 CHAPTER XIX IN THE MEANWILE, THE SECRET WORK OF TERESA AND LORRENT WAS PRODUCTIVE OF RESULTS. The former had assumed a woeful and despairing demeanor which, at the end of a few days, alarmed Madame Rakin. When the old Mercer inquired what made her knee so sad, the young woman played the part of an inconsolable widow with consummate skill. She spoke in a vague manner of feeling weary, depressed, of suffering from her nerves without making any precise complaint. When pressed by her aunt with questions, she replied that she was well, that she could not imagine what it was that made her so low-spirited, and that she shed tears without knowing why. Then the constant choking fits of sobbing, the warm heart-rending smiles, the spells of crushing silence full of emptiness and despair continued. The sight of this young woman who was always giving way to her grief, who seemed to be slowly dying of some unknown complaint ended by seriously alarming Madame Rakin. She had now no one in the whole world but her niece, and she prayed the Almighty every night to preserve her this relative to close her eyes. A little egotism was mingled with this final love of her old age. She felt herself affected in the slight consolations that still assisted her to live when it crossed her mind that she might die alone in the damp shop in the arcade. From that time she never took her eyes off her niece, and it was with terror that she watched her sadness, wondering what she could do to cure her of her silent despair. Under these grave circumstances she thought she ought to take the advice of her old friend Michele. One Thursday evening she detained him in the shop and spoke to him of her alarm. "'Of course,' answered the old man, with that frank brutality he had acquired in the performance of his former functions. I have noticed for some time past that Therese has been looking sour, and I know very well why her face is quite yellow and overspread with grief. "'You know why?' exclaimed the widow. "'Speak out at once, if we could only cure her.' "'Oh, the treatment is simple,' resumed Michele with a laugh. Your niece finds life ick, and because she had been alone for nearly two years. She wants a husband. You can see that in her eyes.' The brutal frankness of the former commissary gave Madame Rakin a painful shock. She fancied that the wound Therese had received through the fatal accident at Saint-Touan was still as fresh, still as cruel at the bottom of her heart. It seemed to her that her son, once dead, Therese could have no thought for her husband. And here was Michele affirming, with a hearty laugh, that Therese was out of source because she wanted one. Carry her as soon as you can, as it took himself off, if you do not wish to see her shrivel up entirely. That is my advice, my dear lady, and it is good, believe me." Madame Rakin could not at first accustom herself to the thought that her son was already forgotten. Old Michele had not even pronounced the name of Camille, and had made a joke of the pretended illness of Therese. The poor mother understood that she alone preserved at the bottom of her heart the living recollection of her dear child, and she wept, for it seemed to her that Camille had just died a second time. Then when she had had a good cry, and was weary of mourning, she thought in spite of herself at what Michele had said, and became familiar with the idea of purchasing a little happiness at the cost of a marriage which, according to her delicate mind, was like killing her son again. Frequently she gave way to feelings of cowardice, when she came face to face with a dejected and broken-down Therese amidst the icy silence of the shop. She was not one of those dried, rigid persons who find bitter delight in living a life of eternal despair. Her character was full of pliancy, devotedness in a fusion which contributed to make up her temperament of a stout and affable good lady, and prompted her to live in a state of active tenderness. Since her niece no longer spoke, and remained there pale and feeble, her own life became intolerable, while the shop seemed to her like a tomb. What she required was to find some warm affection beside her, some liveliness, some caresses, something sweet and gay which would help her to wait peacefully for death. It was these unconscious desires that made her accept the idea of marrying Therese again. She even forgot her son a little. In the existence of the tomb that she was leading, came a sort of awakening, something like a will and fresh occupation for the mind. She sought her husband for her niece, and this search gave her matter for consideration. The choice of her husband was an important business. The poor old lady thought much more of her own comfort than of Therese. She wished to marry her niece in order to be happy herself, for she had keen misgivings left the new husband of the young woman should come and trouble the last hours of her old age. The idea that she was about to introduce a stranger into her daily existence terrified her. It was this thought alone that stopped her, that prevented her from talking openly with her niece about matrimony. While Therese acted the comedy of weariness and ejection without perfect hypocrisy she had acquired by her education, Lah took the part of a sensible and serviceable man. He was full of little attentions for the two women, particularly for Madame Raca whom he overwhelmed with delicate attention. Little by little he made himself indispensable in the shop. It was him alone who brought a little gaiety into this black hole. When he did not happen to be there of an evening, the old Mercer searched round her ill at ease as if she missed something, being almost afraid to find herself face to face with a despairing Therese, but Lah only occasionally absented himself to better prove his power. He went to the shop daily on quitting his office and remained there until the arcade was closed at night. He ran the errands and handed Madame Raca, who could only walk with difficulty, the small articles she required. Then he seated himself and chatted. He had acquired the gentle penetrating voice of an actor which he employed to flatter the ears and heart of the good old lady. In a friendly way he seemed particularly anxious about the health of Therese, like a tender hearted man who feels for the sufferings of others. On repeated occasions he took Madame Raca to one side and terrified her by appearing very much alarmed himself at the changes and ravages he said he perceived in the face of the young woman. We shall soon lose her, he murmured in a tearful voice. We cannot conceal from ourselves that she is extremely ill. Ah, alas, for our poor happiness and our nice tranquil evenings! Madame Raca listened to him with anguish. La ha! Even had the audacity to speak of Cammy. You see! said he to the Mercer. The death of my poor friend has been a terrible blow to her. She had been dying for the last two years since that fatal day when she lost Cammy. Nothing will console her, nothing will cure her. We must be resigned. These impudent falsehoods made the old lady shed bitter tears. The memory of her son troubled and blinded her. Each time the name of Cammy was pronounced she gave way bursting into sobs. She would have embraced the person who mentioned her poor boy. La ha! had noticed the trouble and outburst of tender feeling that this name produced. He could make her weep at will, upset her with such emotion that she failed to distinguish the clear aspect of things, and he took advantage of this power to always hold her pliant and in pain in his hand as it were. Each evening, in spite of the secret revolt of his trembling inner being, he brought the conversation to bear on the rare qualities on the tender heart and mind of Cammy praising his victim with almost shameless impudence. At moments when he found the eyes of Turhaya's fixed with a strange expression on his own, he shuddered and ended by believing all the good he had been saying about the drowned man. Then he held his tongue, suddenly seized with atrocious jealousy, fearing that the young widow loved the man he had flung into the water and whom he now lauded with the conviction of an enthusiast. Without the conversation Madame Hakkha was in tears and unable to distinguish anything around her. As she wept, she reflected that Lahore must have a loving and generous heart. He alone remembered her son, he alone still spoke of him in a trembling and affected voice. She dried her eyes, gazing at the young man with infinite tenderness, and feeling that she loved him as her own child. One Thursday evening Misho and Keve were already in the dining-room when Lahore, coming in, approached her as, and with gentle anxiety inquired after her health. He seated himself for a moment beside her, performing for the edification of the person's present his part of an alarmed and affectionate friend. As the young couple sat close together, exchanging a few words, Misho, who was observing them, end down, and said in a low voice to the old Mercer as he pointed to Lahore, Look, there is the husband who will suit your niece. Arrange this marriage quickly, we will assist you if it be necessary. This remark came as a revelation to Madame Hakkha. She saw at once all the advantages she would derive, personally, from the union of Therese and Lahore. The marriage would tighten the bonds already connected her and her niece with the friend of her son, with that good-natured fellow who came to amuse them in the evening. In this manner she would not be introducing a stranger into her home as she would not run the risk of unhappiness. On the contrary, while giving Therese a support, she added another joy to her old age. She found a second son in this young man, who for three years had shown her such filial affection. Then it occurred to her that Therese would be less faithless to the memory of Camille by marrying Lahore. The religion of her heart is peculiarly delicate. Madame Hakkha, who would have wept to see a stranger embrace the young widow, felt no repulsion at the thought of giving her to the comrade of her son. Throughout the evening, while the guests played at Domino's, the old Mercer watched the couple so tenderly that they guessed the comrade had succeeded and that the denouement was at hand. Michaud, before withdrawing, had a short conversation in an undertone with Madame Hakkha. Then he pointedly took the arm of Lahore, saying he would accompany him a bit of the way. As Lahore went off he exchanged a rapid glance with Therese, a glance full of urgent enjoyment. Michaud had undertaken to feel the ground. He found the young man very much devoted to the two ladies, but exceedingly astonished at the idea of a marriage between Therese and himself. Lahore added, in an unsteady tone of voice, that he loved the widow of his poor friend as a sister, and that it would seem to him a perfect sacrilege to marry her. The former commissary of police insisted, giving numerous good reasons with a view to obtaining his consent. He even spoke of devotedness, and went so far as to tell the young man that it was clearly his duty to give a son to Madame Hakkha and a husband to Therese. Little by little Lahore allowed himself to be won over, feigning to give way to a motion to accept the idea of this marriage as one fallen from the clouds, dictated by feelings of devotedness and duty, as old Michaud had said. When the latter had obtained a formal answer in the affirmative he parted with his companion, rubbing his hands, for he fancied he had just gained a great victory. He prided himself on having had the first idea of this marriage, which would convey to the Thursday evenings all their former gayety. While Michaud was talking with Lahore, solely following the keys, Madame Hakkha had an almost identical conversation with Therese. At the moment when her niece, pale and unsteady and gay, as usual, was about to retire to rest, the old Mercer detained her an instant. She questioned her in a tender tone, imploring her to be frank, and confessed the cause of the trouble that overwhelmed her. Then, as she only obtained vague replies, she spoke of the emptiness of widowhood, and little by little came to talk in a more precise manner of the offer of a second marriage, concluding by asking Therese, plainly, whether she had not a secret desire to marry again, Therese protested, saying that such a thought had never entered her mind, and that she intended remaining faithful to Camille. Madame Hakkha began to weep. Pleading against her heart, she gave her niece to understand that despair should not be eternal, and