11 Sometimes, on a Sunday, when the weather was fine, Camille forced Therese to go out with him for a walk in the Champs-Elysées. The young woman would have preferred to remain in the damp obscurity of the arcade, for the exercise fatigued her, and it worried her to be on the arm of her husband, who dragged her along the pavement, stopping before the shop windows, expressing his astonishment, making reflections, and then falling into ridiculous spells of silence. But Camille insisted on these Sunday outings, which gave him the satisfaction of showing off his wife. When he met a colleague, particularly one of his chiefs, he felt quite proud to exchange bows with him in the company of Madame. Besides, he walked for the sake of walking, and he did so almost in silence, stiff and deformed in his Sunday clothes, dragging along his feet, and looking silly and vain. It made Therese suffer to be seen arm in arm with such a man. On these walking-out days, Madame Récan accompanied her children to the end of the arcade, where she embraced them as if they were leaving on a journey, giving them endless advice accompanied by fervent prayers. Particularly, beware of accidents, she would say, there are so many vehicles in the streets of Paris, promise me not to get into a crowd. At last she allowed them to set out, but she followed them a considerable distance with her eyes, before returning to the shop. Her lower limbs were becoming unwieldy, which prohibited her taking long walks. On other occasions, but more rarely, the married couple went out of Paris, as far as Saint-Touen or Asnier, where they treated themselves to a dish of fried fish in one of the restaurants beside the river. These were regarded to days of great revelry, which was spoken of a month before hand. Therese engaged more willingly, almost with joy, in these excursions, which kept her in the open air until ten or eleven o'clock at night. Saint-Touen, with its green aisles, reminded her of Venon, and rekindled all the wild love she had felt for the Sen when a little girl. She seated herself on the gravel, dipped her hands in the water, feeling full of life in the burning heat of the sun, attenuated by the fresh puffs of breeze in the shade. While she tore and sold her frock on the stones and clammy ground, Camus neatly spread out his pocket-handkerchief, and sank down beside her with endless precautions. Laterally the young couple almost invariably took loon with them. He enlivened the excursion by his laughter and strength of a peasant. One Sunday Camus, Therese and Laurent left for the Saint-Touen after breakfast at about eleven o'clock. The outing had been projected a long time, and was to be the last of the season. Autumn approached, and the cold breezes at night began to make the air chilly. On this particular morning the sky maintained all its blue serenity. They proved warm in the sun and tepid in the shade. The party decided they must take advantage of the last fine weather. Hailing a passing cab, they set out, accompanied by the pitiful expressions of uneasiness and the anxious effusions of the old Mercer. Crossing Paris, they left the vehicle at the fortifications, and gained Saint-Touen on foot. It was noon. The dusty road, brightly lit up by the sun, had the blinding whiteness of snow. The air was intensely warm, heavy and pungent. Therese on the arm of Camus walked with short steps, concealing herself beneath her umbrella, while her husband found his face with an immense handkerchief. Behind them came Laurent, who had the sun streaming fiercely on the back of his neck, without appearing to notice it. He whistled and kicked the stones before him as he strolled along. Now and again there was a fierce glint in his eyes, as he watched Therese's swinging hips. On reaching Saint-Touen they lost no time looking for a cluster of trees, a patch of green grass in the shade. Crossing the water to an island, they plunged into a bit of underwood. The ford and leaves covered the ground with a russety bed, which cracked beneath their feet with sharp, quivering sounds. Innumerable trunks of trees rose up erect, like clusters of small gothic columns. The branches descended on the foreheads of the three holiday-makers, whose only view was the expiring copper-like foliage, and the black and white stems of the aspens and oaks. They were in the wilderness, in a melancholy corner, in a narrow clearing that was silent and fresh. All around them they heard the murmur of the sen. Camus, having selected a dry spot, seated himself on the ground, after lifting up the skirt of his frockcoat, while Therese, amid a loud crumpling of petticoats, had just flung herself among the leaves. Laurent lay on his stomach, with his chin resting on the ground. They remained three hours in this clearing, waiting till it became cooler to take a run in the country before dinner. Camus talked about his office, and related silly stories, then feeling fatigued he let himself fall backwards and went to sleep with a rim of his hat over his eyes. Therese had closed her eyelids some time previously, feigning slumber. Laurent, who felt wide awake, and was tired of his recumbent position, crept up behind her, and kissed her shoe and ankle. For a month his life had been chased, and this walk in the sun had set him on fire. Here he was, in a hidden retreat, and unable to hold to his breast the woman who was really his. Her husband might wake up, and all his prudent calculations would be ruined by this obstacle of a man.  Therese made no movement. Laurent thought she was asleep. He rose to his feet, and stood with his back to a tree. Then he perceived that the young woman was gazing into space with her great sparkling eyes wide open. Her face, laying between her arms, with her hands clasped above her head, was deadly pale, and wore an expression of frigid rigidity. Therese was musing. Her fixed eyes resembled dark unfathomable depths, where nought was visible save night. She did not move. She did not cast a glance at Laurent, who stood erect behind her. Her sweetheart contemplated her, and was almost affrighted to see her so motionless and mute. He would have liked to have bent forward and closed those great open eyes with a kiss. But Camille lay asleep close at hand. This poor creature with his body twisted out of shape, displaying his lean proportions, was gently snoring. Under the hat, half concealing his face could be seen his mouth, contorted into a silly grimace in his slumber. A few short reddish hairs on a bony chin, sullied his livid skin, and his head being thrown backwards, his thin wrinkled neck appeared, with Adam's apple standing out prominently in brick red in the centre, and rising at each snore. Camille spread out on the ground in this fashion, looked contemptible and vile. Laurent, who looked at him, abruptly raised his heel. He was going to crush his face with one blow. Therese restrained a cry.  Laurent, for a few seconds, remained with his heel in the air above the face of the slumber and Camille. Then slowly, straightening his leg, he moved a few paces away.  His pounded head would have settled the police on him. If he wanted to get rid of Camille, it was solely for the purpose of marrying Therese. It was his intention to bask in the sun after the crime, like the murder of the Wagoner in the story related by Old Michaud.  Then he abruptly turned into the Underwood again. He had just arranged a plan. He had thought of a mode of murder that would be convenient, and without danger to himself. He woke the sleeper by tickling his nose with a straw. Camille sneezed, got up, and pronounced the joke a cackle one. He liked Laurent, on account of his tomfoolery which made him laugh. He now roused his wife, who kept her eyes closed. When she'd risen to her feet and shaken her skirt, which was all crumpled and covered with dry leaves, the party quitted the clearing, breaking the small branches they found in their way. They left the island, and walked along the road, along the byways crowded with groups in Sunday finery. Between the hedges ran girls in light frocks, a number of boating-men passed by singing. Files of middle-class couples, of elderly persons, of clerks and shopmen with their wives, walked with short steps beside the ditches. Each road seemed like a populous, noisy street. The sun alone maintained its great tranquility. It was descending towards the horizon, casting on the reddened trees and white thoroughfares immense sheets of pale light. Penetrating freshness began to fall from the quivering sky. Camille had ceased giving his arm to Thérèse. He was chatting with Laurent, laughing at his jests, at the feats of strength of his friend, who leapt the ditches and raised huge stones above his head. The young woman on the other side of the road, advanced with her head bent forward, stooping down from time to time to gather a herb. When she'd fallen behind, she stopped and observed her sweet heart and her husband in the distance. Hey, aren't you hungry? shouted Camille at her. Yes, she replied. Then come on! he said he. Thérèse was not hungry, but felt tired and uneasy. She was in ignorance of the designs of Laurent, and her lower limbs were trembling with anxiety. The three returning to the riverside found a restaurant where they seated themselves at a table and a sort of terrace, formed of planks, in an indifferent eating-house, reeking with the odor of grease and wine. This place resounded with cries, songs, and the clatter of plates and dishes. In each private room and public saloon were parties talking in loud voices, and the thin partitions gave vibrating sonority to all this riot. The waiters, ascending to the upper rooms, caused the staircase to shake. Above on the terrace, the puffs of air from the river drove away the smell of fat. Thérèse, leaning over the balustrade, observed the key. To right and left extended two lines of wine-shops and shanties of showmen. Beneath the arbors in the gardens of the former, amid the few remaining yellow leaves, one perceived the white tablecloths, the dabs of black formed by men's coats and the brilliant skirts of women. People passed to and fro, bare-headed, running and laughing, with a boiling noise of the crowd, was mingled the lamentable strains of the barrel-organs. An odor of dust and frying food hung in the calm air. Below Thérèse, some tarts from the Latin Quarter were dancing in a ring on a patch of warm tuff, singing an infantile rondeau.  