Discuss the import of money and economic concerns to the characters in Voltaire’s Candide and Zola’s Therese Raquin. Further, discuss the different ways in which these novels critique their societies.

Discuss the import of money and economic concerns to the characters in Voltaire’s Candide and Zola’s Therese Raquin. Further, discuss the different ways in which these novels critique their societies.

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CANDIDE

Voltaire

1759

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iii

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHAPTER 1 ………………………………………………………………………….

How Candide Was Brought Up in a Magnificent Castle and How He
Was Driven Thence

CHAPTER 2 ………………………………………………………………………….

What Befell Candide among the Bulgarians

CHAPTER 3 ………………………………………………………………………….

How Candide Escaped from the Bulgarians and What Befell Him
Afterward

CHAPTER 4 ………………………………………………………………………….

How Candide Found His Old Master Pangloss Again and What

CHAPTER 5 ………………………………………………………………………..

A Tempest, a Shipwreck, an Earthquake, and What Else Befell Dr.
Pangloss, Candide, and James, the Anabaptist

CHAPTER 6 ………………………………………………………………………..

How the Portuguese Made a Superb Auto-De-Fe to Prevent Any
Future Earthquakes, and How Candide Underwent Public
Flagellation

CHAPTER 7 ………………………………………………………………………..

How the Old Woman Took Care Of Candide, and How He Found the
Object of His Love

CHAPTER 8 ………………………………………………………………………..

Cunegund’s Story

CHAPTER 9 ………………………………………………………………………..

What Happened to Cunegund, Candide, the Grand Inquisitor, and the
Jew

CHAPTER 10 ………………………………………………………………………

In What Distress Candide, Cunegund, and the Old Woman Arrive at
Cadiz, and Of Their Embarkation

CHAPTER 11 ………………………………………………………………………

The History of the Old Woman

CHAPTER 12 ………………………………………………………………………

The Adventures of the Old Woman Continued

CHAPTER 13 ………………………………………………………………………

How Candide Was Obliged to Leave the Fair Cunegund and the Old
Woman

CHAPTER 14 ………………………………………………………………………

The Reception Candide and Cacambo Met with among the Jesuits in
Paraguay

CHAPTER 15 ………………………………………………………………………

How Candide Killed the Brother of His Dear Cunegund

CHAPTER 16 ………………………………………………………………………

What Happened to Our Two Travelers with Two Girls, Two Monkeys,
and the Savages, Called Oreillons

CHAPTER 17 ………………………………………………………………………

Candide and His Valet Arrive in the Country of El Dorado-What
They Saw There

CHAPTER 18 ………………………………………………………………………

What They Saw in the Country of El Dorado

CHAPTER 19 ………………………………………………………………………

What Happened to Them at Surinam, and How Candide Became
Acquainted with Martin

CHAPTER 20 ………………………………………………………………………

What Befell Candide and Martin on Their Passage

CHAPTER 21 ………………………………………………………………………

Candide and Martin, While Thus Reasoning with Each Other, Draw
Near to the Coast of France

CHAPTER 22 ………………………………………………………………………

What Happened to Candide and Martin in France

CHAPTER 23 ………………………………………………………………………

Candide and Martin Touch upon the English Coast-What They See
There

CHAPTER 24 ………………………………………………………………………

Of Pacquette and Friar Giroflee

CHAPTER 25 ………………………………………………………………………

Candide and Martin Pay a Visit to Seignor Pococurante, a Noble
Venetian

CHAPTER 26 ………………………………………………………………………

Candide and Martin Sup with Six Sharpers-Who They Were

CHAPTER 27 ………………………………………………………………………

Candide’s Voyage to Constantinople

CHAPTER 28 ………………………………………………………………………

What Befell Candide, Cunegund, Pangloss, Martin, etc.

CHAPTER 29 IN ………………………………………………………………….

What Manner Candide Found Miss Cunegund and the Old Woman
Again

CHAPTER 30 ………………………………………………………………………

Conclusion

C H A P T E R 1

How Candide Was Brought Up in a Magnificent Castle
and How He Was Driven Thence

In the country of Westphalia, in the castle of the most noble Baron
of Thunder–ten–tronckh, lived a youth whom Nature had endowed with
a most sweet disposition. His face was the true index of his mind. He
had a solid judgment joined to the most unaffected simplicity; and
hence, I presume, he had his name of Candide. The old servants of the
house suspected him to have been the son of the Baron’s sister, by a
very good sort of a gentleman of the neighborhood, whom that young
lady refused to marry, because he could produce no more than
threescore and eleven quarterings in his arms; the rest of the
genealogical tree belonging to the family having been lost through the
injuries of time.

The Baron was one of the most powerful lords in Westphalia, for
his castle had not only a gate, but even windows, and his great hall was
hung with tapestry. He used to hunt with his mastiffs and spaniels
instead of greyhounds; his groom served him for huntsman; and the
parson of the parish officiated as his grand almoner. He was called “My
Lord” by all his people, and he never told a story but everyone laughed
at it.

