Thérèse Raquin. A novel

Front matter

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Contents

Chapter page

I. LE PASSAGE DU PONT-NEUF 21

II. THE HERO AND HEROINE MARRY 27

Chapter I. Le Passage Du Pon T-n E Tj F

AT the end of la Rue Guene-Gaud as you come from the Quais, you find yourself in the Passage du Pont-Neuf , a sort of lane — dark and dreary, running from la Rue Mazarin to la Rue de Seine . This passage is twenty feet long and two wide at the utmost. It is paved with yellowish stones, worn and uneven, ill-smelling and damp.

On fair summer days, when a hot sun pours down on the streets, merely a whitish light enters through

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the dirty window panes looking out on this passage. On stormy days in winter, or foggy mornings, the wretched interiors receive no light whatever from without.

On the left the shops are especially low and dark, and are occupied by manufacturers of children’s toys, and by box makers whose stocks in trade are covered thick with dust, and whose small-paned windows throw a grim reflection on the faces of all within, who move about in the obscurity almost like shadows. On the right runs a long wall, against which the people. in the shops opposite have built narrow closets, in which are displayed all sorts of articles, on hideous brown shelves. An old woman has hired one of these closets, and there sells imitation jewelry — rings for fifteen sous, are delicately arranged on a bed of blue velvet, in the bottom of a mahogony box.

Above these closets extends the wall, covered with green stains and mould.

The Passage du Pont-Neuf is not a place in which the gay world walks. It is taken only as a short cut — when one is in a hurry — and is used by persons whose great aim in life is to save a few minutes — apprentices in white aprons, work-women carrying huge bundles, men and women with boxes and packages under their arms. An occasional aged man may be seen dragging himself along, and the children coming from school delight to scamper through, as they greatly enjoy the noise of their wooden shoes clattering on the stones, and re-echoing from the walls.

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All day long, therefore, there is a constant sound of footsteps — no one speaks, no one stops — but each person hurries on, without glancing into the shops, the proprietors of which look out anxiously, hoping that some one may be attracted by their wares.

In the evening three gas jets, enclosed in cumbrous lanterns, lighted the passage. These gas lights shed around them pale circles, which trembled and seemed every moment about to disappear. The Passage then assumed a singularly cut-throat aspect — great shadows stretched along the paving stones, and blasts of cold, damp air poured in from the street. It was like a subterranean gallery vaguely lighted by three funeral lamps. The shop-keepers were quite contented with the scanty illumination afforded their windows by these gas lights, and had only within the shops a lamp with a shade upon it standing on the corner of their counters. The passers-by could then distinguish something of the interior of these dingy holes where darkness lurked all through the day.

Just under one of the gas lights was the box manufacturer, and on the opposite side further on, one candle caused the imitation jewelry to glitter — its proprietor lying coiled up on the floor of the closet, asleep, with her arms folded in her shawl.

Some years ago there was in this lane a shop painted dark green, damp and unwholesome. A long narrow plank was the sign, and had on it the words, Thread and Needles , and on the glass door was a woman’s name — “ Thdr£se Raquin,” painted in red letters.

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On the right and left of the door were deep windows, the sloping floors of which were covered with blue paper.

During the morning all that could be seen was the scanty supply of merchandise displayed in these windows and on that end of the counters nearest them.

On one side there was a little lingerie — fluted caps at two and three francs each, muslin collars and sleeves, a few pairs of knitted stockings and a pair of suspenders. Alniost everything was yellow and dusty, and was suspended by a hook of steel wire. The windows therefore were obscured by thin white chiffons which presented a very miserable appearance. The new caps of a more dazzling whiteness caught the eye at once, and also an occasional pair of long stockings.

On the other side, in a narrow window, were balls of yarn of different colors, black buttons sewed on white cards, boxes of all colors and all dimensions, bunches of steel beads, bundles of knitting needles, patterns for worsted work, rolls of ribbons — all these things looked as if they had lain there perfectly undisturbed for five or six years. All seemed of one uniform, dull gray in this store-house, to which wind, dust, and rain had access.

Toward noon on clear summer days, when the sun poured down its ardent, yellow rays on the wide streets, behind the caps in the larger window a young woman’s pale, grave face could be distinguished. This profile stood out against the darkness of the rear of

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the shop. A low, broad brow, a straight, slender nose, thin red lips, and a short well-cut chin fading into the throat in rounded lines, were all that could be seen, for the figure was lost in the shadow — the profile alone appeared — of almost waxen pallor, long-fringed lashes to eyes wide open, and a head crowned by masses of dark hair. This head could be seen motionless for hours between two caps on which the steel wires had left streaks of rust.