They still managed to find a small thread of fresh voice, and their pale countenances, ruffled by brutal caresses, became tenderly coloured with virgin-like blushes, while their great impure eyes filled with moisture. A few students smoking clean-lay pipes, who were watching them as they turned round, greeted them with ripple jests. And beyond, on the Seine, on the hillocks, descended the serenity of night, a sort of vague bluish mist, which bathed the trees in transparent vapour. Hey, waiter! shouted Laurent, leaning over the banister. What about this dinner? Then, changing his mind, he turned to Camille and said, I say, Camille. Let us go for a pull on the river before sitting down to table. It will give them time to roast the fowl. We shall be bored to death waiting an hour here. As you like, answered Camille carelessly. But Thérèse is hungry. No, no, I can wait, hastened to say the young woman at whom Laurent was fixedly looking. All three went downstairs again. Passing before the rostrum, where the lady cashier was seated, they retained a table, and decided on a menu, saying they would return in an hour. As the host let out pleasure-boats, they asked him to come and detach one. Laurent selected a skiff, which appeared so light that Camille was terrified by its fragility. The juice, he said, we shall have to be careful not to move about in this, otherwise we shall get a famous ducking. The truth was that the clerk had a horrible dread of the water. At Vernon his sickly condition did not permit him when a child to go and dabble in the sand. Whilst his school-fellows ran and threw themselves into the river, he lay a bed between a couple of warm blankets. Laurent had become an intrepid swimmer, and an indefatigable oarsman. Camille had preserved that terror for deep water, which is inherent in women and children. He tapped the end of the boat with his foot to make sure of its solidity.  You're always trembling. Camille stepped over the side, and went staggering to seat himself at the stern. When he felt the planks under him, he was at ease and joked to show his courage. Therese had remained on the bank, standing grave and motionless beside her sweetheart, who held the rope. He bent down and rapidly murmured in an undertone, be careful. I'm going to pitch him in the river. Obey me, I answer for everything. The young woman turned horribly pale. She remained as if riveted to the ground. She was rigid, and her eyes had opened wider. Get into the boat, Laurent murmured again. She did not move. A terrible struggle was passing within her. She strained her will with all her might to avoid bursting into sobs and falling to the ground. Ah! Ah! cried Camille. Laurent, just look at Therese. It's she who's afraid. She'll get in. No, she won't get in. He had now sped himself out on the back seat. His two arms on the side of the boat and were showing off with Femperonade. The chuckles of this poor man were like cuts from a whip to Therese, lashing and urging her on. She abruptly sprang into the boat, remaining in the bells. Laurent grasped the skulls. The skiff left the bank, advancing slowly towards the aisles. Twilight came. Huge shadows fell from the trees, and the water ran black at the edges. In the middle of the river were great pale silver trails. The boat was soon in full steam. There, all the sounds of the keys softened. The singing and the cries came vague and melancholy with sad languidness. The odour of frying and dust had passed away. The air was freshened. It turned cold. Laurent, resting on his skulls, allowed the boat to drift along in the current. Opposite rose the great reddish mass of trees on the islands. The two somber brown banks, patched with grey, were like a couple of broad bands stretching towards the horizon. The water and the sky seemed as if cut from the same whitish piece of material. Nothing looks more painfully calm than an autumn twilight. The sun rays pale in the quivering air. The old trees cast their leaves. The country, scorched by the ardent beams of summer, feels death coming with the first cold winds. And in the sky, there are plaintive sighs of despair. Nightfall forms above, bringing winding sheets in its shade. The party was silent. Seated at the bottom of the boat, drifting with the stream, they watched the final gleams of light quitting the tall branches. They approached the islands. The great rusty masses grew somber, or the landscape seemed simplified in the twilight. The sun, the sky, the islands, the slopes were nought but brown and grey patches, which faded away amidst milky fog.  The juice! How cold it is! he exclaimed. It would not be pleasant to go in their head foremost. Laurent did not answer. For an instant he had been observing the two banks of the river with uneasiness. He advanced his huge hands to his knees, tightly compressing his lips. Therese, rigid and motionless, with her head thrown slightly backwards, waited. The skiff was about to enter a small arm of the river that was somber and narrow, penetrating between two islands. Behind one of these islands could be distinguished the soft melody of a boating party who seemed to be ascending the Seine. Up the river in the distance the water was free. Then Laurent rose and crossed Camille round the body. The clock burst into laughter. Oh, no, you tickle me! he said. None of these jokes. Look here, stop! You'll make me fall over.  Camille turning round, perceived the terrifying face of his friend, violently agitated. He failed to understand. He was seized by vague terror. He wanted to shout and felt a rough hand seizing by the throat, with the instinct of an animal on the defensive. He rose to his knees, clutching the side of the boat and struggled for a few seconds. Therese, Therese! He called in a stifling, sibilant voice. The young woman looked at him, clinging with both hands to the seat. The skiff creaked and danced upon the river. She could not close her eyes. A frightful contraction kept them wide open, riveted on the hideous struggle. She remained rigid and mute. Therese, Therese! Again cried the unfortunate man who was in the throes of death. At this final appeal, Therese burst into sobs. Her nerves had given way. The attack she had been dreading cast her to the bottom of the boat, where she remained doubled up in a swoon as if dead. Laurent continued tugging at Camille, pressing with one hand on his throat. With the other hand he ended by tearing his victim away from the side of the skiff and held him high up in the air in his powerful arms like a child. As he bent down his head, his victim, mad with rage and terror, twisted himself round and reaching forward with his teeth, buried them in the neck of his aggressor. And when the murderer, restraining a yell of pain, abruptly flung the clerk into the river, the latter carried a piece of his flesh away with him. Camille fell into the water with a shriek. He returned to the surface two or three times, uttering cries that were more and more hollow. Laurent, without losing a second, raised the collar of his coat to hide his wound, then seizing the unconscious Therese in his arms, he capsized the skiff with his foot as he fell into the sand with a young woman, whom he supported on the surface, while calling an lamentable voice for help. The boating-party he had heard singing behind the point of the island, understanding that an accident had happened, advanced with long, rapid strokes of the oars and rescued the emerged couple. While Therese was laid on a bench, Laurent gave vent to his despair at the death of his friend. Plunging to the water again, he reached for Camille in places where he knew he was not to be found and returned in tears, ringing his hands and tearing his hair while the boating-party did their best to calm and console him. It's all my fault," he exclaimed. I ought never to have allowed that poor fellow to dance and move about as he did. At a certain moment, we all three found ourselves on one side of the boat and we capsized. As we fell into the water, he shouted out to me to save his wife. In accordance with what usually happens under cinema-less circumstances, three or four of the young fellows amongst the boating-party maintained they had witnessed the accident. We saw you well enough, they said, and then hang it all. A boat is not so firm as a dancing floor.  It'll be a nice awakening for her. They took their oars and towing the capsized skiff behind them, conducted to resin Laurent to the restaurant where the dinner was ready to be served. The restaurant keeper and his wife were worthy people who placed their wardrobe at the service of the drenched pair. When Thérèse recovered consciousness, she had a nervous attack and burst into heart-rending sobs. It became necessary to put her to bed. Nature assisted the sinister comedy that had just been performed. As soon as the young woman became calmer, Laurent, entrusting her to the care of the host and his wife, set out to return to Paris, where he wished to arrive alone to break the frightful intelligence to Madame Rackin with all possible precautions. The truth was that he feared the nervous feverish excitement of Thérèse and preferred to give her time to reflect and learn her part. It was the boating men who sat down to the dinner prepared for Camille. End of Chapter 11. Recording by Nicholas Stevenson, Task, France. Chapter 12 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 Nicholas Stevenson. Thérèse Rackin by Emile Zola, translated by Ernst Alfred Vistelli. Chapter 12. Laurent, in the dark corner of the omnibus that took him back to Paris, continued perfecting his plan. He was almost certain of impunity, and he felt heavy, anxious joy, the joy of having got over the crime. Unreaching the gated cliché, he held a cab and drove to the residence of Old Michel in the Haudenosaun. It was nine o'clock at night when he arrived. He found the former commissary of police at table in the company of Olivier and Suzanne. The motive of his visit was to seek protection in case he should be suspected, and also to escape breaking the frightful news to Madame Rackin himself. Such an errand was strangely repugnant to him. He anticipated encountering such terrible despair that he feared he would be unable to play his part with sufficient tears. Then the grief of this mother weighed upon him, although at the bottom of his heart he cared but little about it. When Michel saw him enter clothed in coarse-looking garments that were far too tight for him, he questioned him with his eyes, and Laurent gave an account of the accident in a broken voice, as if exhausted with grief and fatigue. I have come to you, he said in conclusion, because I do not know what to do about the two poor women so cruelly afflicted. I dare not go to the bereaved mother alone and want you to accompany me. As he spoke, Bolivia looked at him fixedly, and with so straight a glance that he terrified him. The murderer had flung himself head down among these people belonging to the police, with an audacity calculated to save him. But he could not repress a shudder as he felt their eyes examining him. He saw distrust where there was nought but stupor and pity. Suzanne, weaker and paler than usual, seemed ready to faint. Olivier, who was alarmed at the idea of death, but whose heart remained absolutely cold, made a grimace expressing painful surprise, while by habit he scrutinized the countenance of Laurent without having the least suspicion of the sinister truth. As to old Michel, he uttered exclamations of fright, commiseration, and astonishment. He fidgeted on his chair, joined his hands together, and cast up his eyes to the ceiling. Oh, good heavens, said he in a broken voice.  