My Lady Baroness, who weighed three hundred and fifty pounds,
consequently was a person of no small consideration; and then she did
the honors of the house with a dignity that commanded universal
respect. Her daughter was about seventeen years of age, fresh–colored,
comely, plump, and desirable. The Baron’s son seemed to be a youth in
every respect worthy of the father he sprung from. Pangloss, the
preceptor, was the oracle of the family, and little Candide listened to
his instructions with all the simplicity natural to his age and disposition.

Master Pangloss taught the metaphysico–theologo–cosmolonig-
ology.He could prove to admiration that there is no effect without a
cause; and, that in this best of all possible worlds, the Baron’s castle
was the most magnificent of all castles, and My Lady the best of all
possible baronesses.

“It is demonstrable,” said he, “that things cannot be otherwise than
as they are; for as all things have been created for some end, they must

2 VOLTAIRE

necessarily be created for the best end. Observe, for instance, the nose
is formed for spectacles, therefore we wear spectacles. The legs are
visibly designed for stockings, accordingly we wear stockings. Stones
were made to be hewn and to construct castles, therefore My Lord has a
magnificent castle; for the greatest baron in the province ought to be
the best lodged. Swine were intended to be eaten, therefore we eat pork
all the year round: and they, who assert that everything is right, do not
express themselves correctly; they should say that everything is best.”

Candide listened attentively and believed implicitly, for he thought
Miss Cunegund excessively handsome, though he never had the
courage to tell her so. He concluded that next to the happiness of being
Baron of Thunder–ten–tronckh, the next was that of being Miss
Cunegund, the next that of seeing her every day, and the last that of
hearing the doctrine of Master Pangloss, the greatest philosopher of the
whole province, and consequently of the whole world.

One day when Miss Cunegund went to take a walk in a little
neighboring wood which was called a park, she saw, through the
bushes, the sage Doctor Pangloss giving a lecture in experimental
philosophy to her mother’s chambermaid, a little brown wench, very
pretty, and very tractable. As Miss Cunegund had a great disposition
for the sciences, she observed with the utmost attention the experiments
which were repeated before her eyes; she perfectly well understood the
force of the doctor’s reasoning upon causes and effects. She retired
greatly flurried, quite pensive and filled with the desire of knowledge,
imagining that she might be a sufficing reason for young Candide, and
he for her.

On her way back she happened to meet the young man; she
blushed, he blushed also; she wished him a good morning in a flattering
tone, he returned the salute, without knowing what he said. The next
day, as they were rising from dinner, Cunegund and Candide slipped
behind the screen. The miss dropped her handkerchief, the young man
picked it up. She innocently took hold of his hand, and he as innocently
kissed hers with a warmth, a sensibility, a grace–all very particular;
their lips met; their eyes sparkled; their knees trembled; their hands
strayed. The Baron chanced to come by; he beheld the cause and effect,
and, without hesitation, saluted Candide with some notable kicks on the
breech and drove him out of doors. The lovely Miss Cunegund fainted
away, and, as soon as she came to herself, the Baroness boxed her ears.
Thus a general consternation was spread over this most magnificent
and most agreeable of all possible castles.

C H A P T E R 2

What Befell Candide among the Bulgarians

Candide, thus driven out of this terrestrial paradise, rambled a long
time without knowing where he went; sometimes he raised his eyes, all
bedewed with tears, towards heaven, and sometimes he cast a
melancholy look towards the magnificent castle, where dwelt the fairest
of young baronesses. He laid himself down to sleep in a furrow,
heartbroken, and supperless. The snow fell in great flakes, and, in the
morning when he awoke, he was almost frozen to death; however, he
made shift to crawl to the next town, which was called Wald–berghoff-
trarbkdikdorff, without a penny in his pocket, and half dead with
hunger and fatigue. He took up his stand at the door of an inn. He had
not been long there before two men dressed in blue fixed their eyes
steadfastly upon him.

“Faith, comrade,” said one of them to the other, “yonder is a well
made young fellow and of the right size.” Upon which they made up to
Candide and with the greatest civility and politeness invited him to dine
with them.

“Gentlemen,” replied Candide, with a most engaging modesty, you
do me much honor, but upon my word I have no money.”

“Money, sir!” said one of the blues to him, “young persons of your
appearance and merit never pay anything; why, are not you five feet
five inches high?”

“Yes, gentlemen, that is really my size,” replied he, with a low
bow.

“Come then, sir, sit down along with us; we will not only pay your
reckoning, but will never suffer such a clever young fellow as you to
want money. Men were born to assist one another.”

“You are perfectly right, gentlemen,” said Candide, “this is
precisely the doctrine of Master Pangloss; and I am convinced that
everything is for the best.”

His generous companions next entreated him to accept of a few
crowns, which he readily complied with, at the same time offering them
his note for the payment, which they refused, and sat down to table.

“Have you not a great affection for –”
“O yes! I have a great affection for the lovely Miss Cunegund.”

4 VOLTAIRE

“Maybe so,” replied one of the blues, “but that is not the
question!We ask you whether you have not a great affection for the
King of the Bulgarians?”

