, she kissed Laurent and she continued, speaking with an undertone of hatred in her voice:
‘I don’t wish them any harm. They brought me up, they took me in and protected me from poverty. But I would rather have been abandoned than endure their welcome. I had a ravenous hunger for fresh air; even when I was small, I dreamed of wandering the roads, barefoot in the dust, begging and living like a gypsy. They told me my mother was the daughter of a tribal chief in Africa. I have often thought about her. I realize that I belong to her in my blood and my instincts, I used to wish I had never left her, but was crossing the deserts, slung on her back ... Oh, what a childhood I had! I still feel revulsion and outrage when I remember the long days I spent in that room with Camille gasping away ... I had to crouch in front of the fire, watching like an idiot as his herb tea boiled and feeling the cramp in my limbs. But I couldn’t move, because my aunt would scold me if I made a noise ... Later on, I was terribly happy, in the little house by the river, but I was already stupefied,