All of a sudden, it's horrible. And that poor man, I don't count his mother. Whatever shall we say to her? Suddenly, you were quite right to come and find us. We will go with you. Rising from his seat, he walked hither and thither about the apartment, stamping with his feet in search of his hat and walking-stick, and as he bustled from corner to corner, he made Laurent repeat the details of the catastrophe, giving utterance to fresh exclamations at the end of each sentence. At last, all four went downstairs. On reaching the entrance to the arcade, on the pont-nerve, Laurent was stopped by Michaud. Do not accompany us any further, said he. Your presence would be a sort of brutal avowal which must be avoided. The wretched mother would suspect a misfortune, and this would force us to confess the truth sooner than we ought to tell it to her. Wait for us here. This arrangement relieved the murderer, who shuddered at the thought of entering the shop in the arcade. He recovered his calm, and began walking up and down the pavement, going and coming in perfect peace of mind. At moments, he forgot the events that were passing. He looked to the shops, whistled between his teeth, turned round to ogle the women who brushed past him. He remained thus for a full half-hour in the street, recovering his composure more and more. He had not eaten since the morning, and feeling hungry, he entered a pastry-cooks and stuffed himself with cakes. A heart-rending scene was passing at the shop in the arcade. Notwithstanding precautions, notwithstanding the soft, friendly sentences of old Michaud, there came a moment when Madame Ruequin understood that her son had met with misfortune. From that moment, she insisted on knowing the truth with such a passionate outburst of despair, with such a violent flow of tears and shrieks that her old friend could not avoid giving way to her. And when she learnt the truth, her grief was tragic. She gave hollow sobs. She received shocks that threw her backward in a distracting attack of terror and anguish. She remained there choking, uttering from time to time a piercing scream amidst the profound roar of her affliction. She would have dragged herself along the ground, had not Suzanne taken her around the waist, weeping on her knees, and raising her pale countenance towards her. Olivier and his father on their feet, unnerved and mute, turned aside their heads, being disagreeably affected by this painful sight which wounded them in their egotism. The poor mother saw her son rolling along in the thick waters of the Seine, a rigid and horribly swollen corpse. While at the same time, she perceived him as a babe in his cradle when she drove away death bending over him. She had brought him back into the world on more than 10 occasions. She loved him for all the love she had bestowed on him during 30 years. And now he had met his death far away from her all at once in the cold and dirty water like a dog. Then she remembered the warm blankets in which she had enveloped him. What care she had taken of her boy? What a tepid temperature he had been reared in. How she had coaxed and fondled him, and all this to see him one day miserably drown himself at these thoughts, Madam Raquem felt a tightening at the throat, and she hoped she was going to die strangled by despair. Old Michaud hastened to withdraw. Leaving Suzanne behind to look after the Mercer, he and Olivier went to find Laurent so that they might hurried to Santouane with all speed. During the journey, they barely exchanged a few words. Each of them buried himself in a corner of the cab which jolted along over the stones. There they remained motionless and mute in the obscurity that prevailed within the vehicle.  The sinister event that had brought them together threw a sort of dismal dejection upon them. When they at length arrived at the restaurant beside the river, they found Therese in bed with burning head and hands. The landlord told them in an undertone that the young woman had a violent fever. The truth was that Therese, feeling herself weak in character and wanting in courage, feared she might confess the crime in one of her nervous attacks and had decided to feign illness. Maintaining silence silent, she kept her lips and eyes closed, unwilling to see anyone lest she should speak.  And amidst the reddish gleam that passed beneath her closed lids, she could see Camille and Laurent struggling at the side of the boat. She perceived her husband livid, horrible, increased in height, rearing up straight above the turbid water, and this implacable vision heightened the feverish heat in her blood. Old Michaud endeavoured to speak to her and console her, but she made a movement of impatience, and turning round broke out into a fresh fit of sobbing. "'Leave her alone, sir,' said the restaurant keeper. She shudders at the slightest sound. You see, she wants rest.' Below in the general room was a policeman drawing up the statement of the accident. Michaud and his son went downstairs, as followed by Laurent. When Olivier had made himself known as the upper official at the prefecture of police, everything was over in ten minutes. The boating men, who were still there, gave an account of the drowning in its smallest details, describing how the three holidaymakers had fallen into the water, as if they themselves had witnessed the misfortune. Had Olivier and his father the least suspicion, it would have been dispelled at once by this testimony. But they had not doubted the veracity of Laurent in this instant. On the contrary, they introduced him to the police as the best friend of the victim, and they were careful to see inserted in the report that the young man had plunged into the water to save Camille Rarkin. The following day the newspapers related the accident with a great display of detail. The unfortunate mother, the inconsolable widow, the noble and courageous friend, nothing was missing from this event of the day, which went the round of the Parisian press and then found an echo in the provinces. When the report was completed, Laurent experienced lively joy, which penetrated his being like new life. From the moment his victim had burried his teeth in his neck, he had been as if stiffened, acting mechanically, according to a plan arranged long in advance. The instinct of self-preservation alone impelled him, dictating to him his words, affording him advice as to his gestures. At this hour, in the face of the certainty of impunity, the blood resumed flowing in his veins with delicious gentleness. The police had passed beside his crime, and had seen nothing. They had been duped, for they had just acquitted him. He was saved. This thought caused him to experience a feeling of delightful moisture all along his body, a warmth that restored flexibility to his limbs and to his intelligence. He continued to act as part of a weeping friend with incomparable science and assurance. At the bottom of his heart, he felt with brutal satisfaction, and he thought of Therese, who was in bed in the room above. We cannot leave this unhappy woman here," he said to Michaud. She is perhaps threatened with grave illness. We must positively take her back to Paris. Come, let us persuade her to accompany us. Upstairs, he begged and prayed of Therese to rise and dress, and allowed herself to be conducted to the arcade of the Pont Neuf. When the young woman heard the sound of his voice, she started and stared at him with eyes wide open. She seemed as if crazy and was shuddering. Painfully, she raised herself into a sitting posture without answering. The men quitted the room, leaving her alone with the wife of the restaurant keeper. When ready to start, she came downstairs, staggering, and was assisted into the cab by Olivier. The journey was a silent one. Laurent with perfect audacity and impudence slipped his hand along the skirt of Therese and caught her fingers. He was seated opposite her in a floating shadow and could not see her face which he kept bowed down on her breast. As soon as he had grasped her hand, he pressed it vigorously, retaining it until they reached the room as a ring. He felt the hand tremble, but it was not withdrawn. On the contrary, it ever and anon gave a sudden caress. These two hands, one in the other, were burning. The moist palms adhered, and the fingers tightly held together were hurt at each pressure. It seemed to Laurent and Therese that the blood from one penetrated the chest of the other, passing through their joined fists.  Amidst the night, amidst the heart-rending silence that prevailed, the furious grips they exchanged were like a crushing weight cast on the head of Camus to keep him under water. When the cab stopped, Michaud and his son got out first, and Laurent bent into his sweetheart gently murmured, Be strong Therese, we have a long time to wait, recollect. Then the young woman opened her lids for the first time since the death of her husband. Oh, I shall recollect, she said with a shudder, and in a voice light as a puff of breath. Olivier extended his hand, inviting her to get down. On this occasion, Laurent went as far as the shop. Madame Raquin was a bed, a prey to violent delirium. Therese dragged herself to her room, where Suzanne had barely time to undress her before she gave way. Tranquillised, perceiving that everything was proceeding as well as he could wish, Laurent withdrew and slowly gained his wretched den in the rue Saint-Victor. It was past midnight. Fresh air circulated in the deserted silent streets. The young man could hear naught but his own footsteps resounding on the pavement. The nocturnal coolness of the atmosphere cheered him up. The silence, the darkness, gave him sharp sensations of delight, and he loitered on his way. At last he was rid of his crime. He had killed Camille. It was a matter that was settled and would be spoken of no more. He was now going to lead a tranquil existence until he could take possession of Therese. The thought of the murder had at times half choked him, and now that it was accomplished he felt a weight removed from his chest and breathed at ease, cured of the suffering that hesitation and fear had given him. At the bottom of his heart he was a trifle abated. Fatigue had rendered his limbs and thoughts heavy. He went into bed and slept soundly. During his slumber, slight nervous crispations coursed over his face. End of Chapter 12 Recording by Nicola Stephenson Task France Chapter 13 of Therese-Racan This is the LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Therese-Racan by Emile Zola Translated by Ernest Alford Visitelli Chapter 13 The following morning Laurent awoke fresh and fit. He had slept well. The cold air entering by the open window whipped his sluggish blood. He had no clear recollection of the scenes of the previous day and had it not been for the burning sensation at his neck he might have thought that he had retired to rest after a calm evening. But the bite Camille had given him stung as if his skin had been branded with a red hot iron. When his thoughts settled on the pain this gash caused him he suffered cruelly. It seemed as though a dozen needles were penetrating little by little into his flesh. He turned down the collar of his shirt and examined the wound in a wretched fifteen-sue looking-glass hanging against the wall. It formed a red hole as big as a penny-piece. The skin had been torn away displaying the rosy flesh studded with dark specks. Streaks of blood had run as far as the shoulder and thin threads that had dried up. The bite looked a deep, dull, brown colour against the white skin situated under the right ear. Lowan scrutinised it with curved back and craned neck and the greenish mirror gave his face an atrocious grimace. Satisfied