Therese Raquin - Emile Zola [37]
One Thursday evening, before they started their game, Mme Raquin’s guests, as usual, had a bit of a chat. One of the main subjects of conversation was talking to Old Michaud about his former job and asking him about the strange and sinister happenings in which he had supposedly been involved. Grivet and Camille would listen to the police commissioner’s tales with the scared, open-mouthed expressions of little children hearing Bluebeard or Tom Thumb. They were terrified and entertained at the same time.
That particular day, Michaud, who had just told them about a frightful murder, the details of which had sent shivers up their spines, added with a shake of the head: ‘And we don’t know everything ... How many crimes remain undetected! How many murderers escape justice!’
‘What!’ exclaimed Grivet, in astonishment. ‘Do you think that there are villains, like that, in the streets, who have killed people and not been arrested?’
Olivier gave a pitying look and smiled.
‘My dear sir,’ he replied, curtly, ‘if they have not been arrested, that is because no one knows that they have killed someone.’
This argument did not seem to convince Grivet. Camille came to his assistance.
‘I’m of one and the same opinion as Monsieur Grivet,’ he said, with ridiculous pomposity. ‘I need to believe that the police is doing its job and that I shall never rub shoulders with a murderer in the street.’
Olivier took these words as a personal affront.
‘Of course the police does its job!’ he exclaimed, in an irritated voice. ‘But we can’t achieve the impossible. There are scoundrels who got their education in crime at the Devil’s own school; they would elude God Himself ... Isn’t that right, Father?’
‘Yes, yes,’ Old Michaud agreed. ‘Now, when I was in Vernon — you may remember this, Madame Raquin — a carter was murdered on the highway. The body was found cut in pieces at the bottom of a ditch. We never did manage to get our hands on the guilty party. He may still be alive today, he could be our next-door neighbour ... and Monsieur Grivet might even meet him on his way home.’
Grivet went as white as a sheet. He did not dare turn round: he thought that the carter’s murderer was right behind him. Despite that, he was delighted at feeling this fear.
‘No, no,’ he stammered, without knowing quite what he was saying. ‘Well, no, I really can’t bring myself to believe that ... I have a story of my own. Once upon a time there was a servant girl who was thrown into prison for stealing a silver knife and fork from her masters. Two months later, when they were cutting down a tree, they found the silver in a magpie’s nest. The bird was the thief. The servant was released ... so you see, the guilty party is always punished.’
Grivet was triumphant. Olivier tittered.
‘So, you’re saying they put the magpie in prison?’
‘That’s not what Monsieur Grivet meant,’ Camille said, not wanting to see his boss made to look a fool. ‘Mother, give us the dominoes.’
While Mme Raquin went to get the box, the young man continued, talking to Michaud:
‘So you admit that the police is powerless? There are murderers walking around in the full light of day?’
‘I’m sorry to say there are,’ the commissioner replied.
‘It’s immoral,’ Grivet concluded.
Thérèse and Laurent had said nothing during this conversation. They did not even smile at Grivet’s stupidity. Both leaning on their elbows on the table, they listened, with a distant look on their rather pale faces. For a moment, their eyes met, dark and burning. Little beads of sweat shone at the roots of Thérèse’s hair and a chill draught made Laurent’s skin shiver imperceptibly.
XI
Sometimes, on Sundays, when it was fine, Camille obliged Thérèse to go out with him and take a short walk down the Champs-Elysées. The young woman would have preferred to stay in the damp shadows of the shop; it tired her and bored her being