finally, in response to an exclamation of the young woman saying she would never replace Camille, Madame Hakkha abruptly pronounced the name of Laurent. Then she enlarged with a flood of words on the propriety and advantages of such an union. She poured out her mind, repeating aloud all she had been thinking during the evening, depicting with naive egotism the picture of her final days of happiness between her two dear children. Therese resigned in docile, listened to her with bowed head, ready to give satisfaction to her slightest wish. I love Laurent as a brother," said she grievously, when her aunt had ceased speaking, but as you desire it I will endeavour to love him as a husband. I wish to make you happy. I had hoped that you would have allowed me to weep in peace, but I will dry my tears as it is a question of your happiness. She kissed the old lady, who remained surprised and frightened at having been the first to forget her son. As Madame Hakkha went to bed she sobbed bitterly, accusing herself of having less strength than Therese, and of desiring out of egotism a marriage that the young widow accepted by simple obnugation. The following morning Michaud and his old friend had a short conversation in the arcade before the door of the shop, where they communicated to one another the result of their efforts, and agreed to hurry matters on by forcing the young people to become a fiancée the same evening. At five o'clock Michaud was already in the shop when Lahore entered. As soon as the young man had seated himself the former commissary of police said in his ear, she accepts. This blunt remark was overheard by Therese, who remained pale with her eyes impudently fixed on Lahore. The two sweethearts looked at each other for a few seconds as if consulting. Both understood that they must accept the position without hesitation, and finished the business at one stroke. Lahore, rising, went and took the hand of Madame Rackin, who made every effort to restrain her tears. Dear mother, said he, smiling, I was talking about your felicity last night with Monsieur Michaud, your children wish to make you happy. The poor old lady, on hearing herself called, dear mother, allowed her tears to flow. She quietly seized the hand of Therese and placed it in that of Lahore, unable to utter a single word. The two sweethearts shivered on feeling their skin's touch and remained with their burning fingers pressed together in a nervous clasp. After a pause the young man, in a hesitating tone, resumed, Therese, shall we give your aunt a bright and peaceful existence? Yes, feebly replied the young woman, we have a duty to perform. The young lady, in Lahore, becoming very pale, turned towards Madame Rackin and added, When Camille fell into the water, he shouted out to me, Save my wife, I entrust her to you. I believe I am acting in accordance with his last wish in marrying Therese. Therese, on hearing these words, let go the hand of Lahore. She had received a shock like a blow in the chest. The impudence of her sweet heart overwhelmed her. She observed him with a senseless look, while Madame Rackin half stifled by sob's stammered, Yes, yes, my friend Marie, her make her happy. My son, from the depth of his tomb, will thank you. Lahore, feeling himself giving away, lent on the back of a chair, while Michaud, who was himself, moved to tears, pushed him towards Therese with the remark, Kiss one another, it will be your betrothal. When the lips of the young man came in contact with the cheeks of the widow, he experienced a peculiarly uncomfortable feeling, while the latter abruptly drew back as if the two kisses of her sweet heart burned her. This was the first caress he had given her in the presence of witnesses. All her blood rushed to her face, and she felt herself red and burning. After this crisis the two murderers breathed. Their marriage was decided on. At last they approached the goal they had so long had in view. Everything was settled the same evening. After Thursday following the marriage was announced to Cahévé, as well as to Olivier and his wife. Michaud, in communicating the news to them, did not come see all his delight. He rubbed his hands, repeating as he did so. It was I who thought of it, it is I who have married them. You will see what a nice couple they'll make. Suzanne silently embraced Therese, this poor creature who was half-dead and was white as a sheet, but formed a friendship for the rigid and somber young widow. She showed her a sort of childlike affection mingled with a kind of respectful terror. Olivier complimented the aunt and niece, while Cahé hazarded a few spicy jokes that met with middling success. All together the company were delighted, enchanted and declared that everything was for the best. In reality all they thought about was the wedding feast. Therese and Lohan were clever enough to maintain a suitable demeanour by simply displaying a tender and obliging friendship to one another. They gave themselves an air of accomplishing an act of supreme devotedness. Nothing in their faces betrayed a suspicion of the terror and desire that disturbed them. Madame Rocau watched the couple with faint smiles and a look of feeble but grateful goodwill. A few formalities required fulfilling. Lohan had to write to his father to ask his consent to the marriage. The old peasant of Jefos, who had almost forgotten that he had a son at Paris, answered him in four lines, that he could marry and go and get hanged if he chose. He gave him to understand that being resolved never to give him her suit, he left a master of his body and authorised him to be guilty of all imaginable follies. A permission accorded in such terms caused Lohan singular anxiety. Madame Rocau, after reading the letter of this unnatural father in a transport of kind-heartedness, acted very foolishly. She made over to her niece the forty thousand francs and more that she possessed, stripping herself entirely for the young couple on whose affection she relied, with the desire of being indebted to them for all her happiness. Lohan brought nothing into the community, and he even gave it to be understood that he did not always intend to remain in his present employment, but would perhaps take up painting again. In any case, the future of the little family was assured. The interest on the money put aside added to the profit on the Mercery business would be sufficient to keep three persons comfortably. As a matter of fact it was only just sufficient to make them happy. The preparations for the marriage were hurried on, the formalities being abridged as much as possible, and, at last, the welcome day arrived. CHAPTER XX. In the morning, Laurent Thérèse awoke in their respective rooms with the same feeling of profound joy in their hearts. Both said to themselves that their last night of terror had passed. They would no longer have to sleep alone, and they would mutually defend themselves against the drowned man. Thérèse looked around her, giving a strange smile as she measured her great bed with her eyes. She rose and began to slowly dress herself in anticipation of the arrival of Suzanne, who was to come in a sister with her bridal toilet. Lohan, on awakening, sat up in bed, and remained in that position for a few minutes, bidding farewell to his garret, which struck him as vile. At last he was to quit this kennel and have a wife. It was in the month of December, and he shivered. He sprang on the towel-floor, saying to himself that he would be warm at night. A week previously, Madame Rackin, knowing how short he was of money, had slipped a purse into his hand containing five hundred francs, which represented all her savings. The young man had accepted this present without difficulty, and had rigged himself out from tip to toe. Moreover the money of the old Mercer permitted him to make Thérèse the customary presence. The black trousers, dress-coat, white waistcoat, shirt, and cambrick tie hung spread out on a couple of chairs. Lohan washed, perfumed himself with a bottle of odour cologne, and then proceeded to carefully attire himself. He wished to look handsome. As he fastened his collar, a collar which was high and stiff, he experienced keen pain in the neck. The button escaped from his fingers. When he lost patience, the starched linen seemed to cut into his flesh. Wishing to see what was the matter, he raised his chin, and perceived the bite Camille had given him looking quite red. The collar had slightly galled the scar. Lohan pressed his lips together and turned pale. The sight of this mark seeming his neck frightened and irritated him at this moment. He crumpled up the collar, and selected another which he put on with every precaution, and then finished dressing himself. As he went downstairs, his new clothes made him look rigid. With his neck imprisoned in the inflexible linen, he dared not turn his head. At every movement he made, a pleat pinched the wound that the teeth of the drowned man had made in his flesh, and it was under the irritation of these sharp pricks that he got into the carriage, or went to fetch tares to conduct her to the town hall and church. On the way, he picked up a clerk employed at the Orleans Railway Company, and Old Michaud, who were to act as witnesses. When they reached the shop, everyone was ready. Crévé and Olivier, the witnesses of tares were there, along with Suzanne, who looked at the bride as little girls look at dolls they have just dressed up. Although Madame Maracan was no longer able to walk, she desired to accompany the couple everywhere, so she was hoisted into conveyance, and the party set out. Everything passed off in a satisfactory manner at the town hall and church. The calm and modest attitude of the bride and bridegroom was remarked and approved. They pronounced the sacramental yes with an emotion that moved Crévé himself. They were as if in a dream, whether seated or quietly kneeling side by side, they were rent by raging thoughts that flashed through their mind and spattered themselves, and they avoided looking at one another. When they seated themselves in their carriage, they seemed to be greater strangers than before. It had been decided the wedding feast should be a family affair at a little restaurant on the heights of Belleville. The Michaud and Crévé alone were invited. Until six in the evening the wedding party drove along the boulevards and then repaired to the cheap eating-house where a table was spread with seven covers in a small private room painted yellow and reeking of dust and wine. The repast was not accompanied by much gaiety. The newly married pair were grave and thoughtful. Since the morning they had been experiencing strange sensations which they did not seek to fathom. From the commencement they had felt bewildered at the rapidity with which the formalities in the ceremony were performed that had just bound them together for ever. Then the long drive on the boulevards had sued them and made them drowsy. It appeared to them that this drive lasted months. Nevertheless they allowed themselves to be taken through the monotonous streets without displaying impatience, looking at the shops and people with sparkly eyes, overcome by a numbness that made them feel stupid, and which they endeavoured to shake off by bursting into fits of laughter. When they entered the restaurant they were weighed down by oppressive fatigue, while increasing stupor continued to settle on them. Placed a table opposite one another. They smiled with an air of constraint, and then fell into the same heavy reverie as before, eating, answering questions, moving their limbs like machines. Admit the iron latitude of their minds, the same string of flying thoughts returned ceaselessly. They were married, and yet unconscious of their new condition, which caused them profound astonishment. They imagined an abyss still separated them, and at moments asked themselves how they could get over this unfathomable depth. They fancied they were living previous to the murder, when a material obstacle stood between them. Then they abruptly remembered they would occupy the same apartment that night, in a few hours, and they gazed at one another in astonishment unable to comprehend why they should be permitted to do so. They did not feel they were united, but on the contrary were dreaming that they had just been violently separated, and one cast far from the other. The silly chuckling of the guests beside them, who wished to hear them talk familiarly so as to dispel all restraints, made them stammer and colour. They could never make up their minds to treat one another as sweethearts