with his examination he had a thorough good-wash saying to himself that the wound would be healed in a few days. Then he dressed and quietly repaired to his office where he related the accident in an affected tone of voice. When his colleagues had read the account in the newspapers he became quite a hero. During a whole week the clerks of the Orléans railway had no other subject of conversation. They were all proud that one of their staff should have been drowned. Cruyvet never ceased his remarks on the imprudence of adventuring into the middle of the sand when it was so easy to watch the running water from the bridges. Lowan retained a feeling of intense uneasiness. The decease of Camus had not been formally proved. The husband of Therese was indeed dead but the murderer would have liked to have found his body so as to obtain a certificate of death. The day following the accident a fruitless search had been made for the corpse of the drowned man. It was thought that it had probably gone to the bottom of some hole near the banks of the islands and men were actively dragging the sane to get the reward. In the meantime Laurent imposed himself the task of passing each morning by the morgue on the way to the office. He had made up his mind to attend to the business himself notwithstanding that his heart rose with repugnance notwithstanding the shudders that sometimes ran through his frame for over a week he went and examined the countenance of all the drowned persons extended on the slabs. When he entered the place an unsavory odour an odour of freshly washed flesh disgusted him and a chill run over his skin the dampness of the walls seemed to add weight to his clothing which hung more heavily on his shoulders. He went straight to the glass separating the spectators from the corpses and with his pale face against it looked. Facing him appeared rows of grey slabs and upon them, here and there the naked bodies formed green and yellow white and red patches. While some retained their natural condition in the rigidity of death others seemed like lumps of bleeding and decaying meat. At the back against the wall hung some lamentable rags petticoats and trousers puckered against the bare plaster. Laurent at first only caught sight of the one ensemble of stones and walls spotted with dabs of russet and black formed by the clothes and corpses. A melodious sound of running water broke the silence. Little by little he distinguished the bodies and went from one to the other. It was only the drowned that interested him. When several human forms were there swollen and blued by the water he looked at them eagerly trying to recognise camis. Frequently the flesh on the faces had gone away by strips. The bones had burst through the mellow skins. The visages were like lumps of boned boiled beef. Laurent hesitated. He looked at the corpses endeavouring to discover the lean body of his victim, but all the drowned were stout. He saw enormous stomachs, puffy thighs and strong round arms. He did not know what to do.  One morning he was seized with real terror. For some moments he'd been looking at a corpse taken from the water that was small in build and atrociously disfigured. The flesh of this drowned person was so soft and broken up that the running water washing it carried it away bit by bit. The jet falling on the face brought a hole to the left of the nose and abruptly the nose became flat. The lips were detached showing the white teeth. The head of the drowned man burst out laughing. Each time Laurent fancied he recognized Camille he felt a burning sensation in the heart. He ardently desired to find the body of his victim and he was seized with cowardice when he imagined it was before him.  In spite of himself his frame revolted, disgust and horror gained possession of his being as soon as he found himself in the dampness, the unsavory odour of the hall. When there were no drowned persons on the back row of the slabs he breathed at ease. His repugnance was not so great. He then became a simple spectator who took strange pleasure in looking death by violence in the space, in its lugubriously fantastic and grotesque attitudes. This sight amused him particularly when there were women there displaying their bare bosoms. These nudities, brutally exposed, blood-stained and in places bordered with holes attracted and detained him. Once he saw a young woman of twenty there, a child of the people, broad and strong, alone, her fresh plump white form displaying the most delicate softness of tint. She was half smiling with her head slightly inclined on one side. Around her neck she had a black band which gave her a sort of necklace of shadow. She was a girl who had hanged herself in a fit of love-madness. Each morning while Laurent was there he heard behind him the coming and going of the public who entered and left. The morgue is a sight within reach of everybody, and one to which passers by, rich and poor alike, treat themselves. The door stands open and all are free to enter. There are admirers of the scene who go out of their way so as not to miss one of these performances of death. If the slabs have nothing on them visitors leave with the building feeling as if they have been cheated and mummering between their teeth. But when they are fairly well occupied people crowd in front of them and treat themselves to cheaper motions. They express horror, they joke, they applaud or whistle as at the theatre and withdraw satisfied declaring the morgue a success on that particular day. Laurent soon got to know the public frequenting the place that mixed into similar public who pity and sneer in common. Workmen looked in on their way to their work with a loaf of bread and tools under their arms. They considered death growl. Among them were comical companions of the workshops who elicited a smile from the onlookers by making witter remarks about the faces of each corpse. They styled those who have been burnt to death, coalmen, the hanged, the murdered, the drowned, the bodies that had been stabbed or crushed, excited their jeering vivacity and their voices which slightly trembled stammered out comical sentences amid the shuddering silence of the hall. There came persons of small independent means old men who were thin and shriveled up, idlers who went there because they had nothing to do and who looked at the bodies in a silly manner with the pouts of delicate-minded men. Women were there in great numbers, young working girls all rosy with white linen and clean petticoats who tripped along bristly from one end of the glazed partition to the other, opening great attentive eyes as if they were before the dressed shop window of a linen draper. There were also women of the lower orders looking stupefied and giving themselves lamentable heirs and well-dressed ladies carelessly dragging their silk gowns along the floor. On a certain occasion Laurent noticed one of the latter standing a few paces from the glass and pressing her cambrick handkerchief to her nostrils.  Her face was covered by a veil and her gloved hands seemed quite small and delicate. Around her hung a gentle perfume of violet. She stood scrutinising her corpse. On a slab a few paces away was stretched the body of a great big fellow, a mason who had recently killed himself on the spot by falling from a scaffolding. He had a broad chest, large short muscles and a white, well-nourished body. Death had made a marble statue of him. The lady examined him, turned him round and weighed him, so to say, with her eyes. For a time she seemed quite absorbed in the contemplation of this man. She raised a corner of her veil for one last look. Then she withdrew. At moments bands of lads arrived, young people between twelve and fifteen who lent with their hands against the glass nudging one another with their elbows and making brutal observations. At the end of a week Loran became disheartened. At night he dreamt of the corpse he had seen in the morning. This sering, this daily disgust which he imposed upon himself ended by troubling him to such a point that he resolved to pay only two more visits to the place. The next day on entering the morgue he received a violent shock in the chest.  The murderer slowly approached the glass as if attracted there, unable to detach his eyes on his victim. He did not suffer. He merely experienced a greater and a chill accompanied by slight pricks on his skin. He would have thought that he would have trembled more violently. For fully five minutes he stood motionless lost in unconscious contemplation engraving in spite of himself in his memory all the horrible lines or the dirty colours of the picture he had before his eyes. Camille was hideous. He had been a fortnight in the water. His face still appeared firm and rigid. The features were preserved but the skin had taken a yellowish muddy tint. The thin, bony and slightly tumour-fied head wore a grimace. It was a trifle inclined on one side with the hair sticking to the temples and the lids raised displaying the dull globes of the eyes while preserving a human appearance had remained all the more frightful with pain and terror. The body seemed a massive ruptured flesh. It had suffered horribly. You could feel that the arms no longer held to their sockets and the clavicles were piercing the skin of the shoulders. The ribs formed black bands on the greenish chest. The left side, ripped open was gaping amidst dark red shreds. All the torso was in a state of putrification. The extended legs although firmer were daubed with dirty patches the feet dangled down. Laurent gazed at Camille. He had never yet seen the body of a draught person presenting such a dread aspect. The corpse moreover looked pinched. It had a thin, poor appearance. It had shrunk up in its decay and the heap it formed was quite small.  This miserable frame which had grown to maturity between warm blankets was now shivering on a cold slab. When Laurent could at last tear himself from the poignant curiosity that kept him motionless and gaping before he went out and began walking rapidly along the quay and as he stepped out he repeated that is what I have done he is hideous. A smell seemed to be following him the smell that the putrifying body must be giving off. He went to find old Michel and told him he had just recognized Camille lying on one of the slabs in the morgue. The formalities were performed the drowned man was buried and a certificate of death delivered. Laurent henceforth at ease felt delighted to be able to bury his crime in oblivion along with the vexations and painful scenes that had followed it. CHAPTER XIII Recording by Nicola Stevenson France CHAPTER XIV of Thérèse Raca This is a Liby Vox recording signed the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibyVox.org Recording by Nadine Écote Boulet Thérèse Raca by Émile Zola Translated by Ernest Alfred Visetli CHAPTER XIV The shop in the arcade of the Puneuf remain closed for three days. When it opened again it appeared Darga and Dempah. The shopfront display which the dust on the window seemed to be wearing the morning of the house. The various articles were scattered at sixes and sevens in the dirty windows. Behind the linen caps hanging from the rusty iron rods the face of Thérèse presented a more olive, a more shallow palletness and the immobility of sinister calm. All the gossips in the arcade were moved to pity. The dealer in imitation jewelry pointed out the emaciated profile of the young widow to each of her customers as an interesting and lamentable curiosity. For three days Madame Raca and Thérèse had remained in bed without speaking and without even seeing one another.  