Online Book Reader

Home Category

Therese Raquin - Emile Zola [55]

By Root 828 0
he went through the darkness here quite happily. This evening, he did not dare ring; he thought that there might be some murderers, hiding in a particular recess formed by the entrance to the cellar, who would suddenly leap out at his throat as he went by. Finally, he rang, lit a match and made up his mind to venture into the alleyway. The match went out. He stayed motionless, panting, not daring to run, striking the matches on the damp wall so nervously that his hand shook. He thought he could hear voices and the sound of footsteps in front of him. The matches broke in his fingers. He managed to light one. The sulphur began to boil and catch on the wood, but so slowly that it increased Laurent’s terror: in the pale, bluish light from the sulphur, in the lights flickering around, he imagined he could see monstrous shapes. Then the match fizzed, and the light became white and clear. Relieved, Laurent went forward cautiously, taking care not to let the light go out. When he should have walked past the cellar, he pressed against the opposite wall; the cellar was a mass of darkness that scared him. Then he went quickly up the few steps to the concierge’s lodge and thought he was saved when he had his candle. He went more slowly up the other floors, holding his candle high and lighting every corner that he had to walk past. Those huge, strange shapes that come and go when you are in a staircase with a light filled him with a vague sense of unease as they swiftly rose up and disappeared in front of him.

When he got upstairs, he opened his door and quickly shut himself inside. The first thing he did was to look under his bed and to search the room thoroughly, to make sure that no one was hidden in it. He closed the skylight, thinking that someone could easily come down through there. When he had taken these precautions, he felt calmer and got undressed, amazed at his own faint-heartedness. Eventually, he smiled, calling himself a baby. He had never been timid and could not explain this sudden rush of fear.

He went to bed. Once he was in the warmth of the sheets, he thought again of Thérèse, whom his anxieties had made him forget. Keeping his eyes obstinately closed and trying to go to sleep, he found that his thoughts were working involuntarily, forcing themselves on him and connecting with one another to show him the advantages that he would get by marrying as soon as possible. Sometimes, he would turn round and tell himself: ‘Don’t think any more, let’s sleep; I have to be up at eight o’clock tomorrow to go to the office.’ And he made an effort to slide off into sleep. But, one by one, the ideas would return and his mind would resume its silent inner debate. Soon he found himself in a sort of anxious reverie, which listed at the back of his brain the reasons why he should marry, and the alternate arguments that lust and caution gave for and against possessing Thérèse.

So, realizing that he could not sleep, that insomnia was keeping his body in a state of irritation, he turned over on to his back, opened his eyes wide and let his mind fill with the memory of the young woman. The balance was upset and the hot fever of earlier times shook him once more. He thought of getting up and going back to the Passage du Pont-Neuf. He would have the outer gate opened for him, he would knock on the little door of the staircase and Thérèse would welcome him in. At this idea, the blood rushed to his neck.

His daydream was astonishingly clear. He saw himself in the street, walking quickly beside the houses and saying to himself: ‘I’m taking this boulevard, crossing this crossroads, to get there sooner.’ Then the gate to the arcade grated on its hinges and he went down the narrow passage, dark and empty, congratulating himself on the fact that he could go to Thérèse without being seen by the woman who sold costume jewellery; then he imagined being in the alleyway and going up the little staircase as he had so often done. Once there, he felt again the searing delight that he used to feel; he recalled the delicious fears and voluptuous charms

Return Main Page Previous Page Next Page

®Online Book Reader