Therese Raquin - Emile Zola [39]
They spent nearly three hours in the clearing, waiting for the sun to cool before going for a walk in the country, then dinner. Camille talked about his office and told them silly stories; then he got tired, flopped down and went off to sleep. He had placed his hat over his eyes. Thérèse, with her eyes closed, had been pretending to snooze for a long time.
At this, Laurent slipped quietly over to the young woman; he kissed her shoe, then her ankle. The leather and the white stocking burned his mouth as he kissed them. The bitter scent of the earth mingled with the light perfume of Thérèse and seeped into him, heating his blood and arousing his lust. For the past month, he had been living in a state of resentful celibacy. Now, the walk in the sun on the road to Saint-Ouen had aroused him. He was there, in this isolated pit, surrounded by the great voluptuous stillness and shade, and he could not clasp his arms around this woman who belonged to him. The husband might wake up and see him, which would mean that all his caution had been wasted. That man was a constant obstacle. The lover, lying flat on the ground, hidden by her skirts, trembling and eager, placed his silent kisses on the shoe and the white stocking. Thérèse lay absolutely still. Laurent thought that she was asleep.
He got up, his back aching and leaned against a tree. Then he saw that the young woman was staring upwards with her eyes shining and wide open. Her face, between her raised arms, was dull and pale, cold and stiff. Thérèse was thinking. Her staring eyes were like a deep abyss which held only darkness. She did not move or look towards Laurent, who was standing behind her.
Her lover stared at her, almost fearful at seeing her so still and so unresponsive to his caresses. This head, white and lifeless, sunk in the folds of her skirts, aroused in him a sort of terror, shot through with chafing lusts. He would have liked to bend down and close those great open eyes with a kiss. But, almost in the same skirts, Camille, too, was sleeping. This poor creature, with his thin, twisted body, was snoring lightly and under the hat half covering his face you could see his mouth open, deformed by sleep, gaping in a foolish grimace. Little reddish hairs were scattered around his skinny chin, staining the pallid flesh and, now that his head was thrown back, you could see his thin, wrinkled neck, in the middle of which the Adam’s apple stood out, brick red, rising with each snore. Sprawled out like this, Camille was an undignified and irksome sight.
Looking at him, Laurent swiftly lifted up his foot. He was about to crush the face with a single blow.
Thérèse stifled a cry. She paled and closed her eyes, turning her head away, as though to avoid the splash of blood.
And Laurent, for a few seconds, stayed there, his foot raised, poised above the sleeping Camille’s face. Then he slowly withdrew his leg and walked a few steps away. It occurred to him that this would be a stupid murder: the crushed head would bring the whole police force down on him. The only reason he wanted to do away with Camille was to live with Thérèse. After committing the crime, he wanted a life of pleasure, like the person who killed the carter in the story that Old Michaud had told them.
He went over to the river bank and watched the water flowing past, with a mindless look. Then, suddenly, he went back into the undergrowth. He had finally devised a plan, worked out a murder that would be convenient and without risk to himself.
So he woke the sleeping