“For the King of the Bulgarians?” said Candide. “Oh, Lord! not at
all, why I never saw him in my life.”

“Is it possible? Oh, he is a most charming king! Come, we must
drink his health.”

“With all my heart, gentlemen,” said Candide, and off he tossed his
glass.

“Bravo!” cried the blues; “you are now the support, the defender,
the hero of the Bulgarians; your fortune is made; you are in the high
road to glory.”

So saying, they handcuffed him, and carried him away to the
regiment. There he was made to wheel about to the right, to the left, to
draw his rammer, to return his rammer, to present, to fire, to march, and
they gave him thirty blows with a cane; the next day he performed his
exercise a little better, and they gave him but twenty; the day following
he came off with ten, and was looked upon as a young fellow of
surprising genius by all his comrades.

Candide was struck with amazement, and could not for the soul of
him conceive how he came to be a hero. One fine spring morning, he
took it into his head to take a walk, and he marched straight forward,
conceiving it to be a privilege of the human species, as well as of the
brute creation, to make use of their legs how and when they pleased. He
had not gone above two leagues when he was overtaken by four other
heroes, six feet high, who bound him neck and heels, and carried him to
a dungeon. A courtmartial sat upon him, and he was asked which he
liked better, to run the gauntlet six and thirty times through the whole
regiment, or to have his brains blown out with a dozen musket–balls?

In vain did he remonstrate to them that the human will is free, and
that he chose neither; they obliged him to make a choice, and he
determined, in virtue of that divine gift called free will, to run the
gauntlet six and thirty times.

He had gone through his discipline twice, and the regiment being
composed of 2,000 men, they composed for him exactly 4,000 strokes,
which laid bare all his muscles and nerves from the nape of his neck to
his stern. As they were preparing to make him set out the third time our
young hero, unable to support it any longer, begged as a favor that they
would be so obliging as to shoot him through the head; the favor being
granted, a bandage was tied over his eyes, and he was made to kneel
down.

At that very instant, His Bulgarian Majesty happening to pass by
made a stop, and inquired into the delinquent’s crime, and being a

Candide 5

prince of great penetration, he found, from what he heard of Candide,
that he was a young metaphysician, entirely ignorant of the world; and
therefore, out of his great clemency, he condescended to pardon him,
for which his name will be celebrated in every journal, and in every
age. A skillful surgeon made a cure of the flagellated Candide in three
weeks by means of emollient unguents prescribed by Dioscorides. His
sores were now skimmed over and he was able to march, when the
King of the Bulgarians gave battle to the King of the Abares.

C H A P T E R 3

How Candide Escaped from the Bulgarians and What
Befell Him Afterward

Never was anything so gallant, so well accoutred, so brilliant, and
so finely disposed as the two armies. The trumpets, fifes, hautboys,
drums, and cannon made such harmony as never was heard in Hell
itself. The entertainment began by a discharge of cannon, which, in the
twinkling of an eye, laid flat about 6,000 men on each side. The musket
bullets swept away, out of the best of all possible worlds, nine or ten
thousand scoundrels that infested its surface. The bayonet was next the
sufficient reason of the deaths of several thousands. The whole might
amount to thirty thousand souls. Candide trembled like a philosopher,
and concealed himself as well as he could during this heroic butchery.

At length, while the two kings were causing Te Deums to be sung
in their camps, Candide took a resolution to go and reason somewhere
else upon causes and effects. After passing over heaps of dead or dying
men, the first place he came to was a neighboring village, in the
Abarian territories, which had been burned to the ground by the
Bulgarians, agreeably to the laws of war. Here lay a number of old men
covered with wounds, who beheld their wives dying with their throats
cut, and hugging their children to their breasts, all stained with blood.
There several young virgins, whose bodies had been ripped open, after
they had satisfied the natural necessities of the Bulgarian heroes,
breathed their last; while others, half–burned in the flames, begged to
be dispatched out of the world. The ground about them was covered
with the brains, arms, and legs of dead men.

Candide made all the haste he could to another village, which
belonged to the Bulgarians, and there he found the heroic Abares had
enacted the same tragedy. Thence continuing to walk over palpitating
limbs, or through ruined buildings, at length he arrived beyond the
theater of war, with a little provision in his budget, and Miss
Cunegund’s image in his heart. When he arrived in Holland his
provision failed him; but having heard that the inhabitants of that
country were all rich and Christians, he made himself sure of being
treated by them in the same manner as the Baron’s castle, before he had
been driven thence through the power of Miss Cunegund’s bright eyes.

Candide 7

He asked charity of several grave–looking people, who one and all
answered him, that if he continued to follow this trade they would have
him sent to the house of correction, where he should be taught to get his
bread.

He next addressed himself to a person who had just come from
haranguing a numerous assembly for a whole hour on the subject of
charity. The orator, squinting at him under his broadbrimmed hat, asked
him sternly, what brought him thither and whether he was for the good
old cause?