in the presence of company. Waiting had extinguished the flame that had formerly fired them. All the past had disappeared. They had forgotten their violent passion. They forgot even their joy of the morning, that profound joy they had experienced at the thought that they would no more be afraid. They were simply worried and bewildered at all that was taking place. The events of the day turned round and round in their heads, appearing incomprehensible and monstrous. They sat there, mute and smiling, expecting nothing, hoping for nothing. Mingled with their dejection of spirits, was a restless anxiety that proved vaguely painful. At every movement Lahar made with his neck, he felt a sharp burn devouring his flesh, his collar cut and pinched the bite of Kami. While the mare read out to him the law bearing on marriage, while the priest spoke to him of the Almighty, at every minute of this long day he had felt the teeth of the drowned man entering his skin. At times he imagined a streak of blood was running down his chest, and would bespatter his white waistcoat with crimson. Madame Hakam was innately grateful to the newly married couple for their gravity. Noisy joy would have wounded the poor mother. In her mind, her son was there, invisible, handing terrors over to Lahar. Grévet had other ideas. He considered the wedding party sad, and wanted to enliven it, notwithstanding the looks of Michaud and Olivier, which riveted him to his chair each time he wished to get up and say something silly. Nevertheless, he managed to rise once and propose a toast. I drink to the offspring of Monsieur Madame, quoth he in a sprightly tone. It was necessary to touch glasses. Thérèse and Laurent had turned extremely pale on hearing this sentence. They had never dreamed that they might have children. The thought flashed through them like an icy shiver. They nervously joined glasses with the others, examining one another, surprised and alarmed to find themselves there, face to face. The party rose from table early. The guests wished to accompany the newly married pair to the nuptial chamber. It was barely half past nine when they all returned to the shop in the arcade. The dealer in imitation jewellery was still there in her cupboard before the box lined with blue velvet. She raised her head inquisitively, gazing at the young husband and wife with a smile. The latter caught her eyes and was terrified. It struck her that perhaps this old woman was aware of their former meetings by having noticed Laurent slipping into the little corridor. When they all arrived on the upper floor, Thérèse withdrew almost immediately with Madame Maracan and Suzanne, the men remaining in the dining room, while the bride performed her toilette for the night. Laurent, nervolous and depressed, did not experience the least impatience, but listened complacently to the coarse jokes of old Michaud and Grévé, who indulged themselves to their heart's content now that the ladies were no longer present. When Suzanne and Madame Maracan quitted the nuptial apartment and the old Mercer in an unsteady voice told the young man that his wife awaited him, he started. For an instant he remained bewildered. Then he feverishly grasped the hands extended to him and entered the room, clinging to the door like a man under the influence of drink. End of chapter 20. Chapter 21 of Thérèse Racan. This is Librevox Recording. All Librevox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librevox.org, recording by Kate McKenzie. Thérèse Racan by Emile Zola, translated by Ernest Alfred Vistaly. Chapter 21. Lohan carefully closed the door behind him, and for a moment or two stood leaning against it, gazing round the apartment in anxiety and embarrassment. A clear fire burned on the hearth, sending large sheets of light dancing on ceiling and walls. The room was thus lit up by bright, vacillating gleams that, in a measure, annulled the effects of the lamp placed on a table in their midst. Madame Racan had done her best to convey a kocketish aspect to the apartment. It was one mass of white and perfume throughout, as if to serve as a nest for young, fresh love. The good lady, moreover, had taken pleasure in adding a few bits of lace to the bed and in filling the vases on the chimney-piece with bunches of roses. Gentle warmth and pleasant fragrance reigned over all, and not a sound broke the silence, save the crackling and little sharp reports of the wood, her glow and the hearth. Therese was seated on a low chair to the right of the chimney, staring fixedly at the bright flames with her chin in her hand. She did not turn her head when Lohan entered. Clothed in a petticoat and linen nightjacket bordered with lace, she looked snowy white in the bright light of the fire. Her jacket had become disarranged and part of her rosy shoulder appeared, half hidden by a tress of raven hair. Lohan advanced a few paces without speaking and took off his coat and waistcoat. When he stood in his shirt sleeves, he again looked at Therese, who had not moved, and he seemed to hesitate. Then, perceiving the bit of shoulder, he bent down, quivering, to press his lips to it. The young woman, abruptly turning round, withdrew her shoulder and, in doing so, fixed on Lohan such a strange look of repugnance and horror that he shrank back, troubled and ill at ease, as if himself seized with terror and disgust. Lohan then seated himself opposite Therese on the other side of the chimney, and they remained thus, silent and motionless for fully five minutes. At times, tongues of reddish flame escaped from the wood, and then the faces of the murderers were touched with fleeting gleams of blood. It was more than a couple of years since the two sweethearts had found themselves shut up alone in this room. They had arranged no love meetings since the day when Therese had gone to the rue sans victoire to convey to Lohan the idea of murder. Prudence had kept them apart. Barely had they, at long intervals, ventured on a pressure of their hand or a stealthy kiss. After the murder of Camus, they had restrained their passion, awaiting the nuptial night. This had at last arrived, and now they remained anxiously face to face, overcome with sudden discomfort. They had but to stretch forth their arms to clasp one another in a passionate embrace, and their arms remained lifeless as if worn out with fatigue. The depression they had experienced during the daytime now oppressed them more and more. They observed one another with timid embarrassment, pained to remain so silent and cold. Their burning dreams ended in a peculiar reality. It suffice that they should have succeeded in killing Camus and have become married. It suffice that the lips of Lohan should have grazed the shoulder of Teres for their lust to be satisfied to the point of disgust and horror. In despair, they sought to find within them a little of that passion which formerly had devoured them. Their frame seemed deprived of muscles and nerves, and their embarrassment and anxiety increased. They felt ashamed of remaining so silent and gloomy face to face with one another. They would have liked to have had the strength to squeeze each other to death, so as not to pass as idiots in their own eyes. What! They belonged one to the other. They had killed a man and played an atrocious comedy in order to be able to love in peace, and they sat there, one on either side of a mantel shelf, rigid, exhausted, their minds disturbed, and their frames lifeless. Such a denouement appeared to them horribly and cruelly ridiculous. It was then that Lohan endeavoured to speak of love to conjure up the remembrances of other days appealing to his imagination for a revival of his tenderness. To his, he said, don't you recall our afternoons in this room? Then I came in by that door, but today I came in by this one. We are free now. We can make love in peace. He spoke in a hesitating, spiritless manner, and the young woman, hurled up on her low chair, continued gazing, creamily at the flame without listening. Lohan went on. Remember how I used to dream of staying a whole night with you? I dreamed of waking up in the morning to your kisses. Now it can come true. Therese, all at once, started, as though surprised to hear a voice staring in her ears, turning towards Lohan, on whose countenance the fire at this moment cast a broad, reddish reflection. She gazed at his sanguinary face and shuddered. The young man, more troubled and anxious, resumed. We have succeeded, Therese. We have broken through all obstacles, and we belong to one another. The future is ours, is it not? A future of tranquil happiness of satisfied love, Camille is no longer here. Lohan ceased speaking. His throat had suddenly become dry, and he was choking, unable to continue. On hearing the name of Camille, Therese received a violent shock. The two murderers contemplated one another, stupefied, pale and trembling. The yellow gleams of light from the fire continued to dance on ceiling and walls. The soft odour of roses lingered in the air. The crackling of the wood broke the silence with short, sharp reports. Remembrances were abandoned. The spectre of Camille, which had been evoked, came and seated itself between the newly married pair in front of the flaming fire. Therese and Lohan recognised the cold, damp smell of the drowned man and the warm air they were breathing. They said to themselves that a corpse was there, close to them, and they examined one another without daring to move. Then, all the terrible story of their crime was unfolded in their memory, the name of their victim suffice to fill them with thoughts of the past to compel them to go through all the anguish of the murder over again. They did not open their lips, but looked at one another, and both at the same time were troubled with the same nightmare. Both with their eyes broached the same, cruel tale. But this exchange of terrified looks, this mute narration they were about to make to themselves with the murder caused them keen and intolerable apprehension. The strain on their nerves threatened an attack. They might cry out, perhaps fight. Lohan, to drive away his recollections, violently tore himself in the ecstasy of horror that enthralled him in the gaze of her eyes. He took a few strides in the room. He removed his boots and put on slippers. Then, returning to his former place, he sat down at the chimney corner and tried to talk on matters of indifference. Therese, understanding what he desired, strove to answer his questions. They chatted about the weather and efforting to force on a commonplace conversation. Lohan said the room was warm, and Therese replied that, nevertheless, a draft came from under the small door on the staircase and both turned in that direction with a sudden shudder. The young man hastened to speak about the roses, the fire about everything he saw before him. The young woman with an effort rejoined in monosyllables so as not to allow the conversation to drop. They had dropped back from one another, a-when giving themselves easy airs, endeavouring to forget whom they were, treating one another as strangers brought together by chance. But, in spite of themselves by a strange phenomenon, whilst they uttered these empty phrases, they mutually guessed the thoughts concealed in their banal words. Do what they would. They both thought of Camus. Their eyes continued the story of the past. They still maintained by looks a mute discourse, apart from the conversation they held aloud, which ran haphazard. The words they cast here and there had no signification, being disconnected and contradictory. All their intelligence was bent on a silent exchange of their terrifying recollections. When Loha spoke of the roses or of the fire of one thing or another, Therese was perfectly well aware that he was reminding her of the struggle and the skiff of the dull fall of Camus, and, when Therese answered yes or no to an insignificant question, Loha understood that she said she remembered or did not remember a detail of the crime. They charted it in this manner open-heartedly without needing words, while they spoke aloud of other matters. Moreover, unconscious of the syllables they pronounced, they followed their secret thoughts sentence by sentence. They might abruptly have continued their confidences aloud, without ceasing to understand each other. This sort of divination, this obstinacy of their memory, and presenting to themselves without pause the image of Camus, little by little, drove them crazy. They thoroughly well perceived that they guessed the thoughts of one another, and that if they did not hold