In the evening when the lamp was lighted, the interior of the shop was visible. It was not deep — the counter was on the side of the largest window — while on the other at the end, there was a staircase leading to the rooms above. Against the walls were shelves with glass doors, and shelves piled with green boxes — four chairs and a table completed the furniture. The place was inexpressibly dreary and bare, the merchandise all looked as if it were packed for removal.

As a general thing there were two women seated behind the counter : the young woman with the grave face, and an old lady who smiled and nodded in her sleep. This old lady was about sixty. Her placid fat face looked white in the lamp light — a great tortoise shell cat crouched on the corner of the counter and watched her.

Seated on a low chair, was a man of some thirty years, reading or talking with the younger woman in a low voice. He was small, thin, with hair of a faded blonde, a scanty beard and a face covered with freckles. He looked like a spoiled, unhealthy child.

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A little before ten the elder woman awoke. The shop was closed and the family went up stairs to bed. The cat followed its mistress, purring and rubbing against each rail of the stairs.

The rooms above consisted of three. The stairs entered a dining room which served also as a salon. On the left was a porcelain stove, in a niche opposite stood a buffet; then chairs were ranged along the walls, a round table always stood in the centre of the room. Back of this dining room was a tiny kitchen, very dark, and on each side was a sleeping room.

The old lady, having embraced her son and her daughter-in-law, went into her own room, the cat slept on a chair in the kitchen. The husband and wife entered their chamber, which had a second door and a staircase that led down into a very dark, narrow passage.

The husband, who was always ill and feverish, prepared for bed, and his wife opened the window to close the blinds, and stood for some minutes before the great black wall that extended in front of her. She looked up and down this wall with vague, wandering eyes, and then turned away in disdainful indifference.

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Chapter II. The Hero And Heroine Marry

MADAME RAQUIN was from Vernon, where for twenty-five years she had kept a little shop. Some years after her husband’s death she sold out her stock and good will. Her savings, added to the amount brought in by this sale, gave her a capital of forty thousand francs, which she invested, and which brought her in an income of two thousand francs.

This sum seemed to her quite enough to live on. She knew none of the joys or the sorrows of this world from this time forth, but lived a quiet, peaceful existence, apart from the world.

She hired for four hundred francs a little house, whose garden ran down to the Seine. It was a quiet home with a certain cloistral aspect; a straight path led to the house which stood in the centre of a large meadow — the windows looked out on the river and on the desolate hills on the opposite shore. The good lady, who was then over fifty, shut herself up in this solitude with her son Camille, and her niece TherSse.

Camille was then twenty. His mother continued to spoil him as she had done when he was a little boy. She adored him because he had struggled through a succession of severe illnesses that had left him without

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any constitution. For fifteen years, Madame Raquin had watched over the health of this dear son, and nursed him with indomitable patience, courage and love.

Camille, as we have said, was never well — he was always suffering in one way or another. His physical development had been arrested, and he was undersized; his movements were always uncertain and slow. His mother loved him all the more for this fragility, and watched the varying expressions of his poor, pale face, with triumphant tenderness, saying to herself that she had given him life not once but at least ten times. During the rare intervals between his illnesses, the boy went to a commercial college in Vernon. He there learned spelling and arithmetic. His science was limited to the four rules, and to a superficial knowledge of grammar. Later, he took lessons in writing and bookkeeping. Madame Raquin trembled, when she was advised to send her son to college ; she knew that he would die were he to leave her, and that books would kill him. Camille therefore rested in comfortable ignorance, and this ignorance was an additional element of weakness in his nature.

At eighteen, wearied to death by the attentions with which his mother surrounded him, he entered a linen draper’s as book-keeper, at a salary of sixty francs per month. He was of a restless nature, and could not endure idleness. He was in better spirits and in better health, while bending over these long columns of

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figures, than when lounging about his mother’s house. He had been forced to quarrel with his mother in order to gain her consent to his acceptance of this situation. She wished to pin him to her side, lest an accident should come to him. The young man was determined to have his own way on this point, however — he demanded work as other children demand playthings — not from any sense of duty, but from an instinct, a necessity of his nature. The tenderness and devotion of his mother had made him intensely, ferociously selfish ; he fancied that he loved those who pitied him, and ministered to his happiness, but in reality he lived quite apart, within himself, loving no one but himself, caring only for his own comfort, and eager only for that which should best ensure it, and when irritated by his mother’s watchfulness, he, in order to escape from doses and potions, threw himself into an absorbing occupation during the day, and in the evening, walked with his cousin Ther&se on the shores of the Seine.