“Sir,” said Candide, in a submissive manner, “I conceive there can
be no effect without a cause; everything is necessarily concatenated and
arranged for the best. It was necessary that I should be banished from
the presence of Miss Cunegund; that I should afterwards run the
gauntlet; and it is necessary I should beg my bread, till I am able to get
it. All this could not have been otherwise.”

“Hark ye, friend,” said the orator, “do you hold the Pope to be
Antichrist?”

“Truly, I never heard anything about it,” said Candide, “but
whether he is or not, I am in want of something to eat.”

“Thou deservest not to eat or to drink,” replied the orator, “wretch,
monster, that thou art! hence! avoid my sight, nor ever come near me
again while thou livest.”

The orator’s wife happened to put her head out of the window at
that instant, when, seeing a man who doubted whether the Pope was
Antichrist, she discharged upon his head a utensil full of water. Good
heavens, to what excess does religious zeal transport womankind!

A man who had never been christened, an honest Anabaptist
named James, was witness to the cruel and ignominious treatment
showed to one of his brethren, to a rational, two–footed, unfledged
being. Moved with pity he carried him to his own house, caused him to
be cleaned, gave him meat and drink, and made him a present of two
florins, at the same time proposing to instruct him in his own trade of
weaving Persian silks, which are fabricated in Holland.

Candide, penetrated with so much goodness, threw himself at his
feet, crying, “Now I am convinced that my Master Pangloss told me
truth when he said that everything was for the best in this world; for I
am infinitely more affected with your extraordinary generosity than
with the inhumanity of that gentleman in the black cloak and his wife.”

C H A P T E R 4

How Candide Found His Old Master Pangloss Again and
What Happened to Him

The next day, as Candide was walking out, he met a beggar all
covered with scabs, his eyes sunk in his head, the end of his nose eaten
off, his mouth drawn on one side, his teeth as black as a cloak,
snuffling and coughing most violently, and every time he attempted to
spit out dropped a tooth.

Candide, divided between compassion and horror, but giving way
to the former, bestowed on this shocking figure the two florins which
the honest Anabaptist, James, had just before given to him. The specter
looked at him very earnestly, shed tears and threw his arms about his
neck. Candide started back aghast.

“Alas!” said the one wretch to the other, “don’t you know dear
Pangloss?”

“What do I hear? Is it you, my dear master! you I behold in this
piteous plight? What dreadful misfortune has befallen you? What has
made you leave the most magnificent and delightful of all castles?What
has become of Miss Cunegund, the mirror of young ladies, and
Nature’s masterpiece?”

“Oh, Lord!” cried Pangloss, “I am so weak I cannot stand,” upon
which Candide instantly led him to the Anabaptist’s stable, and
procured him something to eat.

As soon as Pangloss had a little refreshed himself, Candide began
to repeat his inquiries concerning Miss Cunegund.

“She is dead,” replied the other.
“Dead!” cried Candide, and immediately fainted away; his friend

restored him by the help of a little bad vinegar, which he found by
chance in the stable.

Candide opened his eyes, and again repeated: “Dead! is Miss
Cunegund dead? Ah, where is the best of worlds now? But of what
illness did she die? Was it of grief on seeing her father kick me out of
his magnificent castle?”

“No,” replied Pangloss, “her body was ripped open by the
Bulgarian soldiers, after they had subjected her to as much cruelty as a
damsel could survive; they knocked the Baron, her father, on the head

Candide 9

for attempting to defend her; My Lady, her mother, was cut in pieces;
my poor pupil was served just in the same manner as his sister; and as
for the castle, they have not left one stone upon another; they have
destroyed all the ducks, and sheep, the barns, and the trees; but we have
had our revenge, for the Abares have done the very same thing in a
neighboring barony, which belonged to a Bulgarian lord.”

At hearing this, Candide fainted away a second time, but, not
withstanding, having come to himself again, he said all that it became
him to say; he inquired into the cause and effect, as well as into the
sufficing reason that had reduced Pangloss to so miserable a condition.

“Alas,” replied the preceptor, “it was love; love, the comfort of the
human species; love, the preserver of the universe; the soul of all
sensible beings; love! tender love!”

“Alas,” cried Candide, “I have had some knowledge of love
myself, this sovereign of hearts, this soul of souls; yet it never cost me
more than a kiss and twenty kicks on the backside. But how could this
beautiful cause produce in you so hideous an effect?”

Pangloss made answer in these terms:
“O my dear Candide, you must remember Pacquette, that pretty

wench, who waited on our noble Baroness; in her arms I tasted the
pleasures of Paradise, which produced these Hell torments with which
you see me devoured. She was infected with an ailment, and perhaps
has since died of it; she received this present of a learned Franciscan,
who derived it from the fountainhead; he was indebted for it to an old
countess, who had it of a captain of horse, who had it of a marchioness,
who had it of a page, the page had it of a Jesuit, who, during his
novitiate, had it in a direct line from one of the fellow adventurers of
Christopher Columbus; for my part I shall give it to nobody, I am a
dying man.”

