Therese Raquin - Emile Zola [70]
Yet, despite themselves, by some strange phenomenon, even while they were speaking these empty words, each of them guessed the thoughts that the other was concealing beneath these commonplaces. They could not stop thinking about Camille. Their eyes carried on with the story of the past and their looks held a coherent, silent conversation beneath the aimlessly wandering one that they were speaking aloud. The words that they randomly uttered did not hang together, but contradicted themselves; their whole beings were concentrated on the silent exchange of memories. When Laurent spoke about the roses or the fire, of one thing or another, Thérèse perfectly well understood that he was reminding her of the struggle in the boat and the dull thud as Camille hit the water; and when Thérèse replied ‘yes’ or ‘no’ to some insignificant question, Laurent realized that she was telling him that she did, or did not, recall some detail of the crime. So they talked, unreservedly, without needing words, while speaking of something else. And since, in any case, they were not aware of the words that they were speaking, they followed their secret thoughts, sentence by sentence, and could easily have switched to telling their secret thoughts out loud, without ceasing to understand one another. Bit by bit, this sort of divination, and the persistence with which their memories constantly presented them with the image of Camille, started to drive them mad. They realized that they were following each other’s thoughts, and that if they did not stop, the words would come of their own accord into their mouths and name the drowned man and describe the murder. So they clenched their teeth and ceased their conversation.
In the heavy silence that followed, the two murderers kept on discussing their victim. It seemed to them that their looks were penetrating each other’s flesh and driving in sharp, clear statements. At times, they thought they could hear one another speaking aloud; their senses were distorted and sight became a kind of hearing, strange and fine; so clearly could they read their thoughts on the other’s face, that these thoughts acquired a strange, resonant sound that shook their whole bodies. They could not have heard one another more clearly had they each screamed in a deafening voice: ‘We killed Camille and his corpse is lying there between us, turning our limbs to ice.’ And their frightful confession continued, ever more visible, ever more resounding, in the calm, damp air of the room.
Laurent and Thérèse had begun the silent story on the day of their first meeting in the shop. Then the memories came one by one, in chronological order: they told each other about the hours of pleasure, the moments of uncertainty and anger, and the dreadful instant of the murder. This is when they clenched their teeth and stopped talking about trivial matters, through fear of suddenly naming Camille without wanting to. But their thoughts did not stop, taking them afterwards into the anxiety and the fearful time of waiting that followed the murder. So it was that they came to think of the drowned man’s body lying on a slab in the Morgue. In his look, Laurent told Thérèse about his horror and Thérèse, driven to the limit, forced by some iron hand to open her lips, suddenly continued the conversation aloud:
‘Did you see him in the Morgue?’ she asked Laurent, without naming Camille.
Laurent seemed to be expecting the question. He had read it a moment earlier on the young woman’s white face.
‘Yes,’ he replied, in a choked voice.
The murderers shuddered. They drew closer to the fire and reached out their hands