Therese Raquin - Emile Zola [96]
‘Oh, yes, he was certainly good,’ Laurent scoffed. ‘What you mean is that he was stupid, don’t you? Have you forgotten? You used to claim that the slightest word from him got on your nerves and that he could not open his mouth without saying something ridiculous.’
‘Don’t mock. That’s the last straw, insulting the man you killed. You don’t know anything about a woman’s heart, Laurent. Camille loved me and I loved him.’
‘You loved him! Huh! Did you really? That’s new! I suppose it was because you loved your husband that you took me as a lover. I remember the day when you were lying with your head on my chest and saying that Camille made you feel sick when your fingers sank into his flesh, like sinking into clay ... Oh, I can tell you why you loved me. You needed some more sturdy arms than that poor devil had to hold you with.’
‘I loved him like a sister. He was the son of my aunt and benefactress. He had all the gentleness of a delicate nature, and would always behave in a way that was noble and generous, helpful and affectionate. And we killed him! My God, my God!’
She would cry and swoon away. Mme Raquin shot piercing glances at her, indignant at hearing Camille’s praises on such lips. Laurent, powerless against this flood of tears, walked back and forth feverishly, looking for some way of finally crushing Thérèse’s remorse. In the end, all the good that he heard about his victim caused him sharp pangs of anxiety; occasionally, he would really come to believe in Camille’s virtues and this would increase his terror. But what drove him out of his mind and caused him to become violent was the parallel that the drowned man’s widow would inevitably draw between her first and second husbands, entirely to the advantage of the first.
‘Why, yes!’ she would exclaim. ‘He was better than you. I would prefer it if he were still alive and you in his place under the ground.’
At first, Laurent would shrug his shoulders.
‘Say what you like,’ she went on, warming to the subject. ‘Perhaps I didn’t love him when he was alive, but now I remember him and I do love him. I love him and hate you, that’s what. You’re a murderer ...’
‘Will you be quiet!’ Laurent shouted.
‘And he is a victim, a decent man killed by a rogue. Oh, I’m not afraid of you. You know that you’re a wretch, a brute with no heart or soul. How do you expect me to love you, now that you are bathed in Camille’s blood? Camille lavished affection on me and I’d kill you, do you hear, if that could bring him back and restore his love.’
‘Shut up, you bitch!’
‘Why should I? I’m speaking the truth. I would buy forgiveness at the cost of your blood. Oh, how much I am weeping and suffering! It’s my fault that this scoundrel murdered my husband. One night, I must go and kiss the earth where he lies. That will be the last joy of my flesh.’
Laurent, driven crazy by these frightful pictures that Thérèse conjured up, flew at her, knocked her down and knelt on her, his fist raised.
‘That’s right,’ she cried. ‘Hit me! Kill me! Camille never raised a hand against me, but you are a monster.’
And Laurent, spurred on by these words, would shake her in his rage, hit her and bruise her body with his clenched fist. On two occasions, he nearly strangled her. Thérèse went limp beneath his blows. She experienced a fierce, bitter pleasure at being struck. She would abandon herself, offer herself up, provoking her husband to hit her again and again. This was another cure for the misery of her life: she would sleep better at night when she had been well beaten in the evening. Mme Raquin experienced an exquisite sense of pleasure when Laurent pulled her niece across the floor in this way, kicking her.
The murderer’s existence had become truly dreadful since the day when Thérèse had the hellish notion of feeling remorse and openly mourning Camille. From then on, the wretch lived constantly with his victim: at every moment, he had to listen to his wife extolling and bewailing her first husband. The slightest opportunity would set her off: Camille used to do this, Camille used to do that, Camille