Therese Raquin - Emile Zola [95]
When Laurent was there and his wife knelt before Mme Raquin, he would lift her up roughly.
‘Stop play-acting,’ he would say. ‘Am I crying? Am I down on my knees? You’re doing all this to upset me.’
Thérèse’s remorse disturbed him to a peculiar degree. He was more troubled, now that his accomplice was dragging herself around, her eyes red with tears and her lips full of pleading. The sight of this repentance made flesh and blood increased his uneasiness. It was like an eternal reproach walking around the house. Apart from that, he was afraid that repentance would one day incite his wife to reveal everything. He would have preferred it if she had stayed stiff and threatening, earnestly defending herself against his accusations. But she had changed her approach and now willingly acknowledged her share in the crime, accusing herself, becoming soft and fearful, and using this as a basis to beg for redemption with humble ardour. Laurent was irritated by this attitude. Every evening now, their arguments would take a more damning and sinister turn.
‘Listen,’ Thérèse told her husband, ‘we are guilty of a terrible crime, we must repent if we want to have any peace ... Don’t you see, since I started to cry, I have been calmer. Do as I do. Let’s admit together that we are being rightly punished for committing a frightful crime.’
‘Pooh!’ Laurent would answer brusquely. ‘Say what you like. I know how devilishly cunning and hypocritical you are. Weep, if that amuses you. But, please, don’t go on at me with your tears.’
‘You’re wicked, you are refusing to feel any remorse. But you’re a coward even so. You caught Camille off guard.’
‘Are you saying I’m the only one who’s guilty?’
‘No, that’s not what I’m saying. I’m guilty, more guilty than you. I should have saved my husband from your hands. Oh, I know the full horror of my sin! But I shall try to obtain forgiveness, Laurent, and I’ll manage it, while you will go on living a life of desolation. You don’t even have the goodness in your heart to spare my aunt the sight of your shameful anger, and you have never spoken a word of regret to her.’
And she would kiss Mme Raquin, who closed her eyes. Then she would fuss around her, plumping up the pillow behind her head and showering her with affection. This exasperated Laurent.
‘Leave her alone,’ he would say. ‘Can’t you see that she hates you caring for her; she hates the sight of you. If she could lift up her hand, she’d slap your face.’
His wife’s slow, plaintive words, and her attitude of resignation, would gradually drive him into a blind rage. He could see plainly what she was about: she no longer wanted to make common cause with him, but was trying to separate herself in the depth of her remorse, so as to escape the clutches of the drowned man. At times, he would tell himself that she might have chosen the right course, that tears would cure him of his terrors, and he shuddered at the idea of being the only one to suffer and fear. He would like to repent, too, or at least to act out a scene of remorse, just to see. But he could not find the necessary words and sobs, so he would lapse into violence and shake Thérèse in order to irritate her and bring her back to join him in his raging madness. The young woman worked hard at remaining unexcited, responding to his cries of anger with tearful submission and becoming proportionately more humble and repentant as he became rougher. In this way Laurent would be driven to a fury. To put the final touch to his annoyance, Thérèse would start singing Camille’s praises, listing the qualities of the victim.
‘He was a good man,’ she said, ‘and we must have been very cruel to lift a hand against that gentle heart, which never had a bad impulse.