their tongues, the words would rise of themselves to their mouths to name the drowned man and describe the murder. Then they closely pinched their lips and ceased their conversation. In the overwhelming silence that ensued, the two murderers continued to converse about their victim. It appeared to them that their eyes mutually penetrated their flesh and buried clear, keen phrases in their bodies. At moments they fancied, they heard themselves speaking aloud. Their senses changed. Sight became a sort of strange and delicate hearing. They so distinctly read their thoughts upon their countenances, that these thoughts took up a peculiarly piercing sound that agitated all their organism. They could not have understood one another better had they shouted in a heart-rending voice. We have killed Camus, and his corpse is there, extended between us, making our limbs like ice. And the terrible confidence continued, while manifest more resounding in the calm moist air of the room. Lohau and Taiz had commenced the mutination from the day of their first interview in the shop. Then the recollection had come one by one in order. They had related their hours of love, their moments of hesitation and anger, the terrible incident of the murder. It was then that they pinched their lips, ceasing to talk of one thing and another in fear, lest they should all at once name Camus without desiring to do so. But their thoughts failing to cease had then led them into great distress, into the affrighted period of expectancy following the crime. They thus came to think of the corpse of the drowned man, extended in a slab at the morgue. Lohau, by a look, told Taiz all the horror he had felt, and the latter, driven to extremities, compelled by a hand of iron to part her lips, abruptly continued the conversation aloud. You saw him at the morgue. She inquired of Lohau without naming Camus. Lohau looked as if he expected this question. He had been reading it for a moment on the livid face of the young woman. Yes, answered he in a choking voice. The murderers shivered, and drawing nearer the fire, extended their hands towards the flame as if an icy puff of wind had suddenly passed through the warm room. For an instant they maintained silence, coiled up like balls, cowering on their chairs. Then Taiz, in a hollow voice, resumed, did he seem to have suffered much? Lohau could not answer. He made a terrified gesture as if to put aside some hideous vision, and rising went towards the bed. Then, returning violently with open arms, he advanced towards Taiz. Kiss me, said he, extending his neck. Taiz had risen, looking quite pale in her nightdress, and stood, half thrown back, with her elbow resting on the marble mantelpiece. She gazed at the neck of her husband. On the white skin she had just caught sight of a pink spot. The rush of blood to the head increased the size of this spot, turning it bright red. Kiss me, kiss me, repeated Lohau on his face and neck scarlet. The young woman threw her head further back to avoid an embrace, and pressing the tip of her finger on the bite Camille had given her husband addressed him thus. What have you here? I never noticed this wound before. It seemed to Lohau as if the finger of Taiz was boring a hole in his throat. At the contact of this finger he suddenly started backwards, uttering a suppressed cry of pain. That, he stammered that. He hesitated, but he could not lie, and in spite of himself he told the truth. That is the bite Camille gave me, you know, in the boat. It is nothing. It is healed. Kiss me, kiss me. And the wretch craned his neck, which was burning him. He wanted Taiz to kiss the scar, convinced that the lips of this woman would appease the thousand pricks lacerating his flesh, and with raised chin he presented an extended neck for the embrace. Taiz, who was almost lying back on the marble chimneypiece, gave a supreme gesture of disgust, and his supplicating voice exclaimed, Oh, no, not on that part, there's blood! She sank down on the low chair, trembling with her forehead between her hands. Lohau remained where he stood for a moment, looking stupid. Then, all at once, with the clutch of a wild beast, he grasped the head of Taiz in his two great hands, and by force brought her lips to the bite he'd received from Camille on his neck. For an instant he kept, he crushed this head of a woman against his skin. Taiz had given way, uttering hollow groans. She was choking on the neck of Lohau. When she had freed herself from his hands, she violently wiped her mouth and spat in a fire. She had not said a word. Lohau, ashamed of his brutality, began walking slowly from the bed to the window. Suffering alone, the horrible burn had made him exact a kiss from Taiz, and when her frigid lips met the scorching scar he felt the pain more acutely. This kiss obtained by violence had just crushed him. The shock had been so painful that for nothing in the world would he have received another. He cast his eyes upon the woman with whom he was to live, and who sat, shuddering, doubled up before the fire, turning her back to him, and he repeated to himself that he no longer loved this woman, and that she no longer loved him. For nearly an hour Taiz maintained her dejected attitude while Lohau silently walked backward and forward, both inwardly acknowledged with terror that their passion was dead, that they had killed it in killing Camille. The embers on the half were gently dying out, a sheet of bright, clear fire shone above the ashes. Little by little the heat of the room had become stifling. The flowers were fading, making the thick air sickly with their heavy odour. Lohau all at once had an hallucination. As he turned round, coming from the window to the bed, he saw Camille in a dark corner between the chimney and wardrobe. The face of his victim looked greenish and distorted, just as he had seen it on the slab at the morgue. He remained glued to the carpet, fainting, leaning against a piece of furniture for support. At a hollow rattle in his throat, Taiz raised her head. There, there! exclaimed Lohau in a terrified tone. With extended arm he pointed to the dark corner where he perceived the sinister face of Camille. Taiz, infected by his terror, went and pressed against him. It is his portrait. She murmured it in an undertone as if the face of her late husband could hear her. His portrait? Repeated Lohau whose hair stood on end. Yes, you know, the painting you did, she replied. My aunt was to have removed it to her room. No doubt she forgot to take it down. Really, his portrait, said he. The murderer had some difficulty in recognising the canvas. In his trouble he forgot that it was he who had drawn those clashing strokes who had spread on those dirty tints that now terrified him. Terror made him see the picture as it was, vile, wretchedly put together, muddy, displaying the grimacing face of a corpse on a black ground. His own work astonished and crushed him by his atrocious ugliness, particularly the two eyes, which seemed floating in soft yellowish orbits, reminding him exactly of the decomposed eyes of the drowned man at the morgue. For a moment he remained breathless, thinking Taiz was telling an untruth to allay his fears. Then he distinguished the frame and, little by little, became calm. Go and take it down, said he in a very low tone to the young woman. Oh, no, I'm afraid, she answered with a shiver. Lahore began to tremble again. At moments the frame of the picture disappeared, and he only saw the two white eyes giving him a long, steady look. I beg you to go and unhook it, said he, beseeching his companion. No, no, she replied. We will turn it to face the wall, and then it will not frighten us, he suggested. No, said she, cannot do it. The murderer, cowardly and humble, thrust the young woman towards the canvas, hiding behind her, so as to escape the gaze of the drowned man. But she escaped, and he wanted to brazen the matter out. Approaching the picture he raised his hand in search of the nail, but the portrait gave such a long, crushing, ignoble look, that Lahore, after seeking to stare it out, found himself vanquished, and started back overpowered, murmuring as he did so. No, you are right to her, as we cannot do it. The around shall take you down tomorrow. He resumed his walk up and down with bowed head, feeling the portrait was staring at him, following him with its eyes. At times he could not prevent himself casting a side glance at the canvas, and then, in the depth of the darkness, he still perceived the dull, deadened eyes of the drowned man. The thought that Camille was there, in a corner, watching him, present on his wedding night, examining Therese and himself, ended by driving him mad with terror and despair. One circumstance which would have brought a smile to the lips of anyone else, made him completely lose his head. As he stood before the fire, he heard a sort of scratching sound. He turned pale, imagining it came from the portrait, the Camille was descending from his frame. Then he discovered that the noise was at the small door opening on the stakers, and he looked at Therese who also showed signs of fear. There was someone on the staircase, he murmured. Who could be coming that way? The young woman gave no answer. Both were thinking of the drowned man, and their temples became moist with icy perspiration. They saw refuge together at the end of the room, expecting to see the door suddenly open, and the corpse of Camille fall on the floor. As the sound continued, but more sharply and irregularly, they thought their victim must be tearing away the wood with his nails to get in. For the space of nearly five minutes, they dared not stir. Finally, a mewing was heard, and Lohan advancing recognised the tabby-cat belonging to Madame Harcun, which had been accidentally shut up in the room, and was endeavouring to get out by clawing at the door. François, frightened by Lohan, sprang upon a chair at a bound, with hair on end and stiffened paws. He looked his new master in the face in a harsh and cruel manner. The young man did not like cats, and François almost terrified him. In this moment of excitement and alarm, he imagined the cat was about to fly in his face to avenge Camille. He fancied the beast must know everything. That there were thoughts in his strangely dilated round eyes. The fixed gaze of the animal caused Lohan to lower his lids. As he was about to give François a kick, Thérèse exclaimed, Don't hurt him. This sentence produced a strange impression on Lohan, and an absurd idea got into his head. Camille has entered into this cat, thought he. I shall have to kill the beast. It looks like a human being. He refrained from giving the kick, being afraid of hearing François speak to him with the voice of Camille. Then he said to himself that this animal knew too much, and that he should have to throw it out of the window. But he had not the plump to accomplish his design. François maintained a fighting attitude, with claws extended and back curved in sullen irritation, he followed the least movement of his enemy with superb tranquility. The metallic sparkle of his eyes troubled Lohan, who hastened to open the dining room door, and the cat fled with a shrill mule. Thérèse had again seated herself before the extinguished fire. Lohan resumed his walk from bed to window. It was thus they awaited daylight. They did not think of going to bed. Their hearts were thoroughly dead. They had but one single desire, to leave the room they were in, and where they were choking. They experienced a real discomfort of being shut up together, and in breathing the same atmosphere. They would have liked someone to be there, to interrupt their privacy, to drag them from the cruel embarrassment in which they found themselves, sitting one before the other without opening their lips, and unable to resuscitate their love. Their long silences tortured them, silence loaded with bitter and despairing complaints, with mutual approaches, which they distinctly heard in the tranquil air. Day came at last, a dirty, whitish dawn, bringing penetrating cold with it. When the room had filled with dim light, Lohan, who was shivering, felt calmer. He looked the portrait of Camille straight in the face, and saw it as it was, commonplace in Poirot. He took it down, and shrugging his shoulders, called himself a fool. Therese had risen from the low chair, and was tumbling the bed about for the purpose of deceiving her aunt, so as to make her believe they had passed a happy night. Look here, Lohan brutally remarked to her. I hope we shall sleep well tonight. There must be an