Therese Raquin - Emile Zola [67]
Seated opposite one another at table, they smiled awkwardly and kept sinking back into a state of pensive preoccupation. They ate, answered questions and moved like automata. The same succession of fleeting thoughts kept returning constantly to both their weary minds. They were married, but they were profoundly astonished to find that they had no awareness of anything new. They felt that a huge gulf still separated them and from time to time they wondered how they could cross this gulf. It seemed as though they were back before the murder, when a material obstacle stood between them. Then suddenly they remembered that they would sleep together that evening, in a few hours, and they looked at one another in amazement, not understanding they would be allowed to do that. They did not feel any union between them. On the contrary, they imagined that they had just been violently pulled apart and cast far away from each other.
The guests, giggling stupidly around them, wanted to hear them exchange intimacies, say ‘tu’ to each other, clear away any embarrassment; but they stammered and blushed and could not manage to behave as lovers towards one another in front of other people.
In the wait, their desires had worn out and all the past had vanished. They were losing their violent, lustful hunger and even forgetting their joy the same morning, the deep joy that had overtaken them both at the idea that from now on they would no longer be afraid. They were simply weary and stunned by everything that had happened; the events of the day were going round and round in their heads, monstrous and incomprehensible. There they were, silent, smiling, expecting nothing, hoping for nothing. A dull, anxious pain stirred in the depths of their despondency.
And Laurent, every time he moved his head, felt a sharp, burning sensation eating into his flesh: his detachable collar was pinching and cutting into Camille’s bite. While the Mayor was reading out the Code2 and while the priest was speaking about God, throughout this long day, he had felt the drowned man’s teeth digging into his flesh. At times, he felt as though a trail of blood would run down on to his chest and stain his white waistcoat red.
In herself, Mme Raquin felt grateful to the couple for their solemnity: the poor mother would have been hurt by a loud demonstration of happiness. To her mind, her son was there, invisible, entrusting Thérèse to Laurent. Grivet did not feel the same. He thought the wedding a bit sad and tried to cheer it up, despite the looks he got from Michaud and Olivier, which pinned him to his chair every time he made as though to get on his feet and say something idiotic. However, he did manage to get up once, to propose a toast.
‘I drink to the children of the bride and groom,’ he said, in a suggestive tone of voice.
They had to clink their glasses. Thérèse and Laurent had gone very pale when they heard Grivet’s toast. It had not occurred to them that they might have children. The idea shot through them like an icy shiver. They touched their glasses nervously and looked at one another in surprise, fearful at being there, face to face.
The company left the table early. The guests wanted to accompany the couple as far as the bridal chamber. It was barely half past nine when the wedding party came back to the shop in the arcade. The woman who sold costume jewellery was still sitting in her cubbyhole behind the tray lined with blue velvet. Out of curiosity, she raised her head and looked at the newlyweds with a smile. They caught the look and were terrified. What if the old woman knew about their meetings, in the old days, and had seen Laurent slipping into the