Therese Raquin - Emile Zola [55]
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