The death of her son had been like a blue on the head that had felt her senseless to the ground. For hours she remained tranquil and inert, absorbed in her despair. Then she was at times seized with attacks of weeping, shrieking and delirium. Thérèse in the unjoining room seemed to sleep.  There she lay stretched out at full length, rigid and mute, without a sub raising the bedcloth. It looked as if she was concealing the thoughts that made her rigid in the darkness of the alcove. Susan, who attended to the two women, went feebly from one to the other, gently dragging her feet along the floor, bending her wax-like countenance over the two couches without succeeding in persuading Thérèse who had certain fits of impatience to turn round or in consoling Madame Raca, whose tears began to flow as soon as a voice drew her in. On the third day Thérèse, rapidly and with a sort of feverish decision, threw the sheet from her and seated herself up in bed. She thrust back her hair from her temples and for a moment remained with her hands to her forehead and her eyes fixed, seeming still to reflect. Then she sprang to the carpet. Her limbs were shivering and red with fever. Large, livid patches marbled her skin which had become wrinkled in places as if she had lost flesh. She had grown older. Susan, on entering the room, was struck with surprise to find her up. In a placid, trolling tone, she advised her to go to bed again and continue resting. Thérèse paid no heed to her but sewed her clothes and put them on with hurried, trembling gestures. When she was dressed, she went and looked at herself in a glass, rubbing her eyes and passing her hands over her countenance as if to efface something. Then, without pronouncing a syllable, she quickly crossed the dining room and entered the apartment occupied by Madame Raca. She caught the old Mercer in a moment of doltish calm. When Thérèse appeared, she turned her head following the movements of the young widow with her eyes while the latter came and stood before her, mute and oppressed. The two women contemplated one another for some seconds, the niece with increasing anxiety, the end with painful efforts of memory. Madame Raca, at last remembering, stretched out her trembling arms and, taking Thérèse by the neck, exclaimed, My poor child, my poor Camille! She wept and her tears dried on the burning skin of the young widow who concealed her own dry eyes in the folds of the sheet. Thérèse remained bending down, allowing the old mother to exhaust her outburst of grief. She had dreaded this first interview ever since the murder and had kept in bed to delay it to reflect at ease on the terrible part she had to play. When she perceived Madame Raca more calm, she busied herself about her, advising her to rise and go down to the shop. The old Mercer had almost fallen into dottage. The abrupt apparition of her niece had brought about a favourable crisis that had just restored her memory and the consciousness of things and beings around her. She thanked Suzanne for her attention. All the weekend she talked and had seized wandering, but she spoke in a voice so full of sadness that at moments she was half choked. She watched the movements of Thérèse with sudden fits of tears and would then call her to the bedside and embrace her amid more sobs, telling her in a suffocating tone that she, now, had nobody but her in the world. In the evening she consented to get up and make an effort to eat. Thérèse then saw what a terrible shock her aunt had received. The legs of the old lady had become so ponderous that she required a stick to assist her to drag herself into the dining room and there she thought the walls were vacillating around her. Nevertheless, the following day she wished the shop to be opened. She feared she would go mad if she continued to remain alone in her room. She went down the wooden staircase with heavy tread, placing her two feet on each step and seated herself behind the counter. From that day forth she remained riveted there in placid affliction. Thérèse, beside her, mused and waited. The shop resumed its gloomy calm. End of chapter 14 Chapter 15 of Thérèse 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 Nadine Ecart-Boulay. Thérèse Raca, by Émile Zoula, translated by Ernest Alfred Visetli. Chapter 15 Laurent resumed calling of an evening every two or three days remaining in the shop talking to Madame Raca for half an hour. Then he went off without looking Thérèse in the face. The old Mercer regarded him as the rescuer of her niece, as a noble-hearted young man who had done his utmost to restore her son to her and she welcomed him with tender kindness. One Thursday evening when Laurent happened to be there Old Michaud and Grivet entered. Eight o'clock was striking. The clerk and the former commissary of police had both thought independently of one another that they could resume their dear custom without appearing important and they arrived at the same moment as if urged by the same impulse. Behind them came Olivier and Suzanne. Everyone went upstairs to the dining room. Madame Raca, who expected nobody hastened to light the lamp and prepare the tea. When all was seated round the table, each before a cup when the box of dominoes had been emptied on the board the old mother, with the pass suddenly brought back to her, looked at her guests and burst into subs. There was a vacant place that of her son. This despair cast a chill upon the company and annoyed them. Every countenance wore an air of egoistic bear-attitude.  Come, my dear lady, exclaimed old Michaud, slightly impatiently, you must not give way to despair like that. You will make yourself ill. We are all mortal, affirmed Crive.  Do not cause us pain, I beg you, murmured Susanne. And as Madame Racken sobbed louder, unable to restrain her tears, Michaud resumed, Come, come, have a little courage.  Then do not let us feel sad. Let us try to forget. We are playing too soon a game. Eh, what do you say? The Mercer stiffled her sobs with a violent effort. Perhaps she was conscious of the happy egotism of her guests. She dried her tears, but was still quite upset.  The game began. Laurent and Thérèse had witnessed this brief scene in a grave and impassive manner. The young man was delighted to see these Thursday evenings resumed. He ardently desired them to be continued, aware that he would have need for things to attain his end. Besides, without asking himself the reason, he felt more at ease among these few persons whom he knew, and it gave him courage to look Thérèse in the face. The young woman, attired in black, pale and meditative, seemed to him to possess the beauty that he had hitherto ignored. He was happy to meet her eyes, and to see them rest upon his own with courageous fixedness. Thérèse still belonged to him, hard and soul. End of chapter 15 Chapter 16 of Thérèse Recon, by Émile Zola This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, reading by Bologna Times. A fortnight passed. The bitterness of the first hours was softening. Each day brought additional tranquility and calm. Life resumed its course with wary languidness, with a monotonous intellectual insensibility which follows great shocks. At the commencement, Laurent and Thérèse allowed themselves to drift into this new existence, which was transforming them. Within their beings was proceeding a silent labor, which would require analyzing with extreme delicacy if one desired to mark all its phases. It was not long before Laurent came every night to the shop permanently, but he no longer dined there. He no longer made the place a lounge during the entire evening. He arrived at half past nine and remained until he had put up the shutters. It seemed as if he was accomplishing a duty and placing himself at the service of the two women. If he happened occasionally to neglect the terrorist's job, he apologized for the humility of the following day. On Thursdays he assisted Madame Rookine to light the fire, to do the honors of the house, and displayed all kinds of gentle attentions that charm the old Mercer. Thérèse peacefully watched the activity of his movements, round about her. The palateness of her face had departed. She appeared in better health, more smiling and gentle. It was only rarely that her lips, becoming pinched in a nervous reaction, produced two deep fleets, which conveyed to her compliments a strange expression of grief and fright. The two sweethearts no longer sought to see one another in private. Not once did they suggest a meeting, nor did they ever furtively exchange a kiss. The murder seemed to have momentarily appeased their warmth. In killing Camille, they had succeeded in satisfying their passion. Their crime appeared to have given them a keen pleasure that sickened and disgusted them of their embraces. They had a thousand facilities for enjoying the freedom that had been their dream, and the attainment of which had urged them on to murder. Madame Rookine, impudent and childish, ceased to be an obstacle. The house belonged to them. They could go abroad where they pleased. But love did not trouble them. Its fire had died out. They remained there, calmly talking, looking at one another without reasoning, and without a throat. They even avoided being alone. In their intimacy they found nothing to say, and both were afraid that they appeared too cold. When they exchanged a pressure of the hand, they experienced a sort of discomfort at the touch of their skins. Both imagined and blamed what made them so indifferent and alarmed when face to face with one another. They put the coldness of their attitude down to prudence. Their calm, according to them, was the result of great caution on their part. They pretended they desired this tranquility and somnolence of their hearts. On the other hand, they regarded the repugnance, the uncomfortable feeling experienced as a remains of terror, as the secret thread of punishment. Sometimes, forcing themselves to hope, they sought to resume the burning drains of other days, and were quite astonished to find that they had no imagination. Then they flung to the idea of their forthcoming marriage. They fancied that having attained their end, without a single fear to trouble them. Delivered over to one another, their passion would burn again, and they would taste the delights that had been their dream. This prospect brought them calm, and prevented them descending to the void hollowed out beneath them. They persuaded themselves they loved one another as in the past, and they awaited the moment when they were to be perfectly happy bound together forever. Never had Therese possessed so pleasant a mind. She was certainly becoming better. All her implacable, natural will was giving way. She felt happy at night, alone in her bed. No longer did she find the thin face, and piteous form of Camille at her side to exasperate her.  