end to this sort of childishness. Therese cast a deep grave, glanced at him. You understand, he continued. I did not marry for the purpose of passing sleepless nights. We had just like children. It was you who disturbed me with your ghostly heirs. Tonight you will try to be gay and not frighten me. He forced himself to laugh without knowing why he did so. I will try, gloomly answered the young woman. Such was the wedding night of Therese and Lohan. End of Chapter 21. Chapter 22 of Therese Raca This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Kate McKenzie. Therese Raca by Emile Zola. Translated by Ernest Alfred Visetely. Chapter 22 The following nights proved still more cruel. The murderers had wished to pass this part of the 24 hours together so as to be able to defend themselves against the drowned man. And, by a strange effect, since they had been doing so they shuddered them more. They were exasperated and their nerves so irritated that they underwent atrocious attacks of suffering and terror at the exchange of a simple word or look. At the slightest conversation between them, at the least talk they had alone, they began raving and were ready to draw blood. The sort of remorse Lohan experienced was purely physical. His body, his irritated nerves and trembling frame alone were afraid of the drowned man. His conscience was for nothing in his terror. He did not feel the least regret at having killed Kami. When he was calm, when the spectre did not happen to be there, he would have committed the murder over again, had he thought his interests absolutely required it. During the daytime he laughed at himself for his fright, making up his mind to be stronger, and he harshly rebuked Therese whom he accused of troubling him. According to what he said, it was Therese who shouldered, it was Therese alone who brought on the frightful scenes at night in the bedroom, and as soon as night came, as soon as he found himself shut in with his wife, icy perspiration purled on his skin, and his frame shook with childish terror. He thus underwent intermittent nervous attacks that returned nightly, and threw his senses into confusion, while showing him the hideous green face of his victim. These attacks resembled the accesses of some frightful illness, a sort of hysteria of murder. The name of illness, of nervous affection, was really the only one to give to the terror that Lahore experienced. His face became convulsed, his limbs rigid, his nerves could be seen knotting beneath his skin. The body suffered horribly, while the spirit remained absent, the wretch felt no repentance, his passion for Therese had conveyed a frightful evil to him, and that was all. Therese also found herself afraid to these heavy shocks, but in her terror she showed herself a woman. She felt vagremorse and avowed regret. She, at times, had an inclination to cast herself on her knees and beseech the spectre of Camille to pardon her, whilst swearing to appease it by repentance. Maybe Lahore perceived these acts of cowardice on the part of Therese? For when they were agitated by the common terror, he laid the blame on her and treated her with brutality. On the first night they were unable to go to bed. They waited for daylight seated before the fire, or pacing to and fro as on the evening of the wedding day. The thought of lying down, side by side, on the bed, caused them a sort of terrifying repugnance. By tacit concerns they avoided kissing one another, and they did not even look at their couch, which Therese tumbled about in the morning. When overcome with fatigue, they slept for an hour or two in the armchairs to awaken with a start under the influence of the sinister denouement of some nightmare. On awakening with limbs stiff and tired, shivering all over with discomfort and cold, their faces marbled with livid blotches, they contemplated one another in bewilderment astonished to see themselves there, and they displayed strange bashfulness towards each other, ashamed at showing their disgust and terror, but they struggled against sleep as much as they could. They seated themselves, one on each side of the chimney, and talked over a thousand trifles, being very careful not to let the conversation drop. There was a broad space between them in front of the fire. When they turned their heads, they imagined that Camille had drawn a chair there, and occupied this space, warming his feet in a legubrious banter and flushing. This vision, which they had seen on the evening of their wedding day, returned each night. And this corpse taking a nuked but jeering part in their interviews, this horribly disfigured body ever remaining there, overwhelmed them with continued anxiety. Not daring to move, they half-blinded themselves staring at the scorching flames, and, when unable to resist any longer, they cast a timid glance aside. Their eyes, irritated by the growing cold, created the vision, and coveyed to it a reddish glow. Le Hain, in the end, refused to remain seated any longer, without a bow in the cause of this wind to Terres. The latter understood that he must see Camille as she saw him, and, in her turn, she declared that the heat made her feel ill, and that she would be more comfortable a few steps away from the chimney. Bushing back her armchair to the foot of the bed, she remained there overcome, while her husband resumed his walk in the room. From time to time he opened the window, allowing the icy air of the cold, genuine night to fill the apartment, and this calmed his fever. For a week, the newly married couple passed the nights in this fashion, dozing and getting a little rest in the daytime, Terres behind the counter in the shop, Le Hain in his office. At night they belonged to pain and fear, and the strangest part of their whole business was the attitude they maintained towards each other. They did not utter one word of love, but feigned to have forgotten the past, and seemed to accept, to tolerate one another like sick people, feeling secret pity for their mutual sufferings. Both hoped to conceal their disgust and fear, and neither seemed to think of the peculiar nights they passed, which should have enlightened them as to the real state of their beings. When they sat up until morning, barely exchanging a word, telling pale at the least sound, they looked as if they thought all newly married folk conducted themselves in the same way during the first days of their marriage. This was the clumsy hypocrisy of two fools. They were soon so overcome by weariness, that they one night decided to lie on the bed. They did not undress, but threw themselves, as they were, on the quilt, feeling lest their bare skin should touch, for they fancied they would receive a painful shock at the least contact. Then, when they had slept thus in an anxious sleep for two nights, they risked removing their clothes and slipping between the sheets. But they remained apart, and took all sorts of precautions so as not to come together. Therese got into bed first, and lay down close to the wall. La Homme waited until she had made herself quite comfortable, and then ventured to stretch himself out at the opposite end of the mattress, so that there was a broad space between them. It was there that the corpse of Camille lay. When the two murderers were extended under the same sheet, and her clothes their eyes, they fancied they felt the damp corpse of their victim lying in the middle of the bed, and turning their flesh icy cold. It was like a vial obstacle separating them. They were seized with fever and delirium, and this obstacle in their minds became material. They touched the corpse. They saw it spread out, like a greenish and dissolved shred of something, and they inhaled the infectious odour of this lump of human putrefaction. All their senses were in a state of hallucination, conveying intolerable acuteness to their sensations. The presence of this filthy bed-fellow kept them motionless, silent, abstracted with anguish. La Homme, at times, thought of taking tires violently in his arms, but he dared not move. He said to himself that he could not extend his hand without getting it full of the soft flesh of Camille. Next he fancied that the drowned man came to sleep between them so as to prevent them clasping one another, and he ended by understanding that Camille was jealous. Nevertheless, Evernonon, they sought to exchange a timid kiss to see what would happen. The young man jeered at his wife and ordered her to embrace him, but their lips were so cold that it seemed as if the dead man had got between their mouths. Both felt disgusted. Thérèse shuddered with horror, and La Homme, who had her teeth chattering, railed at her. Why are you trembling? He exclaimed. Are you afraid of Camille? The poor man is as dead as a dawn at this moment. Both avoided saying what made them shudder. When an hallucination brought the countenance of the drowned man before Thérèse, she closed her eyes, keeping her terror to herself, not daring to speak to her husband of her vision, lest she should bring on a still more terrible crisis. And it was just the same with La Homme. When driven to extremities, he, in a fit of despair, accused Thérèse of being afraid of Camille. The name, but it allowed, occasioned additional anguish. The murderer raved. Yes, yes, he stammered, addressing the young woman. You were afraid of Camille. I can see that plain enough. You are a silly thing. You have no pluck at all. Look here, just go to sleep quietly. Do you think your husband will come and pull you out of bed by the heels, because I happen to be sleeping with you? This idea that the drowned man might come and pull them out of bed by their heels made the hair of La Homme stand on end, and he continued with greater violence while still in the utmost terror himself. I shall have to take you to a night to the cemetery. We will open the coffin Camille is in, and you will see what he looks like. Then you'll perhaps cease being afraid. Go on, he doesn't know we threw him in the water. Thérèse, with her head under the bedcoats, was uttering smothered groans. We threw him into the water because he was in our way, resumed her husband, and we'll throw him in again, will we not? Don't act like a child. Show a little strength. It's silly to trouble our happiness. You see, my dear, when we are dead in underground, we shall be neither less nor more happy because we cast an idiot in the sun, and we shall have freely enjoyed our love, which will have been an advantage. Give me a kiss. The young woman kissed him, but she was icy cold and half crazy, while he should as much as she did. For a fortnight La Homme was asking himself how he could kill Camille again. He had flung him in the water, and yet he was not dead enough, because he came every night to sleep in the bed of Thérèse. While the murderers thought that having committed the crime, they could love one another in peace. Their resuscitated victim arrived to make their touch like ice. Thérèse was not a widow. Laurent found that he was mated to a woman who already had a drowned man for a husband. End of Chapter 22 Chapter 23 of Thérèse Rackin This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Kate McKenzie. Little by little, Laurent became furiously mad and resolved to drive Camille from his bed. He had first of all slept with his clothes on. Then he had avoided touching Thérèse. In rage and despair, he wanted at last to take his wife in his arms and crush the spectre of his victim, rather than leave her to it. This was a superb ribbed fault of brutality. The hope that the kisses of Thérèse would cure him of his insomnia had alone brought him into the room of the young woman. When he had found himself there, in the position of master, he had become afraid of such atrocious attacks that it had not even occurred to him to attempt the cure. And he had remained overwhelmed for three weeks without remembering that he had done everything to obtain Thérèse. And now that she was in his possession, he could not touch her without increased suffering. His excessive anguish drew him from this state of dejection. In the first moment of stupa amid the strange discouragement of the wedding night, he had forgotten the reasons that had urged him to marry. But his repeated bad dreams had aroused in him a feeling of sullen irritation, which triumphed over his cowardice and restored his memory. He remembered he had married in order to drive away nightmare by pressing his wife closely to his breast. Then, one night, he abruptly took Thérèse in his arms and, at the risk of passing over the corpse of the drowned man, drew her violently