“O sage Pangloss,” cried Candide, “what a strange genealogy is
this!Is not the devil the root of it?”

“Not at all,” replied the great man, “it was a thing unavoidable, a
necessary ingredient in the best of worlds; for if Columbus had not
caught in an island in America this disease, which contaminates the
source of generation, and frequently impedes propagation itself, and is
evidently opposed to the great end of nature, we should have had
neither chocolate nor cochineal. It is also to be observed, that, even to
the present time, in this continent of ours, this malady, like our
religious controversies, is peculiar to ourselves.The Turks, the Indians,
the Persians, the Chinese, the Siamese, and the Japanese are entirely
unacquainted with it; but there is a sufficing reason for them to know it
in a few centuries. In the meantime, it is making prodigious havoc
among us, especially in those armies composed of well disciplined

10 VOLTAIRE

hirelings, who determine the fate of nations; for we may safely affirm,
that, when an army of thirty thousand men engages another equal in
size, there are about twenty thousand infected with syphilis on each
side.”

“Very surprising, indeed,” said Candide, “but you must get cured.”
“Lord help me, how can I?” said Pangloss. “My dear friend, I have

not a penny in the world; and you know one cannot be bled or have an
enema without money.”

This last speech had its effect on Candide; he flew to the charitable
Anabaptist, James; he flung himself at his feet, and gave him so
striking a picture of the miserable condition of his friend that the good
man without any further hesitation agreed to take Dr.Pangloss into his
house, and to pay for his cure. The cure was effected with only the loss
of one eye and an ear. As be wrote a good hand, and understood
accounts tolerably well, the Anabaptist made him his bookkeeper. At
the expiration of two months, being obliged by some mercantile affairs
to go to Lisbon he took the two philosophers with him in the same ship;
Pangloss, during the course of the voyage, explained to him how
everything was so constituted that it could not be better. James did not
quite agree with him on this point.

“Men,” said he “must, in some things, have deviated from their
original innocence; for they were not born wolves, and yet they worry
one another like those beasts of prey. God never gave them twenty–
four pounders nor bayonets, and yet they have made cannon and
bayonets to destroy one another. To this account I might add not only
bankruptcies, but the law which seizes on the effects of bankrupts, only
to cheat the creditors.”

“All this was indispensably necessary,” replied the one–eyed
doctor, “for private misfortunes are public benefits; so that the more
private misfortunes there are, the greater is the general good.”

While he was arguing in this manner, the sky was overcast, the
winds blew from the four quarters of the compass, and the ship was
assailed by a most terrible tempest, within sight of the port of Lisbon.

C H A P T E R 5

A Tempest, a Shipwreck, an Earthquake, and What Else
Befell Dr. Pangloss, Candide, and James, the Anabaptist

One half of the passengers, weakened and half–dead with the
inconceivable anxiety and sickness which the rolling of a vessel at sea
occasions through the whole human frame, were lost to all sense of the
danger that surrounded them. The others made loud outcries, or betook
themselves to their prayers; the sails were blown into shreds, and the
masts were brought by the board. The vessel was a total wreck.
Everyone was busily employed, but nobody could be either heard or
obeyed. The Anabaptist, being upon deck, lent a helping hand as well
as the rest, when a brutish sailor gave him a blow and laid him
speechless; but, not withstanding, with the violence of the blow the tar
himself tumbled headforemost overboard, and fell upon a piece of the
broken mast, which he immediately grasped.

Honest James, forgetting the injury he had so lately received from
him, flew to his assistance, and, with great difficulty, hauled him in
again, but, not withstanding, in the attempt, was, by a sudden jerk of
the ship, thrown overboard himself, in sight of the very fellow whom
he had risked his life to save and who took not the least notice of him in
this distress. Candide, who beheld all that passed and saw his
benefactor one moment rising above water, and the next swallowed up
by the merciless waves, was preparing to jump after him, but was
prevented by the philosopher Pangloss, who demonstrated to him that
the roadstead of Lisbon had been made on purpose for the Anabaptist
to be drowned there. While he was proving his argument a priori, the
ship foundered, and the whole crew perished, except Pangloss,
Candide, and the sailor who had been the means of drowning the good
Anabaptist.The villain swam ashore; but Pangloss and Candide reached
the land upon a plank.

As soon as they had recovered from their surprise and fatigue they
walked towards Lisbon; with what little money they had left they
thought to save themselves from starving after having escaped
drowning.

Scarcely had they ceased to lament the loss of their benefactor and
set foot in the city, when they perceived that the earth trembled under

12 VOLTAIRE

their feet, and the sea, swelling and foaming in the harbor, was dashing
in pieces the vessels that were riding at anchor. Large sheets of flames
and cinders covered the streets and public places; the houses tottered,
and were tumbled topsy–turvy even to their foundations, which were
themselves destroyed, and thirty thousand inhabitants of both sexes,
young and old, were buried beneath the ruins.

The sailor, whistling and swearing, cried, “Damn it, there’s
something to be got here.”