Her spacious and slightly cold room rather pleased her, with its lofty ceiling, its obscure corners, and its smack of the cloister. She even ended by liking the great black wall which rose up before her window. Every night during one entire summer, she remained for hours gazing at the gravestones in this wall, and at the narrow strips of starry sky cut out by the chimneys and roofs. She only thought of Blaronde when awakened with a start by a nightmare, then setting up trembling with dilated eyes and pressing her nightdress to her. She said to herself that she would not experience the sudden fears if she had a man lying beside her. She thought of her sweetheart as of a dog who would have guarded and protected her. Of a daytime in the shop, she took an interest in what was going on outside. She went out at her own instigation and no longer lived in sullen revolt, occupied thoughts of hatred and vengeance. It worried her to sit in music. She felt the necessity of acting and seeing. From morning to night she watched the people passing through the arcade. The noise and going and coming diverged her. She became inquisitive and talkative. In a word a woman. For hitherto she had only displayed the actions and ideas of a man. From her point of observation she remarked a young man, a student who lived at a hotel in the neighborhood and who passed several times daily before the shop.  Therese thought him superior looking. She was in love with him for a week in love with a schoolgirl. She read novels. She compared the young man to Laurent and the very course and heavy. Her reading revealed to her romantic scenes that hitherto she had ignored. She had only loved with blood and nerves as yet and she now began to love with her head. Then one day the student disappeared. No doubt Gid moved and a few hours Therese had forgotten him. She now subscribed to a circulating library and conceived a passion for the heroes of Therese that passed under her eyes. The sudden love for reading had great influence on her temperament. She acquired nervous sensitivity which caused her to laugh and cry without any motive. The equilibrium which had shown a tendency to be established in her was upset. She fell into a sort of vague meditation. At moments she began disturbed by thoughts of Camille dreamt of Laurent and fresh love, full of terror and distrust. She again became a prey to anguish. At one moment she saw for the means of marrying her sweetheart at that very instant. At another she had an idea of running away never to see him again. The novels which spoke to her of chastity and honour placed a sort of obstacle between her instincts and her will. She remained the ungoverned creature who had wanted to struggle with the sin and who had thrown herself violently into a list of love. But she was conscious of goodness and gentleness. She understood the putty face and lifeless attitude of the wife of Olivier and she knew it was possible to be happy without killing one's husband. Then she did not see herself in a very good light and lived in cruel indecision. Laurent, on his side, passed through several different phases of love and fever. First of all, he enjoyed profound tranquility. He seemed as if relieved of an enormous weight. At times he questioned himself with astonishment. Fancy, he had had a bad dream. He asked himself whether it was really true that he had flung Camille into the water and had seen his corpse on the slab at the morgue. The selection of his crime cost him strange surprise. Never could he have imagined himself capable of murder. He, so prudent, so cowardly, shuddered at the mere thought. Ice-link beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead when he reflected that the authorities might have discovered his crime and guillotined him. Then he felt the cold knife on his neck.  Now he turned round and at the side of the gulf he had just cleared grew faint with terror. Assuredly, I must have been drunk, thought he. That woman must have intoxicated me with caresses. Good heavens, I was a fool and mad. I risked the guillotine in a business like that. Fortunately it passed off all right, but if it had to be done again I would not do it. Laurent lost all his vigor. He became inactive and more cowardly and prudent than ever.  No one who had studied this great body piled up in a lump. Apparently without bones and muscles would ever have had the idea of accusing the man of violence and cruelty. He resumed his former habits. For several months he proved himself a moral clerk doing his work with exemplary brutishness. At night he took his meal at a cheap restaurant in the room Sainte-Vique-Barre. Cutting his bread into bent slices masticating his food slowly making his repasse last as long as possible. When it was over he threw himself back against the wall and smoked his pipe. Anyone might have taken him for a stout, good natured father. In the day he thought of nothing. At night he reposed and heavy sleep freed from dreams.  His friend seemed dead and Therese barely entered his mind. Occasionally he thought of her as one thinks of a woman one has to marry later on in the indefinite future. He patiently awaited the time for his marriage, peaceful of the bride, and dreaming of the new position he would then enjoy. He would leave his office, he would paint for a music, and saunter about hither and thither. These hopes brought him night after night to the shop and the arcade in spite of the vague discomfort he experienced on entering the place. One Sunday with nothing to do and being bored he went to see his old school friend, the young painter by time. The artist was working on a picture of him, Nude Buck Hunt, sprawled on some drapery. The model, lying with her head thrown back and her torso twisted, sometimes left and threw her bosom forward, stretching her arms. As Laurent smoked his pipe and chatted with his friend, he kept his eye on the model. He took the woman home with him that evening and kept her as his mistress for many months. The poor girl fell in love with him. Every morning she went off and posed as a model all day. Then she came back each evening. She didn't cost Laurent a penny, keeping herself out of her own earnings. Laurent never bothered to find out about her. Where she went, what she did, she was a studying influence in his life, a useful and necessary thing. He never wondered if he loved her and he never considered that he was being unfaithful to Therese. He simply felt better and happier. In the meanwhile, the period of mourning that Therese had imposed on herself had come to an end and the young woman put on light-colored gowns.  For some time past, she seemed to him feverish and full of strange, capriciousness, laughing and turning sad without reason. This unsettled demeanor alarmed him for he guessed in part what her struggles and troubles must be like. He began to hesitate, having an atrocious dread of risking his tranquility. He was now living peacefully in wise contentment and he feared to endanger the equilibrium of his life by binding himself to a nervous woman whose passion had already driven him crazy. But he did not reason these matters out. He felt by instinct all the anguish he would be subject to Therese, his wife. The first shock he received and one that roused him to his luggageness was the thought that he must at length begin to think of his marriage. It was almost 15 months since the death of Camille. For an instant, Laurent had the idea of not marrying at all, of jolting Therese. Then he said to himself that it was no good killing a man for nothing. In recalling the crime and the efforts he had made to be the sole possessor of this woman who was now troubling him, he felt that the murder would become useless and atrocious should he not marry her. Besides, was he not bound to Therese by a bound of blood and horror? Moreover, he feared his accomplice. Perhaps, if he failed to marry her, she would go and relate everything to the judicial authorities out of vengeance and jealousy. With her in his head, the fever settled on him again. Now, one Sunday, the model did not return. No doubt she had found a warmer and more comfortable placed lodge.  In a week, his passions rebelled and he began spending entire evenings at the shop again. He watched Therese, who was still palpitating from the novels which he read. After a year of indifferent waiting, they both were again tormented by desire. One evening, while shutting up the shop, Laurent spoke to Therese in the passage. Do you want me to come to your room tonight? He asked, passionate. She started with fear. No, let's wait. Let's be prudent. It seems to me that I've already waited a long time.   Looked at him while. She seemed to hesitate, and then said quickly, let's get married. End of Chapter 16 Chapter 17 of Therese Racken. 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 Racken by Émile Zola Translated by Ernest Alfred Wistely Chapter 17 Laurent left the arcade with a strained mind. Therese had filled him with the old longing lusts again. He walked along with his heart in his hand so as to get the fresh air full in his face. On reaching the door of his hotel in the Rue Saint-Victor he was afraid to go upstairs and remain alone. A childish, inexplicable foreseen terror made him fear he would find a man hidden in his garret. Never had he experienced such paltrunary. He did not even seek to account for the strange shudder that ran through him. He entered a wine-shop and remained an hour there until midnight, motionless and silent at a table, mechanically absorbing great glasses of wine. Thinking of Therese, his anger raged at her refusal to have him in the room that very night. He felt that with her he would not have been afraid. When the time came for closing the shop he was obliged to leave but he went back again to ask for matches. The office of the hotel was on the first floor. Laurent had a long alley to follow and a few steps to ascend before he could take his candle. This alley, this bit of staircase which was frightfully dark, terrified him. Habitually he passed boldly through the darkness but on this particular night he had not even the courage to ring. He said to himself that in a certain recess formed by the entrance to the cellar assassins were perhaps concealed who would suddenly spring at his throat as he passed along. At last he pulled the bell and lighting a match made up his mind to enter the alley. The match went out. He stood motionless, breathless without the courage to run away rubbing lucifers against the damp wall in such anxiety that his hand trembled. He fancied he heard voices and the sound of footsteps before him. The matches broke between his fingers but he succeeded in striking one. The sulfur began to boil to set fire to the wood with a tardiness that increased his distress. In the pale blueish light of the sulfur and the vacillating glimmer he fancied he could distinguish monstrous forms. Then the match crackled and the light became white and clear. Laurent relieved advanced with caution careful not to be without a match. When he had passed the entrance to the cellar he clung to the opposite wall where a mass of darkness terrified him. He next briskly scaled a few steps separating him from the office of the hotel and thought himself safe when he held his candlestick. He ascended to the other floors more gently holding