Therese Raquin - Emile Zola [54]
The first shock that struck him, shaking him out of his complacency, was the idea that he would at last have to think about marriage. It was now almost fifteen months since Camille died. For a short while, Laurent considered not marrying at all, dumping Thérèse and keeping the model, whose undemanding and inexpensive love was quite enough for him. Then, it occurred to him that he could not have killed a man for nothing; when he recalled his crime and the dreadful effort that he had made to gain sole possession of this woman who now disturbed him so much, he felt that the murder would become useless and horrible if he did not marry her. It seemed ludicrous to him to throw a man in the water so that you could steal his widow, to wait fifteen months, and after that to make up one’s mind to live with some girl who hawked her body round all the artists’ studios ... He smiled at the notion. In any event, was he not bound to Thérèse by ties of blood and horror? He felt her somehow crying out and twisting inside him, he belonged to her. He was afraid of his accomplice; perhaps, if he did not marry her, she would go and confess everything to the Law, for revenge and out of jealousy. These ideas were pounding in his head. Once again, he was stricken with fever.
Meanwhile, the model left him abruptly. One Sunday, she failed to return; no doubt she had found warmer and more comfortable digs. Laurent was only mildly put out, but he had grown accustomed to having a woman lying beside him at night and he suddenly felt there was a gap in his life. A week later, his nerves could bear it no longer. He went back to the shop in the arcade for whole evenings on end, once more looking at Thérèse with eyes that glinted occasionally. The young woman, who was excited by long hours with her books, returned his gaze with languid and surrendering eyes.
In this way, both of them found their way back to anguish and desire, after a long year of waiting in a state of disgust and indifference. One evening as he was closing the shop, Laurent stopped Thérèse in the passageway.
‘Would you like me to come to your room this evening?’ he asked, in a passionate voice.
The young woman threw up her hands in horror.
‘No, no, let’s wait,’ she said. ‘We must be careful.’
‘I’ve been waiting long enough, I think,’ said Laurent. ‘I’m fed up, I want you.’
Thérèse looked at him wildly. The blood rushed to her hands and to her face. She seemed to hesitate, then said abruptly:
‘Let’s get married. I’ll be yours.’
XVII
Laurent left the Passage, anxious in his mind and uneasy in his body. Thérèse’s warm breath and her compliance had brought back all the keen urges of earlier times. He went down to the river and walked along with his hat in his hand, so that he could get the full benefit of the fresh air on his face.
When he reached Rue Saint-Victor, he paused at the entrance to his lodgings, afraid to go up, afraid of being alone. An inexplicable, childish terror made him dread that he might find a man hiding in his garret. He had never suffered from such faint-heartedness. He did not even try to argue against the strange fit of trembling that came over him. He went into a wine shop and stayed there for an hour, mechanically drinking large glasses of wine. He thought of Thérèse and felt cross with the young woman because she had not wanted to have him that same night in her room and it occurred to him that he would not have been afraid had he been with her.
They closed the wine shop and showed him the door. He came back to ask for some matches. The concierge in his house was on the first floor. Laurent had a long alleyway to go down and a few steps to go up before he could take his candle. This alleyway and small flight of stairs, horribly black, appalled him. Normally,