Therdse was then eighteen. One day, sixteen years before which Madame Raquin was busy with her shop, her brother, Captain Degans, appeared before her with a little girl in his arms. He came from Algeria.

“Here is a child of whom you are the aunt,” he said, with a smile. “Her mother is dead, I do not know what to do with her. I give her to you.”

The aunt took the child in her arms, and kissed the rosy cheeks. Ddgans was eight days at Vernon. His sister questioned him closely in regard to this child,

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but succeeded simply in ascertaining that the little one was born at Oran, and that her mother was a woman of the country, and of great beauty. The captain, one hour before he left his sister, handed her an acte de naissance in which Th^rese, formerly recognized by him, bore his name. He went away and was never seen again by his sister, and several years later was killed in Africa.

Ther&se grew up with Camille, as tenderly cared for and caressed as was he. She was exuberantly healthy, and yet she was watched as if she were the frailest of the frail, sharing her cousin’s medicines and constantly breathing the heated atmosphere of the room occupied by the little invalid.

For hours she sat crouched before the fire watching the flames without lowering her eyelids. This life had naturally a marked effect upon her ; she fell into a way of speaking very softly — of walking on tiptoe — of remaining for hours, seated without moving a finger, and with wide-open eyes fixed on vacancy. But when she raised her arm or advanced her foot, one instantly realized that under that fair skin and elastic muscles lurked a host of slumbering passions. A certain feline suppleness also characterized her, though her energy and strength was something marvellous.

One day her cousin fell unconscious ; she lifted him and bore him to his room with swift dexterit}^. The exertion tinged her cheeks with a brighter color, and flushed her brow, but she said not one word. The

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secluded life she led, the debilitating regime to which she was subjected, did not diminish her vital force; her figure lost none of its roundness, but her face gradually became utterly colorless, her complexion lost its pink and white, and became almost yellow, consequently much of her beauty vanished with her coloring.

When Madame Raquin took the little house near the water, Th^rese was thrilled with joy. Her aunt had said to her so continually, “ Hush ! don’t make such a noise ! ” that she had succeeded in controlling all outward demonstrations of her stormy nature.

Her self-possession was something wonderful, and a certain stolid tranquillity vailed her hidden excitement. She always looked upon herself as in the vicinity of a dying child, so firmly impressed was she, by her aunt, with the conviction that her cousin was in very delicate health. Her movements were those of a woman in a sick room, her gestures and her voice were always soothing and placid.

When she beheld the garden, the river, and the green hills lying off towards the horizon, she felt a mad longing to run and shout. She felt her heart beat wildly against the prison of her breast, but not one muscle in her face quivered. She merely smiled faintly, when her aunt asked if she were pleased with this new dwelling. Then life became infinitely easier and more agreeable for her. She preserved all the tranquillity of her manner — her calm indifferent expression of face, but within herself she lived a tumultuous, stormy existence. When she was alone, she lay among the long grass by the river-side basking in the hot sun like some animal — her dark eyes wide open with an expression of angry defiance. She indulged in the maddest dreams, and looked defiantly at the murmuring river, as if she believed that it was about to rise and attack her ; then she would start to her feet and prepare for defence, asking herself angrily how she could conquer these waters.

In the evening, Thdr£se would sit near her aunt quietly sewing — her face looked very gentle as the subdued light from the shaded lamp fell upon it. Camille, lying back in his arm-chair, was busy adding up figures in his mind.

Occasionally, a word or two uttered by one or the other disturbed for a moment the peaceful silence of this room.

Madame Raquin looked from one to the other of her two children with tender affection. She had determined on their marriage, for she could not endure the thought of dying and leaving her son alone and ill.

She therefore counted on Th6r$se, saying to herself that the young girl would certainly be as vigilant as herself, in regard to Camille’s health, for the girl had, by her silent devotion, inspired her aunt with entire and boundless confidence, and she felt that in marrying her son to such a woman, she was giving him a guardian angel.

The marriage was openly discussed as a matter of

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course ; and the young people knew perfectly well that it was entirely settled. Having known this from childhood, the thought had become perfectly familiar.

Madame Raquin had said, “we will wait until Thdrese is twenty-one.”