aloft his candle lighting all the corners before which he had to pass. The great fantastic shadows that come and go in ascending his staircase with the light caused him vague discomfort as they suddenly rose and disappeared before him. As soon as he was upstairs and had rapidly opened his door and shut himself in and make a minute inspection of the room to see that nobody was concealed there. He closed the window in the roof thinking someone might perhaps get in that way and feeling more calm after taking these measures he undressed astonished at his cowardice. He ended by laughing and calling himself a child. Never had he been afraid and he could not understand this sudden fit of terror. He went to bed in the warmth beneath the bed clothes. He again thought of Tourez whom fright had driven from his mind. Do what he would obstinately close his eyes and endeavour to sleep. Do what he would obstinately close his eyes and endeavour to sleep. He felt his thoughts at work commanding his attention connecting one with the other to ever point out to him the advantage he would reap by marrying as soon as possible. Then he would turn round saying to himself I must not think any more I shall have to get up at eight o'clock tomorrow morning to go to my office. And he made an effort to slip off to sleep. But the ideas returned one by one. The dull labour of his reasoning began again and he soon found himself in a sort of acute reverie that displayed to him in the depths of his brain along with the arguments his desire and prudence advanced in turn for and against the position of Tourez. Then seeing he was unable to sleep that insomnia kept his body in a state of irritation he turned on his back and whose eyes wide open gave up his mind to the young woman. His equilibrium was upset he again trembled with violent fever as formally. He had an idea of getting up to the arcade of the Ponneuf. He would have the iron gate opened and Tourez would receive him. The thought sent his blood racing. The lucidity of his reverie was astonishing. He saw himself in the streets walking rapidly beside the houses and he said to himself I will take this boulevard I will cross this square so as to arrive there quicker. Then the iron gate of the arcade grated. He followed the narrow dark deserted corridor congratulating himself at being able to go up to Tourez without being seen by the dealer in imitation jewellery. Next he imagined he was in the alley in the little staircase he had so frequently ascended. He inhaled the sickly odour of the passage. He touched the sticky walls. He saw the dirty shadow that hung about there and he ascended each step breathless and with his ear on the alert. At last he scratched against the door the door opened and Tourez stood there awaiting him. His thoughts unfolded before him like real seams with his eyes fixed on darkness he saw. When at the end of his journey through the streets after entering the arcade he thought he perceived Tourez ardent and pale he briskly sprang from his bed murmuring I must go there she's waiting for me. After the abrupt movement drove away the hallucination he felt the chill of the tile flooring and was afraid. For a moment he stood motionless on his bare feet listening. He fancied he heard a sound on the landing and he reflected that if he went to Tourez he would again have to pass before the door of the cellar below. This thought sent a cold shiver down his back. Again he was seized with fright with terror. He looked distrustfully round the room where he distinguished shreds of whitish light then gently with anxious hasty precautions he went to bed again and there huddling himself together hid himself as if to escape a weapon a knife that threatened him. The blood had flown violently to his neck which was burning him he put his hand there and beneath his fingers felt the scar of the bite he had received from Camille he almost forgotten this wound and was terrified when he found it on his skin where it seemed to be gnawing into his flesh he rapidly withdrew his hand so as not to feel the scar but he was still conscious of its being there boring into and devouring his neck. Then when he delicately scratched it with his nail that terrible burning sensation increased twofold so as not to tear the skin he pressed his two hands between his doubled up knees and he remained thus rigid and irritated with a gnawing pain in his neck and his teeth chuttering with fright. His mind now settled on Camille with frightful tenacity here the two, the drowned man had not troubled him at night and behold the thought of Therese brought up the spectre of her husband the murderer dared not open his eyes afraid of perceiving his victim in a corner of the room at one moment he fancied his bed said was being shaken in a peculiar manner he imagined Camille was beneath it and that it was he who was tossing him about in this waste was to make him fall and bite him with haggard look and hair on end he clung to his mattress imagining the jerks were becoming more and more violent then he perceived the bed was not moving and he felt a reaction he sat up, lit his candle and taxed himself with being an idiot he next swallowed a large glass full of water to appease his fever I was wrong to drink at that wine shop thought he I don't know what is the matter with me tonight it's silly I shall be worn out tomorrow at my office I ought to have gone to sleep at once when I got into bed instead of thinking of a lot of things this is what gave me a something I must get to sleep at once again he blew out the light made his head in the pillow feeling slightly refreshed and thoroughly determined not to think any more and to be no more afraid for tea began to relax his nerves he did not fall into his usual heavy crushing sleep but glided lightly into unsettled slumber he simply felt as if benumbed as if plunged into gentle and delightful stupor as he dozed he could feel his limbs his intelligence remained awake in his deadened frame he had driven away his thoughts he had resisted the vigil then when he became appeased when his strength failed and his will escaped him his thoughts returned quietly one by one regaining possession of his faltering being his reverie began once more again he went over the distance separating him from Taiz he went downstairs he passed before the seller at a run and found himself outside the house he took all the streets he had followed before dreaming with his eyes open he entered the arcade of the Pont Neuf ascended the little staircase and scratched at the door but instead of Taiz it was Camille who opened the door Camille just as he had seen him at the morgue looking greenish and atrociously disfigured the corpse extended his arms to him with a vile laugh displaying the tip of a blackish tongue between its white teeth Laurent shrieked and awoke with a start he was bathed in perspiration he pulled the bedclothes over his eyes swearing and getting into a rage with himself he wanted to go to sleep again and he did so as before slowly the same feeling of heaviness overcame him and as soon as his will had again escaped in the languidness of semi slumber he set out again he returned where his fixed idea conducted him he ran to see Taiz and once more it was the drowned man who opened the door the wretch sat up terrified he would have given anything in the world to be able to drive away this implacable dream he longed for heavy sleep to crush his thoughts so long as he remained awake he had sufficient energy to expel the phantom of his victim but as soon as he lost command of his mind it led him to the acme of terror he again attempted to sleep then came a succession of delicious spells of drowsiness and abrupt harrowing awakenings in his furious obstinacy he still went to Taiz but only to always run against the body of Camille he performed the same journey more than ten times over he started all a fire followed the same itinerary experienced the same sensations accomplished the same acts with my newt exactitude more than ten times over he saw the drowned man present himself to be embraced when he extended his arms to seize and clasp his love this same sinister catastrophe which awoke him on each occasion gasping and distracted did not discourage him after an interval of a few minutes as soon as he had fallen asleep again forgetful of the hideous corpse awaiting him he once more hurried away to seek the young woman a prayer to these successive nightmares to these bad dreams that followed one another ceaselessly without any warning and he was struck with more acute terror at each start they gave him the last of these shocks proved so violent so painful that he determined to get up and struggle no longer day he was breaking a gleam of dull grey light was entering at the window in the roof which cut out a pale grey square in the sky Laurent slowly dressed himself with a feeling of sullen irritation exasperated at having been unable to sleep exasperated at allowing himself to be caught by a fright which he now regarded as childish as he drew on his trousers he stretched himself he rubbed his limbs he passed his hands over his face harassed and clouded by a feverish night and he repeated I ought not to have thought of all that I should have gone to sleep if I done so I should be fresh and well disposed now then it occurred to him that if he had been with Therese she would have prevented him being afraid and this idea brought him a little calm at the bottom of his heart he dreaded passing other nights similar to the one he had just gone through after splashing some water in his face he ran the comb through his hair and this bit of toilet while refreshing his head drove away the final vestiges of terror he now reasoned freely and experienced no other inconvenience from his restless nights and great fatigue in all his limbs I am not to pull Trun though he said to himself as he finished dressing I don't care a thing about Camille it's absurd to think that this poor devil is under my bed I shall perhaps have the same idea now every night I must certainly marry as soon as possible when Therese has me in her arms I shall not think much about Camille she will kiss me on the neck and I shall cease to feel the atrocious burn that troubles me at present let me examine this bite he approached his glass extended his neck and looked the scar presented a rosy appearance then lo-ho perceiving the marks of the teeth of his victim experienced a certain emotion the blood flew to his head and he now observed a strange phenomenon the ruby blood rushing to the scar had turned it purple it became raw and sanguineous standing out quite red against the fat white neck lo-ho at the same time felt a sharp pricking sensation as if needles were being thrust into the wound and he hurriedly raised the collar of his shirt again but he exclaimed Therese will cure that, a few kisses will suffice what a fool I am to think of these matters he put on his hat and went downstairs he wanted to be in the open air and walk passing before the door of the cellar he smiled nevertheless he made sure of the strength of the hook fastening the door outside on the deserted pavement he moved along with short steps in the fresh metutinal air it was then about five o'clock lo-ho passed an atrocious day he had to