“What can be the sufficing reason of this phenomenon?” said
Pangloss.

“It is certainly the day of judgment,” said Candide.
The sailor, defying death in the pursuit of plunder, rushed into the

midst of the ruin, where he found some money, with which he got
drunk, and, after he had slept himself sober he purchased the favors of
the first good–natured wench that came in his way, amidst the ruins of
demolished houses and the groans of half–buried and expiring persons.

Pangloss pulled him by the sleeve. “Friend,” said he, “this is not
right, you trespass against the universal reason, and have mistaken your
time.”

“Death and zounds!” answered the other, “I am a sailor and was
born at Batavia, and have trampled four times upon the crucifix in as
many voyages to Japan; you have come to a good hand with your
universal reason.”

In the meantime, Candide, who had been wounded by some pieces
of stone that fell from the houses, lay stretched in the street, almost
covered with rubbish.

“For God’s sake,” said he to Pangloss, “get me a little wine and
oil! I am dying.”

“This concussion of the earth is no new thing,” said Pangloss, “the
city of Lima in South America experienced the same last year; the same
cause, the same effects; there is certainly a train of sulphur all the way
underground from Lima to Lisbon.”

“Nothing is more probable,” said Candide; “but for the love of God
a little oil and wine.”

“Probable!” replied the philosopher, “I maintain that the thing is
demonstrable.”

Candide fainted away, and Pangloss fetched him some water from
a neighboring spring. The next day, in searching among the ruins, they
found some eatables with which they repaired their exhausted
strength.After this they assisted the inhabitants in relieving the
distressed and wounded. Some, whom they had humanely assisted,
gave them as good a dinner as could be expected under such terrible
circumstances. The repast, indeed, was mournful, and the company

Candide 13

moistened their bread with their tears; but Pangloss endeavored to
comfort them under this affliction by affirming that things could not be
otherwise that they were.

“For,” said he, “all this is for the very best end, for if there is a
volcano at Lisbon it could be in no other spot; and it is impossible but
things should be as they are, for everything is for the best.”

By the side of the preceptor sat a little man dressed in black, who
was one of the familiars of the Inquisition. This person, taking him up
with great complaisance, said, “Possibly, my good sir, you do not
believe in original sin; for, if everything is best, there could have been
no such thing as the fall or punishment of man.”

Your Excellency will pardon me,” answered Pangloss, still more
politely; “for the fall of man and the curse consequent thereupon
necessarily entered into the system of the best of worlds.”

“That is as much as to say, sir,” rejoined the familiar, “you do not
believe in free will.”

“Your Excellency will be so good as to excuse me,” said Pangloss,
“free will is consistent with absolute necessity; for it was necessary we
should be free, for in that the will –”

Pangloss was in the midst of his proposition, when the familiar
beckoned to his attendant to help him to a glass of port wine.

C H A P T E R 6

How the Portuguese Made a Superb Auto–De–Fe to
Prevent Any Future Earthquakes, and How Candide

Underwent Public Flagellation

After the earthquake, which had destroyed three–fourths of the city
of Lisbon, the sages of that country could think of no means more
effectual to preserve the kingdom from utter ruin than to entertain the
people with an auto–da–fe, it having been decided by the University of
Coimbra, that the burning of a few people alive by a slow fire, and with
great ceremony, is an infallible preventive of earthquakes.

In consequence thereof they had seized on a Biscayan for marrying
his godmother, and on two Portuguese for taking out the bacon of a
larded pullet they were eating; after dinner they came and secured
Dr.Pangloss, and his pupil Candide, the one for speaking his mind, and
the other for seeming to approve what he had said. They were
conducted to separate apartments, extremely cool, where they were
never incommoded with the sun. Eight days afterwards they were each
dressed in a sanbenito, and their heads were adorned with paper mitres.
The mitre and sanbenito worn by Candide were painted with flames
reversed and with devils that had neither tails nor claws; but Dr.
Pangloss’s devils had both tails and claws, and his flames were upright.
In these habits they marched in procession, and heard a very pathetic
sermon, which was followed by an anthem, accompanied by bagpipes.
Candide was flogged to some tune, while the anthem was being sung;
the Biscayan and the two men who would not eat bacon were burned,
and Pangloss was hanged, which is not a common custom at these
solemnities. The same day there was another earthquake, which made
most dreadful havoc.

Candide, amazed, terrified, confounded, astonished, all bloody,
and trembling from head to foot, said to himself, “If this is the best of
all possible worlds, what are the others? If I had only been whipped, I
could have put up with it, as I did among the Bulgarians; but, not
withstanding, oh my dear Pangloss! my beloved master! thou greatest
of philosophers! that ever I should live to see thee hanged, without
knowing for what! O my dear Anabaptist, thou best of men, that it
should be thy fate to be drowned in the very harbor! O Miss Cunegund,

Candide 15

you mirror of young ladies! that it should be your fate to have your
body ripped open!”

He was making the best of his way from the place where he had
been preached to, whipped, absolved and blessed, when he was
accosted by an old woman, who said to him, “Take courage, child, and
follow me.”