They waited with no fever of the blood and no impatience. Camille had not outgrown his boyish liking for his cousin. He kissed her as he did his mother, with a certain amount of affection, but with no quickening of his pulse. He looked upon her as an agreeable companion — one who was always ready to gratify his whims and caprices, and to wait upon him by inches, and could make his gruels and flaxseed tea as no one else could ; he leaned on her shoulder as she aided him from his bed to a chair when he was recovering from one of his attacks, as he would have leaned on the shoulder of any youth of his own age, and never once had he thought of pressing those fresh lips with a lover’s kiss.

Th^rese too was cold and indifferent. She sometimes fixed her great eyes on Camille, and looked at him for several minutes with a calm, steady gaze; her lips alone sometimes quivered, but on this quiet face, which her immense self-control kept so firm, nothing that was going on within could be discovered.

When her marriage was spoken of, Therese would become very grave, contenting herself with simple acquiescence in all that Madame Raquin said.

On summer evenings, the two young people loitered

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down to the river side. Camille rebelled at his mother’s incessant watchfulness. He sometimes seemed determined to make himself ill; to do anything in short which should enable him to escape from all these cares which bored and worried him.

Months and years elapsed. The day fixed for the marriage arrived. Madame Raquin took Ther£se aside, talked to her of her father and her mother, and related the story of her birth. The young girl listened with fixed attention, then kissed her aunt in silence and left the room.

That night Thdrese, instead of going to her chamber on the left of the staircase, entered that of her cousin opposite. This was all the change that took place in her life.

Camille’s quiet selfishness remained all undisturbed, and Th^rese was as quiet and as indifferent as ever.

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Chapter III. Removal To Paris

WEEK after his marriage Camille stated dis-

JljL tinctly to his mother that he intended to leave Vernon and meant to live in Paris.

Madame Raquin was greatly disturbed, and positively refused. She had planned out the remainder of her life, and did not propose to change it in any way.

Her son had an attack of the nerves, and threatened to be very ill if she did not yield.

“ I have never opposed you in any way,” he said, “you wanted me to marry my cousin, I have done so. I have taken every dose of medicine you ever ordered, and it seems to me that the least you can do now is to yield to my wishes without making any objection. We shall leave at the end of the month.”

Madame Raquin never closed her eyes that night. This decision of Camille’s was a great shock to her, and it seemed to her almost impossible that she could ever again make new plans. But by degrees, she accustomed herself to the idea. She reminded herself that this newly-married pair might have children, and then her small property would not be enough for them all to live upon. More money must be earned, and some lucrative occupation could easily be found for

ThdrSse.

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In two more days, Madame Raquin had become accustomed to the idea of leaving Vernon, and had arranged all her plans.

f She even became quite gay as she talked them over.

* “Listen, children,” she said. “I will go to Paris to-morrow. I will see if I cannot buy out the stock and good-will of some thread and needle shop. This will give us two women something to do. You, Camille, will occupy yourself as you please ; you can stroll about the streets~until you are tired, or you can look for some employment.”

“ I will find some employment,” answered the young man.

The truth was, that Camille’s resolve was the result of his moderate ambition. He wished to be employed in some large establishment, and colored high with pleasure as he pictured himself in a vast Bureau with alpaca sleeves drawn up over his arms, and a pen behind his ears.

Th^rSse was not consulted ; she had always shown such passive obedience, that both her aunt and her husband thought it unnecessary even to ask her opinion. She went where they went, she did what they did without a complaint, without a reproach, without even seeming to know that she had given up one residence for another.

Madame Raquin went to Paris, and to the Passage du Pont-Neuf at once. An old maid at Vernon had sent her to one of her relatives, who kept a shop in this

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P assage of which she was anxious to get rid. Madame Raquin thought the place dark and small, but she was so frightened by the noise of the streets, and by all the luxury she saw in the fashionable quarters of Paris, that this narrow lane and these modest windows recalled to her mind her old shop in Vernon, and even allowed her to fancy that she was once more in the provinces.

She breathed more freely in this quiet corner than she had breathed since she left Vernon, and she came to the conclusion that her beloved children might easily be happy here.

The modest price asked, finally decided her. The stock and good-will were valued at two thousand francs, while the rent of the shop and floor above was but twelve hundred.

Madame Raquin, who had saved over four thousand francs, calculated that she could buy the stock and pay the first year’s rent, and not encroach on her capital.

Camille’s salary and the sales they would make — herself and Th£r&se — would suffice for their daily needs, and in that way she would not be compelled to touch the interest of her capital, but would allow it to roll up for her grandchildren.