struggle against the overpowering drowsiness that settled on him in the afternoon at his office his heavy, aching head nodded in spite of himself and he abruptly brought it up as soon as he had the step of one of his chiefs this struggle, these shocks completed wearing out his limbs while causing him intolerable anxiety in the evening notwithstanding his lassitude he went to see Therese only to find her feverish extremely low-spirited and as weary as himself our poor Therese has had a bad night and her dame haka said to him as soon as he had seated himself it seemed she was suffering from nightmare and terrible insomnia I heard her crying out on several occasions this morning she was quite ill Therese while her aunt was speaking looked fixedly at lo-ho no doubt they guessed their common terror for a nervous shudder ran over their countenances until ten o'clock they remained face to face with one another but still understanding each other and mutually imploring themselves with their eyes to hasten the moment when they could unite against the drowned man End of Chapter 17 Chapter 18 of Therese Raka 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 Mackenzie Therese Raka Translated by Emile Zola Translated by Ernest Alfred Visitelli Chapter 18 Therese also had been visited by the spectre of Camille during this feverish night After over a year of indifference Laurent's sudden attentions had aroused her senses As she tossed herself about in insomnia she had seen the drowned man rise up before her Like Laurent she had writhed in terror and she had said as he had done no longer be afraid that she would no more experience such sufferings when she had her sweetheart in her arms This man and woman had experienced at the same hour a sort of nervous disorder which set them panting with terror A consanguinuity had become established between them They shuddered with the same shudder Their hearts and the kind of poignant friendship were rung with the same anguish From that moment they had one body and one soul offering This communion, this mutual penetration is a psychological and physiological phenomenon which is often found to exist in beings who have been brought into violent contact by great nervous shocks For over a year Therese and Laurent lightly bore the chain riveted to their limbs that united them In the depression succeeding the acute crisis of the murder amidst the feelings of disgust and the need for calm and oblivion that had followed that they were no longer shackled together by iron fetters The slackened chain dragged down the ground They reposed They found themselves struck with a sort of delightful insensibility They sought to love elsewhere to live in a state of wise equilibrium But from the day when urged forward by events they came to the point of again exchanging burning sentences The chain became violently strained and they received such a shock that they felt themselves forever linked to one another By following this first attack of nightmare Therese secretly set to work to bring about her marriage with Laurent It was a difficult task full of peril The sweethearts trembled lest they should commit an imprudence arouse suspicions and too abruptly reveal the interest they had in the death of Camille Convinced that they could not mention marriage themselves they arranged a very clever plan which consisted in getting Madame Maracan herself and the Thursday evening guests to offer them what they dared not asked for It then only became necessary to convey to these worthy people the idea of remarrying Therese and particularly to make them believe that this idea originated with themselves and was their own The comedy was long and delicate to perform Therese and Laurent took the parts adapted to them and proceeded with extreme prudence calculating the slightest gesture and the least word At the bottom of their hearts they were devoured by a feeling of impatience stiffened and strained their nerves They lived in a state of constant irritation and it required all their natural cowardice to compel them to show a smiling and peaceful exterior If they yearned to bring the business to an end it was because they could no longer remain separate and solitary Each night, the drowned man visited them Insomnias stretched them on beds of live coal and turned them over with fiery tongs The state of innovation in which they lived greatly increased the fever of their blood which resulted in atrocious hallucinations rising up before them Therese no longer dared enter her room after dusk She experienced the keenest anguish when she had to shut herself until morning in this large apartment which became lit up with strange glimmers and people with phantoms as soon as the light was out She ended by leaving her candle burning and by preventing herself falling asleep so as to always have her eyes wide open But when fatigue lowered her lids she saw Camille in the dark and reopened her eyes with a start In the morning she dragged herself about broken down having only slumbered for a few hours at dawn As to Laurent he had decidedly become a paltrune since the night he had taken fright when passing before the cellar door Previous to that incident he had lived with the confidence of a brute Now, at the least sound he trembled and turned pale like a little boy A shadow of terror had suddenly shaken his limbs and had clung to him At night he suffered even more than Therese and fright in this great soft cowardly frame produced profound laceration to the feelings He watched the fall of day with cruel apprehension On several occasions he failed to return home and passed whole nights walking in the middle of the deserted streets Once he remained beneath the bridge until morning while the rain poured down in torrents and there huddled up half-frozen not daring to rise and ascend to the quay He for nearly six hours watched the dirty water running in the whitest shadow At times a fit of terror brought him flat down on the damp ground Under one of the arches of the bridge he seemed to see long lines of drowned bodies drifting along in the current When we're in a strove him home he shut himself in and double-locked the door There he struggled until daybreak amidst frightful attacks of fever The same nightmare returned persistently He fancied he fell from the ardent clasp of Therese into the cold, sticky arms of Camille He dreamt first of all that his sweetheart was stifling him in a warm embrace and then that the corpse of the drummed man pressed him to his chest in an ice-like strain These abrupt and alternate sensations of voluptuousness and disgust the successive contacts of burning love and frigid death set him panting for breath and caused him to shudder and gasp in anguish Each day the terror of the lovers increased Each day their attacks of nightmare crushed and maddened them the more They no longer relied on their kisses to drive away insomnia By prudence they did not dare make appointments but looked forward to their wedding day as a day of salvation to be followed by an untroubled night It was the desire for calm slumber that made them wish for their union They had hesitated during the hours of indifference, both being oblivious of the egotistic and impassioned reasons that had urged them to the crime and which were now dispelled It was in vague despair that they took the supreme resolution to unite openly At the bottom of their hearts they were afraid They had lent, so to say, one on the other above an unfathomable depth attracted to it by its horror They bent over the abyss together clinging silently to one another in feeble delims and gave them falling madness But at the present moment face to face with their anxious expectation and timorous desires they felt the imperative necessity of closing their eyes and of dreaming of a future full of amorous felicity and peaceful enjoyment The more they trembled one before the other the better they foresaw the horror of the abyss to the bottom of which they were about to plunge and the more they sought to make promises of happiness to themselves and to spread out before their eyes and finally led them to marriage Thérèse desired her union with Laurent solely because she was afraid and wanted a companion She was a prey to nervous attacks that drove her half crazy In reality she reasoned but little She flung herself into love with a mind upset by the novels she had recently been reading and a frame irritated by the cruel insomnia that had kept her awake for several weeks Laurent, who was of a stouter constitution while giving way to his terror and his desire had made up his mind to reason out his decision to thoroughly prove to himself that his marriage was necessary that he was at last going to be perfectly happy and to drive away the vague fears that beset him he resumed all his former calculations His father, the peasant of Jeuvephos seemed determined not to die and Laurent said to himself that he might have to wait a long time for the inheritance He even feared that this inheritance might escape him and go into the pockets of one of his cousins a great big fellow who turned the soil over to the keen satisfaction of the old boy and he would remain poor He would live the life of a bachelor in a garret with a bad bed and a worse table Besides, he did not contemplate working all his life already he began to find his office singularly tedious The light labour entrusted to him became irksome, owing to his laziness The invariable result of these reflections was that supreme happiness consisted in doing nothing Then he remembered that if he had drowned Camille it was to marry Thérèse and work no more Certainly, the thought of having his sweet heart all to himself had greatly influenced him in committing the crime but he had perhaps been led to it still more by the hope of taking the place of Camille of being looked after in the same way and of drawing constant beatitude Had passion alone urged him to the deed of cowardice and prudence The truth was that he had sought by murder to assure himself a calm, indolent life and the satisfaction of his cravings All these thoughts, avowedly or unconsciously returned to him To find encouragement, he repeated that it was time to gather in the harvest anticipated by the death of Camille and he spread out before him the advantages and blessings of his future existence He would leave his office and live in delicious idleness He would eat, drink and sleep To his heart's content he would have an affectionate wife beside him and he would shortly inherit the 40,000 francs and more of Mme Rackin for the poor old woman was dying little by little every day In a word, he would carve out for himself the existence of a happy brute and would forget everything Laurent mentally repeated these ideas at every moment since his marriage with Thérèse had been decided on He also sought other advantages from them and felt delighted when he found a new argument drawn from his egotism in favour of his union with the widow of the drowned man But, however much he forced himself to hope, however much he dreamed of a future full of idleness and pleasure he never ceased to feel abrupt shudders that gave his skin an icy chill while at moments he continued to experience an anxiety that stifled his joy and his throat End of Chapter 18