to him. The young woman, who was also driven to extremes, would have cast herself into the fire had she thought that flames would have purified her flesh and delivered her from woe. She returned to her in his advances, determined to be either consumed by the caresses of this man or to find relief in them, and they clasped room over in a hideous embrace. Pain and horror took the place of love. When their limbs touched, it was like falling on live coal. They uttered a cry, pressing still closer together so as not to leave room from the drowned man. But they still felt the shreds of camille, which were ignobally squeezed between them, freezing their skins in parts, whilst in others they were burning hot. Their kisses were frightfully cruel. Thérèse sought the bite that Camille had given in the stiff, swollen neck of l'orre, and passionately pressed her lips to it. There was the roar of sore, this wound once healed, and the murderers would sleep in peace. The young woman understood this, and she endeavoured to cauterise the bad place with the fire of her caresses. But she scorched her lips, and L'Orre thrust her violently away, giving a dismal groan. It seemed to him that she was pressing a red hot iron to his neck. Thérèse, half mad, came back. She wanted to kiss the scar again. She experienced a keenly voluptuous sensation in placing her mouth on this piece of skin wherein Camille had buried his teeth. At one moment she thought of biting her husband in the same place, of tearing away a large piece of flesh, of making a fresh and deeper wound that would remove the trace of the old one. And she said to herself that she would no more turn pale when she saw the marks of her own teeth. But L'Orre shielded his neck from her kisses. The smarting pain he experienced was too acute, and each time his wife presented her lips he pushed her back. They struggled in this manner with a rattling in their throats, writhing in the horror of their caresses. They distinctly felt that they only increased their suffering. They might well strain one another in these terrible clasps. They cried out with pain. They burned and bruised each other, but were unable to calm their frightfully excited nerves. Each strain rendered their disgust more intense. While exchanging these ghastly embraces, they were apprayed to the most terrible hallucinations, imagining that the drowned man was dragging them by the heels and violently jerking the bedstead. For a moment they let one another go, feeling repugnance and invincible nervous agitation. Then they determined not to be conquered. They clasped each other again in a fresh embrace, and once more were obliged to separate, for it seemed as if red hot braddles were entering their limbs. At several intervals they attempted in this way to overcome their disgust by tiring, by wearing out their nerves. And each time their nerves became irritated and strained, causing them such exasperation that they would perhaps have died of innovation had they remained in the arms of one another. This battle against their own bodies excited them to madness, and they obstinately sought to gain the victory. Finally a more acute crisis exhausted them. They received a shock of such incredible violence that they thought they were about to have a fit, cast back one on each side of the bed, burning and bruised. They began to sob, and amidst their tears they seemed to hear the triumphant laughter of the drowned man, who again slid, chuckling under the sheet. They had been unable to drive him from the bed and were vanquished. Khamni gently stretched himself between them, whilst Lahon deplored his want of power to thrust him away, and Teres trembled lest the corpse should have the idea of taking advantage of the victory to press her in his turn, in his arms, in the quality of legitimate master. They had made a supreme effort. In face of their defeat they understood that, in future, they did not exchange the smallest kiss. What they had attempted in order to drive away their terror had plunged them into greater fright. And, as they felt the chill of the corpse, which was now to separate them forever, they shed bitter tears, asking themselves, with anguish, what would become of them? Translated by Ernest Alford Visital Chapter 24 In a cold dance with the hopes of following shot, when doing his best to bring about the marriage of Teres and Laurent, the first night evenings resumed their formigating, as soon as the wedding was over. These evenings were in great peril after the time of the death of Kamea, the guest came, in fear, into this house of mourning. Each week they were trembling with anxiety, lest they should be definitely dismissed. The idea that the door of the shop could not out at last be close to them, terrified me shot on rivet, who clung to their habits with the instinct and obstinacy of brutes. They said to themselves that the old woman and young widow could one day go and whip over the deaf one at Vernon Orrell's world, and then, on first day night, they could not know what to do. In the mind's eye they saw themselves wondering about archaic in a lamentable fashion, dreaming of colossal gains at Dominus. Pending the advent of these bad times, they timidly enjoyed their final moments of happiness, arriving with an anxious sugar year at the shop, and repeating to themselves on each occasion that they could perhaps return no more. For over a year they were beset with these fears. In face of the tears of Manorachia and the silence of Teres, they dared not make themselves at ease and laugh. They felt they were no longer at home as in the time of Kamea. It seemed, so to say, that they were still in every evening they passed to sit at the dining room table. It was in these desperate circumstances that the egotism of Mishot cured him to strike a masterly stroke by finding a husband for the widow of the drowned man. On the Thursday following the marriage, Gribet and Mishot made a triumphant entry into the dining room. They had conquered. The dining room belonged to them again. They no longer feared this missile. They came there as happy people, stretching out their legs, and cracking the former jokes one after the other. It could be seen from their delighted and confident attitude that, in their idea, a revolution had been accomplished. All recollection of Kamea had been dispelled. The dead husband, a specter that cast a chill over everyone, had been driven away by the living husband. The past and his joys were resuscitated. Oren took the place of Kamea, all cause for sadness disappeared. The guest could now laugh without leaving anyone, and indeed it was their duty to laugh to cheer up this worthy family who were good enough to receive them. Henceforth, Gribet and Mishot, who for nearly 18 months had visited the house under the pretext of consoling Madan Rakia, could set their little hypocrisy aside, and frankly gone, and those opposite one another to the sharp ring of the dominance. And each week broad, at first evening, each week those lifeless and rotted heads which formerly had been aspirated to rest, assembled round the table. The young woman took of showing this fault the door. Their bores of foolish laughter and silly reflections irritate her, but Loren may her understand that such a step would be a mistake. It was necessary that the present should resemble the past as much as possible, and above all, they must preserve the friendship of the police, of those idiots who put her down from all suspicion. Fierce gave way. The guest were well received, and they viewed with light a future full of a long string of wrong first day evenings. It was about this time that the lies of the couple became, in a way, divided into. In the morning, when they drove away the terror of night, Loren hastily dressed himself, but he only recovered his sis and a autistic comb, when in the dining room seared before an enormous bowl of coffee and milk, which Thierry prepared for him. Madan Rakia, who had become even more feeble and could barely get down to the shop, watched him eating with a maternal smile. His swallow-the-toast filled his stomach and little by little became tranquilized. After the coffee, he drank a small glass of rendy, which completely restored him. Then he said goodbye to Madan Rakia and Thierry's, without ever kissing them, and stored to his office. Spring was at hand. The trees along the quiz were becoming covered with leaves with light, pale green lacework. The river ran with chorusing sounds below, above the first sunny rays of the g.r. shed gentle groan. Loren felt himself another man in the fresh hair. He freely inhaled his breath of young life, descending from the skies of April and May. He saw the sun, holding to watch the silver reflection streaking the scene, listening to the sounds on the quiz. Allowing the accurate hours of early day to penetrate him, and showing the clear the life would mourn. He certainly thought very little about Kamiya. Sometimes he lustruously contemplated the march on the other side of the world, and his mind then revered to his wit. Like a man of courage, my thing of a silly fright that had gone over him. With the stomach full and face refreshed, he recovered his thick-headed tranquility. He reached his office, and passed the whole day gaping, inaugurating the time to live. He was a mere clerk like the others, a stupid and weary, without an idea in his head, save that of sending his resignation and taking a studio. He dreamed vaguely of a new existence of idleness, and this suffice to occupy hang until evening. Thoughts of the shop in the arcade never traveled him. At night, after longing for the hour of release since the morning, he left his office with regret, and followed the quiz again, secretly traveled and anxious. However slowly he walked. He had to enter the shop at last, and there terror awaited him. Theorists experienced the sensations, so long as Lorden was not beside her, she felt at ease. She had dismissed her charwoman, saying that everything was in disorder, and the shop and apartment felt dirty. She all at once had ideas of tidiness. The truth was that she felt the necessity of moving about, of doing something, of exercising her stiff limbs. She went hither and thither all the morning, sweeping dusting, cleaning the rooms, washing up the plates and dishes, doing work that could have disgusted her formally. This household that is kept her on her feet, after fans idle until noon, without allowing her time to think of odd else than the cup goes hanging from the ceiling and the greasy plates. On the stroke of twelve, she went to the kitchen to prepare lunch. At table, an arachnid was paying to see her always rising to fetch the dishes. She was stanched and annoyed at the tibery displayed by her knees. She scolded her, and theorists replied that it was necessary to economize. When the meal was over, the young woman dressed, and at last decided to join her aunt behind the counter. There a slip overtook her, grown out by her restless nights, she dozed off, yielding to the voluptuous feeling of drowsiness that gained her, as soon as she sat down. This were only light spills of heaviness, replete with beige yarn that count her nerves. The thoughts of Camilla left her. She enjoyed that tranquil repose of imbalances who are all at once freed from pain. She felt relief in body, her mind free. She sang into a gentle and repairing state of unathemeness. The pride of this few calm moment, she could have broken down under the tension of her nervous system. This spills of somnolence gave her strength to suffer again, and become terrified the ends unite. As a mother of fat, she did not sleep. She barely closed her lids, and was lost in a dream of peace. When a customer entered, she opened her eyes, served the few source word of articles, asked for, and fell back into the flowing reverie. In this manner, she passed three or four hours of perfect happiness, answering her aunt in monosyllables, and yielding with real enjoyment to these moments of unconsciousness which relieved her of her thoughts, and completely overcame her. She barely, at long intervals, cast a glance into the arcade, and was particularly at her ease in cloudy weather, when it was dark and she could conceal her relative beauty in the gloom. The damp and disgusting arcade, crossed by a lot of wretched drenched pedestrians, whose umbrellas dripped upon the tiles, cemented to her like an alley in a low quarry, a short of dirty, sinister corridor, where no one could come to seek and trouble her. At moments, when she saw the dull glints of light that hammered out her, when