C H A P T E R 7

How the Old Woman Took Care Of Candide, and How He
Found the Object of His Love

Candide followed the old woman, though without taking courage,
to a decayed house, where she gave him a pot of pomatum to anoint his
sores, showed him a very neat bed, with a suit of clothes hanging by it;
and set victuals and drink before him.

“There,” said she, “eat, drink, and sleep, and may Our Lady of
Atocha, and the great St. Anthony of Padua, and the illustrious
St.James of Compostella, take you under their protection. I shall be
back tomorrow.”

Candide, struck with amazement at what he had seen, at what he
had suffered, and still more with the charity of the old woman, would
have shown his acknowledgment by kissing her hand.

“It is not my hand you ought to kiss,” said the old woman. “I shall
be back tomorrow. Anoint your back, eat, and take your rest.”

Candide, notwithstanding so many disasters, ate and slept. The
next morning, the old woman brought him his breakfast; examined his
back, and rubbed it herself with another ointment. She returned at the
proper time, and brought him his dinner; and at night, she visited him
again with his supper. The next day she observed the same ceremonies.

“Who are you?” said Candide to her. “Who has inspired you with
so much goodness? What return can I make you for this charitable
assistance?”

The good old beldame kept a profound silence. In the evening she
returned, but without his supper.

“Come along with me,” said she, “but do not speak a word.”
She took him by the arm, and walked with him about a quarter of a

mile into the country, till they came to a lonely house surrounded with
moats and gardens. The old conductress knocked at a little door, which
was immediately opened, and she showed him up a pair of back stairs,
into a small, but richly furnished apartment. There she made him sit
down on a brocaded sofa, shut the door upon him, and left him.
Candide thought himself in a trance; he looked upon his whole life,
hitherto, as a frightful dream, and the present moment as a very
agreeable one.

Candide 17

The old woman soon returned, supporting, with great difficulty, a
young lady, who appeared scarce able to stand. She was of a majestic
mien and stature, her dress was rich, and glittering with diamonds, and
her face was covered with a veil.

“Take off that veil,” said the old woman to Candide.
The young man approached, and, with a trembling hand, took off

her veil. What a happy moment! What surprise! He thought he beheld
Miss Cunegund; he did behold her – it was she herself. His strength
failed him, he could not utter a word, he fell at her feet. Cunegund
fainted upon the sofa. The old woman bedewed them with spirits; they
recovered – they began to speak. At first they could express themselves
only in broken accents; their questions and answers were alternately
interrupted with sighs, tears, and exclamations. The old woman desired
them to make less noise, and after this prudent admonition left them
together.

“Good heavens!” cried Candide, “is it you? Is it Miss Cunegund I
behold, and alive? Do I find you again in Portugal? then you have not
been ravished? they did not rip open your body, as the philosopher
Pangloss informed me?”

“Indeed but they did,” replied Miss Cunegund; “but these two
accidents do not always prove mortal.”

“But were your father and mother killed?”
“Alas!” answered she, “it is but too true!” and she wept.
“And your brother?”
“And my brother also.”
“And how came you into Portugal? And how did you know of my

being here? And by what strange adventure did you contrive to have
me brought into this house? And how –”

“I will tell you all,” replied the lady, “but first you must acquaint
me with all that has befallen you since the innocent kiss you gave me,
and the rude kicking you received in consequence of it.”

Candide, with the greatest submission, prepared to obey the
commands of his fair mistress; and though he was still filled with
amazement, though his voice was low and tremulous, though his back
pained him, yet he gave her a most ingenuous account of everything
that had befallen him, since the moment of their separation. Cunegund,
with her eyes uplifted to heaven, shed tears when he related the death
of the good Anabaptist, James, and of Pangloss; after which she thus
related her adventures to Candide, who lost not one syllable she uttered,
and seemed to devour her with his eyes all the time she was speaking.

C H A P T E R 8

Cunegund’s Story

I was in bed, and fast asleep, when it pleased Heaven to send the
Bulgarians to our delightful castle of Thunder–ten–tronckh, where they
murdered my father and brother, and cut my mother in pieces. A tall
Bulgarian soldier, six feet high, perceiving that I had fainted away at
this sight, attempted to ravish me; the operation brought me to my
senses. I cried, I struggled, I bit, I scratched, I would have torn the tall
Bulgarian’s eyes out, not knowing that what had happened at my
father’s castle was a customary thing. The brutal soldier, enraged at my
resistance, gave me a wound in my left leg with his hanger, the mark of
which I still carry.”

“Methinks I long to see it,” said Candide, with all imaginable
simplicity.

