Therese Raquin - Emile Zola [61]
XIX
Meanwhile, Thérèse and Laurent’s secret campaign was bringing results. Thérèse had adopted an attitude of despair and melancholy, which started, after a few days, to disturb Mme Raquin. The old haberdasher wanted to know what was making her niece so sad. At this, the young woman played to perfection her part as the inconsolable widow; she spoke vaguely of boredom, listlessness and nervous pain, without mentioning anything specific. When her aunt pressed her on it, she replied that she was well, that she did not know what was making her so depressed, but that she kept crying without knowing why. Then there was her constant sighing, her pale, pathetic smiles, and those silences, oppressive in their emptiness and despondency. Eventually, faced with this young woman who had retreated into herself and seemed to be dying slowly of some unknown sickness, Mme Raquin became seriously alarmed. She had no one left in the world except her niece and she prayed God every night to preserve this child so that there would be someone to close her eyes. There was a bit of egotism in this last love of her old age. She felt she would be deprived of the few meagre consolations that still helped her to live when it occurred to her that she might lose Thérèse and die alone at the back of the damp shop in the arcade. From then on, she kept her eyes constantly on her niece and was appalled to observe the young woman’s sorrows, wondering what she could do to cure her of these silent feelings of despair.
The situation being so grave, she thought she should consult her old friend Michaud. One Thursday evening, she kept him behind in the shop and confided her fears in him.
‘Good heavens, don’t you see?’ the old man said, with the brutal frankness that came from his former occupation. ‘It’s been clear to me for a long time that Thérèse was in a sulk and I know very well why her face is all yellow and downcast like that.’
‘You know why?’ said Mme Raquin. ‘Tell me quickly. If only we could make her better.’
‘Pooh! The treatment’s easy,’ Michaud went on, with a laugh. ‘Your niece is unhappy because she’s been alone every night in her room for almost two years now. She needs a husband. You can see it in her eyes.’
The old police chief’s straight talking hurt Mme Raquin deeply. She thought that the wound which had been constantly bleeding in her since the frightful accident at Saint-Ouen burned as sharply and as cruelly in the heart of the young widow. With her son dead, she thought that there could not possibly be another man for her niece. And now Michaud, with his coarse laugh, was saying that Thérèse was sick because she needed a husband.
‘Marry her off as quick as you can,’ he said as he left. ‘Unless you want to see her dry up altogether. That’s my opinion, dear lady, and believe me, I’m right.’
Mme Raquin could not at first get used to the idea that her son had been forgotten already. Old Michaud had not even spoken Camille’s name and he had started to joke when talking about Thérèse’s supposed illness. The poor mother realized that she alone kept the memory of her dear child alive in the depths of her being. She wept and felt as though Camille had just died a second time. Then, when she had had