Therese Raquin - Emile Zola [32]
At times, warm feelings of joy rose within her and, accomplished actress though she was, she could not refrain from singing, when her lover was not there and she was not afraid of giving herself away. These sudden outbursts of merriment delighted Mme Raquin, who used to accuse her niece of being too solemn. The young woman bought pots of flowers and arranged them on the window sills of her room. Then she had new wallpaper put up; she wanted a carpet, curtains, new rosewood furniture. All this luxury was for Laurent’s benefit.
Nature and circumstances seemed to have made this man for this woman, and to have driven them towards one another. Together, the woman, nervous and dissembling, the man, lustful, living like an animal, they made a strongly united couple. They complemented one another, they protected one another. In the evening, at table, in the pale light of the lamp, you could feel the strength of the bond between them, seeing Laurent’s heavy, smiling face and the silent, impenetrable mask of Thérèse.
These were sweet and tranquil evenings. In the silence, in the warm, transparent half-light, friendly words passed between those pressed around the table; after dessert they spoke about the dozens of trivial events of the day, their memories of the past and their hopes for the future. Camille loved Laurent as much as such a self-satisfied egotist could love, and Laurent seemed to have an equal affection for him; they would exchange expressions of devotion, considerate gestures and looks of concern. Mme Raquin observed them with placid features, imbued the very air that they breathed with tranquillity, spreading her peace around her children. It looked like a reunion of old acquaintances who knew each other’s inmost thoughts and had total confidence in their friendship.
Thérèse, as still and peaceful as the rest, would study these bourgeois joys and this complacent indolence. And, in her inner depths, she laughed, savagely. Her whole being mocked, while her face retained its cold rigidity. She felt an exquisite pleasure in telling herself that, only a few hours earlier, she had been in the room next door, half naked, her hair loose, lying on Laurent’s chest; she remembered everything about her afternoon of insane desire, went through each detail in her mind’s eye and compared that passionate scene with the lifeless one before her eyes. Oh, how she was deceiving these good folk! And how happy she was to deceive them with such triumphal impudence! It was there, a few feet away, behind that thin partition, that she would greet her man; it was there that she would writhe in the grim throes of adultery. And, for that moment, her lover would become a stranger to her, a friend and colleague of her husband, a kind of imbecile, an intruder who did not have to concern her. This frightful play-acting, this life of deception and this contrast between the burning kisses of daytime and the feigned indifference of evening, made the young woman’s heart pound with new ardour.
When Mme Raquin and Camille went downstairs, for some reason or other, Thérèse would leap up and silently, with savage force, press her lips against those of her lover and stay like that, panting, suffocating, until she heard the wooden stairs creak. Then, with an agile movement, she went back to her place and resumed her grudging scowl. In a calm voice, Laurent carried on the chat he had been having with Camille. It was like a lightning flash of passion, swift, blinding, across a leaden sky.
On Thursdays, the evening would be a little more lively. Laurent was mortally bored on that day of the week and made sure that he did not miss a single meeting; he thought it prudent to be known and respected by Camille’s friends. He had to listen to the ramblings of Grivet and Old Michaud. Michaud would always tell the same stories of murder and theft, while Grivet spoke at the same time about his workmates, his bosses and his department. The young man would take refuge