she smelled the bitter odour of the dampness, she imagined she had just been buried alive, as she was underground, at the bottom of a common grave swarming with death. At this thought, consul'd and appeased her, for she said to herself that she was now in security, that she was about to die and would suffer no more. But sometimes she had to keep her eyes open, so some paid her a visit, and remained embroidering near the counter all the afternoon. The wife of Olivia, with her pouty face and slow movements, now pleased theorists, who experienced the strength of living and observing this poor, broken-up creature, and had made a friend of her. She loved to see her at her side, smilling with her faint smile, more dead than alive, and bringing to the shop the stuffy odour of the cemetery. When the blue eyes of Susan, transparent as glass, rest physically on those of theorists, the latter experienced a beneficent chill in the narrow of her bones. The theorists remained thus until four o'clock, when she returned to the kitchen, and there again so too fatigued, preparing dinner for Lauren with feveral haste. But when her asthma appeared on the threshold, she fell a tightening in the throat, and all her being once more became a prey to anguish. Each day the sensation of the couple were practically the same. During the daytime, when they were not face-to-face, they enjoyed delightful hours of repose at night, as soon as they came together, both experienced poignant discomfort. The evenings nevertheless were calm. The theorists and Lauren, who saddered at the thought of going to the room, sat up as long as possible. Madara Kea, reclining in a great archer, was placed between them, and charred in her placid voice. She spoke of Vernon, still thinking of her son, but avoidant to mention him for a short feeling of diffidence for the odours. She smiled at her dear children and formed plans for their future. The lamb shed its faint glints on her white face, and her words sounded particularly sweet in the silence and stillness of the room. The murderers, once seated on each side of her, silent and motionless, seemed to be attentively listening to what she said. In truth, they did not attempt to follow the sense of the gossip of the good old lady. They were simply pleased to hear the sound of soft words which prevented them attending the crash of their own thoughts. They dared not cast their eyes on one another, but looked at Madara Kea to give themselves continents. They never breathed a word about going to bed. They could have remained there until morning, listening to the affectionate nonsense of the formal mercy. Amid the appeasement she sprit around her, had she not herself expressed the desire to retire. It was only then that they kicked in the dining room and entered their own apartment in despair, as if casting themselves to the baron of cannabis. But they soon had much more preference for the thirsty gatherings than for these family evenings. When along with Madara Kea they were unable to divert their thoughts, the feeble voice of their aunt and her tender guy did not stifle the cries that lacerate them. They could feel bedtime coming on, and they shudder when their eyes caught sign of the door of the room. I was in the moment when they could be alone, became more and more cruel as the evening of pangs. On Thursday night, on the contrary, they were giddy with folly, one forgot the prison of the other, and they suffered less. They resended by a hardly longing for their reception days. Had me shot and ribbed not a ride, she would have gone and fetched them, when strangers were in the dining room between her cell and Laurence, she felt more calm. She would have a like to always have guests there, to hear a noise, something to divert her, and detach her from her thoughts. In the presence of other people, she displayed a short of nervous guiding. Laurence also recovered his previous merriment, returning to his coarse piston jest, his hoarse laughter, his practical jokes of a former canvas dober. Never had these gatherings been so gay and noisy. It was thus that Laurence and Therese could remain face to face, once a week, without shuddering. But they were soon beset with further anxiety. Paralysis was looted by little gain in Omanara Kya, and they foresaw the day when she could be revered to her own chair, Fiboland Dolfish. The poor old lady already began to stammer fragments of disjointed phrases. Her voice was roguing weaker, and her limbs were one by one losing their vitality. She was becoming a thing. It was with terror that Therese and Laurence absurded the breaking up of this being, who still separated them, and whose voice drew them for their bad dreams. When the old Mercer lost her intelligence, and remained stiff and silent in her own chair, they could find themselves alone, and in the evening, Good Mollanger would be able to escape the dreadful face to face conversation. Then their terror could commence at six o'clock instead of midnight. It could drive them mad. They made a report to give Omanara Kya that health, which had become so necessary to them. They called in doctors, and bestowed on the patient all short of little attentions. Even this occupation of nurses, caused them to forget, and afforded them an appeasement that encouraged them to double in seal. They did not wish to lose a third party, who rendered their evening supportable, and they did not wish the dining room and the whole house to become a cruel and sinister spot like the room. Madara Kya was singularly touched, and as she was scared, they took off her. She applauded herself, amid tears, at having united them, and at having abandoned to them her 40,000 francs. Never since the death of her son, as she counted on so much affection in her final moments. Her old age was quite softened by the tenderness of her dear children. She did not feel the implacable paralysis, which, in spite of all, made her more and more rigid day by day. Nevertheless, theorists and lords continued to lead their double systems. In each of them, there were like two distant beings, a nervous, terrified being who saddered as soon as dashed a setting, and a torped, forgetful being who breathed areas when the sun rose. They lived two lives, crying out in anguish one alone, and peacefully smiling in company. Never did their face, in public, show the slightest trace of the sufferings that have reached them in private. They appeared calm and happy, and stiffly concealed their troubles. To see them so tranquil in the daytime, no one would have suspected the hallucination that tore through them every night. They would have been taken for a couple of blessings by heaven, and living in enjoyment of full felicity. He met Galway, cold to them, the tartled doves. He gestured about their fateful looks. Lauren and theorists were eternal pale, and even succeeded in forcing on a smile. They became accustomed to the naughty jokes of the old lurk. So long as they remained in the dining room, they were able to keep their terror under control. The mind could not imagine the frightful chains that came over them, as soon as they were shut up in their bedroom. On the Thursday night, particularly, this transformation was so violent and brutal, that it seemed as if accomplished in a supernatural war. The drum in the bedroom, a hit of strengthness, a hit of savage passion, surpassed all belief, and remained deeply concealed within their 18 beings. Had they spoken of it, they would have been taken for mad. How happy those sweet hearts are, frequently remarked, call me short. They hardly say the word, but that does not prevent them thinking. I obey the debar-wine and other weak kisses when we have gone. Such was the opinion of the company. Theories and Lauren came to be spoken of as a mad old couple. All the tenants in the arcade of the Po-Neph stole the affection. The tranquil happiness, the everlasting honeymoon of the married pair. They alone knew that the corpse of Camilla slept between them. They alone felt, beneath the calm exterior of their faces, the nervous contraction that had now horribly distorted the features, and changed the plastic expression of their physiognomies into hideous masks of pain. End of the chapter 24 of Theories' Raca, recorded by Labiz Moniz in Madrid, Spain, from Lava Piz. Chapter 25 of Theories' Raca. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Theories' Raca by Emile Zola, translated by Ernest Alfred Visitelli. Chapter 25 At the expiration of four months, Lauren thought of taking advantage of the profit he had calculated on deriving from his marriage. He would have abandoned his wife and fled from the spectre of Camilla three days after the wedding. Had not his interest, detained him at the shop in the arcade. He accepted his knights of terror. He remained in the anguish that was choking him, so as not to be deprived of the benefit of his crime. If he parted from the race, he would again be plunged in poverty. And be forced to retain his post. By remaining with her, he would, on the contrary, be able to satisfy his inclination for idleness and to live liberally, doing nothing, on the revenue Madame Rakia had placed in the name of his wife. Very likely he would have fled with the 40,000 francs, had he been able to realize them. But the old Mercer, on the advice of Michaud, had shown the prudence to protect the interests of her niece in the marriage contract. Laurent, in this manner, found himself attached to the race by a powerful bond. As a set-off against his atrocious knights, he determined at least to be kept in blissful laziness, well-fed, warmly clothed, and provided with a necessary cash in his pocket to satisfy his whims. At this price alone, would he consent to sleep with the corpse of the drowned man. One evening, he announced to Madame Rakia and his wife that he had sent in his resignation, and would quit his office at the end of a fortnight. The race gave a gesture of anxiety. He hastened to add that he intended taking a small studio, where he would go on with his painting. He spoke at length about the annoyance of his employment, and the broad horizons that art opened to him. Now that he had a few sews, and could make a bid for success, he wished to see whether he was not capable of great achievements. The speech he made on this subject simply concealed a ferocious desire to resume his former studio life. The race sat with pinched lips without replying. She had no idea of allowing Lauren to squander the small fortune that assured her liberty. When her husband pressed her with questions in view of obtaining her consent, she answered curtly, giving him to understand that if he left his office, he would no longer be earning any money, and would be living entirely at her expense. But, as she spoke, Lauren observed her so keenly that he troubled her, and arrested on her lips the refusal she was about to utter. She fancied she read in the eyes of her accomplice, this menacing threat, if you do not consent, I shall reveal everything. She began to stammer, and Madame Rakia exclaimed that the desire of her dear son was no more than what was just, and that they must give him the means to become a man of talent. The good lady spoiled Lauren as she had spoiled Camille. Quite mollified by the caresses the young man lavished on her, she belonged to him, and never failed to take his part. It was therefore decided that Lauren should have a studio, and receive 100 francs a month pocket money. The budget of the family was arranged in this way. The profits realized in the nursery business would pay the rent of the shop an apartment, and the balance would almost suffice for the daily expenses of the family. Lauren would receive the rent of his studio, and his 100 francs a month, out of the 2000 and a few hundred francs income from the funded money. The remainder going into the general purse. In that way the capital would remain intact. This arrangement somewhat tranquilized Therese, who nevertheless made her husband swear that he would never go beyond the sum allowed him. But as to that matter, she said to herself that Lauren could not get possession of the 40,000 francs without her signature, and she was thoroughly determined that she would never place her name to any document. On the morrow Lauren took a small studio in the lower part of the room at Zarina, which his eye had been fixed on for a month. He did not mean to leave his office without having a refuge, where he could quietly pass his days far away from Therese. At the end of the fortnight, he bade adieu to his colleagues. Groovet was stupefied at his