She returned to Vernon in the best of spirits, she said she had found a pearl — a most delicious spot in the heart of Paris. By degrees, and at the end of a few days, this dark, damp shop in this Passage had become a Palace in her eyes. She looked upon it as large, commodious, quiet and replete with unspeakable advantages.

“Ah! my dear Th^rese,” she said, “you will see how happy we shall be in that new home ! There are three beautiful rooms up-stairs. The Passage is constantly crowded with people. We will arrange our shop windows in the most attractive manner. You may be sure, my dear, that we shall never be bored ! ”

The old lady talked on incessantly. All the instincts of an old shopkeeper revived within her. She gave advice to Thdr£se on the sales and on the purchases she should make, and confided to her more than one trick of the trade.

Finally, the family left the house on the shore of the Seine, and that same evening they installed themselves in the Passage du Pont-Neuf.

When Th6r£se entered the shop where she was to spend her future life, it seemed to her that she was going into a cold, damp cellar. She shivered with a ghastly kind of dread.

She looked out at the black lane, she inspected the shop, and finally went up stairs and examined every room, which, utterly nude of furniture, struck terror to her soul, so ghastly and dreary did they look.

Th6r£se said not one word, nor did she make one single gesture of surprise. She was as if frozen. When her aunt and her husband went down stairs, she seated herself on a chair with hands loosely clasped on her knees. A smothered sob shook her from head to foot.

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Madame Raquin, now that she was face to face with the realit}r, was somewhat embarrassed and ashamed of her dreams. She defended her acquisition, and found a remedy for each new inconvenience they encountered, reasoned away the darkness by saying that the weather was cloudy, and ended by saying that a little soap and water, and good use of brooms and brushes, would make all right.

“ Nonsense ! ” answered Camille, “ it is all well enough. Besides, we shall never be up stairs in the daytime. I shall always be out until five or six o’clock, and you two women will be very comfortable together here.”

Never would the young man have consented to occupy this dismal hole, had he not relied on the comforts of the clerkship he anticipated. He said to himself that he would be, of course, quite warm enough all day in his office, and at night he would go to bed almost as soon as he got home.

For a whole week, the shop and the house remained in disorder. On the very first day, ThdrSse took her seat behind the counter, and never moved. Madame Raquin was astonished at this acquiescence. She had supposed that the young wife would seek to embellish her home — to put flowers at the windows, and ask for new papers, curtains and carpets. When she herself proposed some alterations, her niece answered quietly:

“And why, pray? We are very well as we are. We ought not to think of such luxuries.”

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Camille was a whole month before he found any employment ; but during this time he was as little as possible in the shop. He spent the greater part of the day in the street. He was so disappointed and discouraged, that lie began to talk of going back to Vernon.

At last, however, he obtained a position in the office of a Railway Company — that of Orleans, at a salary of one hundred francs per month. He left in the morning at eight o’clock, and started with his hands in his pockets, along the Seine, from the Institute to the Jardin des Plantes. This long walk, which he took twice each day, did not fatigue him in body or mind. He looked at- the water, watched its ripples, and the wood boats on the river. But he thought of nothing as he looked.

He often took his stand before Notre Dame , and examined with some curiosity the scaffolding by which the church, then in process of repair, was surrounded. These heavy timbers amused him, he hardly knew why. Then, as he passed, he glanced at the Port Aux Vins , and counted the fiacres coming from the station.

At night, with his head full of some silly tale he had heard in the office, he crossed the Jardin des Plantes and went to see the bears, if he were not in too great haste.

He remained there a half-hour, leaning over the pit, watching the bears — the clumsy animals amused him. He watched them with his under jaw dropped, taking an imbecile sort of pleasure in their movements.

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Tt was with reluctance that he turned his face homeward — lie much disliked leaving behind him the gay shops and carriages.

He ate his supper as soon as he entered the house, and then sat down to reading. He had bought Buffon’s works, and each night he gave himself a certain number of pages to read, notwithstanding the fact that he found such reading very dull.

He also grappled with and conquered Thiers’ Histoire da Consulat et cle V Empire, and Lamartine's Histoire des Girondins, and also some other works of a similar character. He called this educating himself.

Sometimes he insisted on his wife listening while he read certain pages and certain anecdotes. He expressed great astonishment that Thdrdse could sit a whole evening without once opening a book; and made up his mind that his wife's intelligence was of a very low order.