Therese Raquin - Emile Zola [87]
They always put the old cripple in the full light of the lamp so that her face would be fully lit and they would constantly have it in front of them. For other people, this soft, pale face would have been an unbearable sight, but they felt such a need for company that they rested their eyes on her with real joy. It was like the decayed mask of a dead woman, with two living eyes in it: the eyes alone moved, rapidly turning in their sockets, while the cheeks and mouth looked as though they were petrified, possessing a horrifying immobility. When Mme Raquin abandoned herself to sleep, lowering her eyelids, her face, now entirely white and silent, was truly that of a corpse. Thérèse and Laurent, feeling that there was no longer anyone with them, would make a noise until the paralysed woman opened her eyes and looked at them. In this way, they forced her to stay awake.
They used to consider her a distraction to bring them out of their bad dreams. Now that she was an invalid, she had to be looked after like a child. The care that they lavished on her took their minds off their obsessions. In the morning, Laurent would get her up, carry her to her chair; in the evening he would put her back into her bed. She was still heavy and it took all his strength to lift her carefully in his arms and carry her. He was also the one who pushed her chair around. Her other needs were looked after by Thérèse: she was the one who dressed the cripple, fed her and tried to understand her every wish. For a few days, Mme Raquin could still use her hands, so she was able to write on a slate and ask for what she needed; then her hands died and she was unable to lift up or hold a pencil. All that was left after that was the language of the eyes and her niece had to guess what she wanted. The young woman devoted herself to the cruel task of sick-nurse: it kept her body and mind occupied and did her a lot of good.
So that they would not have to stay alone together, the couple would push the poor old woman’s chair into the dining room early in the morning. They brought her in with them, as though she were essential to their existence. She had to watch their meals and listen to all their conversations. They pretended not to understand when she showed that she wished to go back to her room. She was useful only in preventing them from having to endure each other’s company; she had no right to live by herself. At eight o‘clock, Laurent went to his studio and Thérèse down to the shop, so the paralysed woman stayed alone in the dining room until noon; then, after lunch, she was alone again until six o’clock. Often, during the day, her niece would come up and busy herself around her, making sure that she had everything she needed. Friends of the family could not praise the goodness of Thérèse and Laurent too highly.
The Thursday evening gatherings continued and the cripple was present, as in the past. Her chair was brought over to the table and from eight o’clock until eleven, she kept her eyes open, fixing each of the guests in turn with her penetrating gaze. For the first few days, Old Michaud and Grivet were a little put out by this corpse of their old friend. They were not sure how they ought to look; they were not very much grieved, but they wondered what was precisely the correct degree of sadness to be exhibited in the circumstances. Should they address themselves to this dead face, or should they