departure. A young man said he, who had such a brilliant future before him, a young man who in the space of four years had reached a salary that he, Groovet, had taken twenty years to attain. Lauren stupefied him still more when he told him he was going to give his whole time to painting. At last the artist installed himself in his studio, which was a sort of square lobed about seven or eight yards long by the same bread. The ceiling, which inclined abruptly in a rapid slope, was pierced by a large window conveying a white raw light to the floor and blackish walls. The sounds in the street did not ascend so high. This silent, van room, opening above on the sky, resembled a hole or a vault dug out of grey clay. Lauren furnished the place anyways. He brought a couple of chairs with holes in the rush seats, a table that he set against the walls so that it might not slip down, an old kitchen dresser, his colour box and easel. All the luxury in the place consisted of a spacious divan which he purchased for thirty francs from a second hand dealer. He remained a fortnight without even thinking of touching his brushes. He arrived between eight and nine o'clock in the morning, smoked, stretched himself on the divan, and awaited noon, delighted that it was morning, and that he had many hours of daylight before him. At twelve he went to lunch. As soon as the meal was over, he hazened back to be alone and get away from the pale face of Therese. He next went through the process of digestion, sleeping spread out on the divan until evening. The studio was in a boat of peace where he did not tremble. One day his wife asked him if she might visit his dear refuge. He refused, and asked notwithstanding his refusal, she came and knocked at the door. He refrained from opening to her, telling her in the evening that he had spent the day at the Louvre Museum. He was afraid that Therese might bring the spectre of Camilla with her. Eyedness ended by weighing heavily on his shoulders, so he purchased a canvas in colours and set to work. As he had not sufficient money to pay models, he resolved to paint according to fancy, without troubling about nature, and he began the head of a man. But at this time he did not shut himself up so much as he had done. He worked for two or three hours every morning, and passed the afternoon strolling Hither and Thither in Paris and its vicinity. It was opposite the institute on his return from one of these long walks that he knocked up against his old college friend, who had met with a nice little success, thanks to the good fellowship of his comrades at the last salon. What? Is it you? exclaimed the painter. Ah, my poor Laurent, I hardly recognize you. You have lost flesh. I am married, answered Laurent in an embarrassed tone. Married you? said the other. Then I am not surprised to see you look so funny, and what are you doing now? I have taken a small studio, replied Laurent, and I paint a little in the morning. Then in a feverish voice, he briefly related the story of his marriage and explained his future plans. His friend observed him with an air of astonishment that troubled and alarmed him. The truth was that the painter no longer found in the husband of Therese the coarsest common fellow he had known formerly. It seemed to him that Laurent was acquiring a gentle manly bearing. His face had grown thinner and had taken the pale tint of good taste, while his whole frame looked more upright and supple. But you are becoming a handsome chap, the artist could not refrain from exclaiming. You are dressed like an ambassador in the latest style. Who is your model? Laurent, who felt the weight of the examination he was undergoing, did not dare to abruptly take himself off. Will you come up to my studio for a moment? He at last asked his friend, who showed no signs of leaving him. Willingly answered the latter. The painter, who could not understand the change he noticed in his old comrade, was anxious to visit his studio. He had no idea of climbing five floors to gaze on the new pictures of Laurent, which assuredly would disgust him. He merely wished to satisfy his curiosity. When he had reached the studio and had glanced at the canvases hanging against the walls, his astonishment redoubled. They comprised five studies, two heads of women, and three of men painted with real vigor. They looked thick and substantial, each part being dashed off with magnificent dabs of color on a clear gray background. The artist quickly approached and was so astounded that he did not even seek to conceal his amazement. Did you do those? he inquired of Laurent. Yes, replied the latter. There are studies that I intend to utilize in a large picture I am preparing. Come, no humbug, are you really the author of those things? Hey, yes, why should I not be the author of them? The painter did not like to answer what he thought, which was as follows. Because those canvases are the work of an artist and you have never been anything but a vile bungler. For a long time he remained before the studies in silence. Certainly they were clumsy, but they were original and so powerfully executed that they indicated a highly developed idea of art. They were lifelike. Never had this friend of Laurent seen rough paintings so full of high promise. When he had examined all the canvases, he turned to the author of them and said, Well, frankly, I should never have thought you capable of painting like that. Why the deuce did you learn to have talent? It is not usually a thing that one acquires. And he considered Laurent, whose voice appeared to him more gentle, while every gesture he made had a sort of elegance. The artist had no idea of the frightful shock this man had received and which had transformed him, developing in him the nerves of a woman, along with keen delicate sensations. No doubt a strange phenomenon had been accomplished in the organism of the murderer of Chamea. It is difficult for analysis to penetrate to such depths. Laurent had, perhaps, become an artist, as he had become afraid after the great disorder that had upset his frame and mind. Previously he had been half choked by the fullness of his blood, blinded by the thick vapor of breath surrounding him. At present, grown thin and always shattering, his manner had become anxious, while he experienced the lively and poignant sensations of a man of nervous temperament. In the life of terror that he led, his mind had grown delirious, ascending to the ecstasy of genius. The sort of moral melody the neurosis wherewith all his being was agitated, had developed an artistic feeling of peculiar lucidity. Since he had killed, this frame seemed lightened, his distracted mind appeared to him immense, and in this abrupt expansion of his thoughts, he perceived exquisite creations, the reveries of a poet passing before his eyes. It was thus that his gestures had suddenly become elegant, that his works were beautiful, and were all at once rendered true to nature and lifelike. The friend did not seek further to fathom the mystery attending this birth of the artist. He went off carrying his astonishment along with him, but before he left he again gazed at the canvases and said to Laurent, I have only one thing to approach you with. All these studies have a family likeness, the five heads resemble each other. The women themselves have a peculiarly violent bearing that gives them the appearance of men in disguise. You will understand that if you desire to make a picture out of these studies, you must change some of the physiognomies. Your personages cannot all be brothers or brothers and sisters, it would excite hilarity. He left the studio and on the landing, merrily added, Really my dear boy, I am very pleased to have seen you, henceforth I shall believe in miracles, good heavens, how highly respectable you do look. As he went downstairs, Laurent returned to the studio, feeling very much upset. When his friend had remarked that all his studies of heads bore a family likeness, he had abruptly turned round to conceal his paleness. The fact was that he had already been struck by this fatal resemblance. Slowly entering the room, he placed himself before the pictures, and as he contemplated them, as he passed from one to the other, eyes like perspiration moistened his back. He is quite right, he murmured. They all resemble one another. They resemble camea. He retired a step or two and seated himself on the divan, unable to remove his eyes from the studies of heads. The first was an old man with a long white beard, and under this white beard, the artist traced the lean chin of camea. The second represented a fair young girl who gazed at him with the blue eyes of his victim. Each of the other three faces presented a feature of the drowned man. It looked like camea with a theatrical makeup of an old man of a young girl, assuming whatever disguise it pleased the painter to give him, but still maintaining the general expression of his own countenance. There existed another terrible resemblance among these heads. They all appeared suffering and terrified, and seemed as so overburdened with the same feeling of horror. Each of them had a slight wrinkle to the left of the mouth, which, drawing down the lips, produced a grimace. This wrinkle, which Lawrence remembered, having noticed on the convulsed face of the drowned man, marked them all with the sign of wild relationship. Lawrence understood that he had taken too long a look at camea at the morgue. The image of the drowned man had become deeply impressed on his mind, and now his hand, without his being conscious of it, never failed to draw the lines of this atrocious face which followed him everywhere. Little by little, the painter, who was allowing himself to fall back on the divan, fancied he saw the faces become animated. He had five cameas before him, five cameas whom his own fingers had powerfully created, and who, by terrifying peculiarity, were of various ages and of both sexes. He rose, elacerated the pictures, and threw them outside. He said to himself that he would die of terror in his studio, where he took people it with portraits of his victim. A fear had just come over him. He dreaded that he would no more be able to draw a head without reproducing that of the drowned man. He wished to a certain at once, whether he were master of his own hand. He placed a white canvas on his easel, and then, with a bit of charcoal, sketched out a face in a few lines. The face resembled camea. Lawrence swiftly effaced this drawing and tried another. For an hour he struggled against futility, which drove along his fingers. At each fresh attempt, he went back to the head of the drowned man. He might indeed assert his will, and avoid the lines he knew so well. In spite of himself, he drew those lines he obeyed his muscles and his rebellious nerves. He at first of all proceeded rapidly with his sketches. He now took pains to pass the stick of charcoal slowly over the canvas. The result was the same. Comea grimacing and in pain appeared ceaselessly. The artists catch the most different heads successively. The heads of angels of virgins with orioles, of Roman warriors with their helmets, of fair rosy children of old bandits, seemed with scars, and the drowned man always, always reappeared. He became, in turn, angel, virgin, warrior, child, and bandit. Then, Lawrence plunged into caricature. He exaggerated the features. He produced monstrous profiles. He invented grotesque heads, but only succeeded in rendering the striking portrait of his victim more horrible. He finished by drawing animals, dogs, and cats, but even the dogs and cats vaguely resembled Comea. Lawrence then became seized with sullen rage. He smashed the canvas with his fist, thinking in despair of his great picture. Now, he must put that idea aside. He was convinced that, in future, he would draw nothing but the head of Comea, and as his friend had told him, faces all alike would cause hilarity. He pictured to himself what his work would have been, and perceived upon the shoulders of his personages, men and women, the livid and terrified face of the drowned man. The strange picture he thus conjured up appeared to him atrociously ridiculous and exasperated him. He no longer dared to paint, always dreading that he would resuscitate his victim at the least stroke of his brush. If he desired to live peacefully in a studio, he must never paint there. This thought that his fingers possessed the fatal and unconscious faculty of reproducing without end the portrait of Comea made him observe his hand in terror, it seemed to him that his hand no longer belonged to him.