“You shall,” said Cunegund, “but let me proceed.”
“Pray do,” replied Candide.
She continued. “A Bulgarian captain came in, and saw me

weltering in my blood, and the soldier still as busy as if no one had
been present.The officer, enraged at the fellow’s want of respect to
him, killed him with one stroke of his sabre as he lay upon me. This
captain took care of me, had me cured, and carried me as a prisoner of
war to his quarters. I washed what little linen he possessed, and cooked
his victuals: he was very fond of me, that was certain; neither can I
deny that he was well made, and had a soft, white skin, but he was very
stupid, and knew nothing of philosophy: it might plainly be perceived
that he had not been educated under Dr. Pangloss. In three months,
having gambled away all his money, and having grown tired of me, he
sold me to a Jew, named Don Issachar, who traded in Holland and
Portugal, and was passionately fond of women. This Jew showed me
great kindness, in hopes of gaining my favors; but he never could
prevail on me to yield. A modest woman may be once ravished; but her
virtue is greatly strengthened thereby. In order to make sure of me, he
brought me to this country house you now see. I had hitherto believed
that nothing could equal the beauty of the castle of Thunder–ten–
tronckh; but I found I was mistaken.

Candide 19

“The Grand Inquisitor saw me one day at Mass, ogled me all the
time of service, and when it was over, sent to let me know he wanted to
speak with me about some private business. I was conducted to his
palace, where I told him all my story; he represented to me how much it
was beneath a person of my birth to belong to a circumcised Israelite.
He caused a proposal to be made to Don Issachar, that he should resign
me to His Lordship. Don Issachar, being the court banker and a man of
credit, was not easy to be prevailed upon. His Lordship threatened him
with an auto–da–fe; in short, my Jew was frightened into a
compromise, and it was agreed between them, that the house and
myself should belong to both in common; that the Jew should have
Monday, Wednesday, and the Sabbath to himself; and the Inquisitor the
other four days of the week. This agreement has subsisted almost six
months; but not without several contests, whether the space from
Saturday night to Sunday morning belonged to the old or the new
law.For my part, I have hitherto withstood them both, and truly I
believe this is the very reason why they are both so fond of me.

“At length to turn aside the scourge of earthquakes, and to
intimidate Don Issachar, My Lord Inquisitor was pleased to celebrate
an auto–da–fe. He did me the honor to invite me to the ceremony. I had
a very good seat; and refreshments of all kinds were offered the ladies
between Mass and the execution. I was dreadfully shocked at the
burning of the two Jews, and the honest Biscayan who married his
godmother; but how great was my surprise, my consternation, and
concern, when I beheld a figure so like Pangloss, dressed in a sanbenito
and mitre! I rubbed my eyes, I looked at him attentively.I saw him
hanged, and I fainted away: scarce had I recovered my senses, when I
saw you stripped of clothing; this was the height of horror, grief, and
despair. I must confess to you for a truth, that your skin is whiter and
more blooming than that of the Bulgarian captain. This spectacle
worked me up to a pitch of distraction. I screamed out, and would have
said, ‘Hold, barbarians!’ but my voice failed me; and indeed my cries
would have signified nothing. After you had been severely whipped, I
said to myself, ‘How is it possible that the lovely Candide and the sage
Pangloss should be at Lisbon, the one to receive a hundred lashes, and
the other to be hanged by order of My Lord Inquisitor, of whom I am
so great a favorite? Pangloss deceived me most cruelly, in saying that
everything is for the best.’

“Thus agitated and perplexed, now distracted and lost, now half
dead with grief, I revolved in my mind the murder of my father,
mother, and brother, committed before my eyes; the insolence of the
rascally Bulgarian soldier; the wound he gave me in the groin; my
servitude; my being a cook–wench to my Bulgarian captain; my

20 VOLTAIRE

subjection to the hateful Jew, and my cruel Inquisitor; the hanging of
Doctor Pangloss; the Miserere sung while you were being whipped;
and particularly the kiss I gave you behind the screen, the last day I
ever beheld you. I returned thanks to God for having brought you to the
place where I was, after so many trials. I charged the old woman who
attends me to bring you hither as soon as was convenient. She has
punctually executed my orders, and I now enjoy the inexpressible
satisfaction of seeing you, hearing you, and speaking to you. But you
must certainly be half–dead with hunger; I myself have a great
inclination to eat, and so let us sit down to supper.”

Upon this the two lovers immediately placed themselves at table,
and, after having supped, they returned to seat themselves again on the
magnificent sofa already mentioned, where they were in amorous
dalliance, when Senor Don Issachar, one of the masters of the house,
entered unexpectedly; it was the Sabbath day, and he came to enjoy his
privilege, and sigh forth his passion at the feet of the fair Cunegund.

C H A P T E R 9

What Happened to Cunegund, Candide, the Grand
Inquisitor, and the Jew

This same Issachar was the most choleric little Hebrew that had
ever been in Israel since the captivity of Babylon.

“What,” said he, “thou Galilean slut? The Inquisitor was not
enough for thee, but this rascal must come in for a share with me?”

In uttering these words, he drew out a long poniard, which he
always carried about him, and never dreaming that his adversary had
any arms, he attacked him most furiously; but our honest Westphalian
had received from the old woman a handsome sword with the suit of
clothes.Candide drew his rapier, and though he was very gentle and
sweet–tempered, he laid the Israelite dead on the floor at the fair
Cunegund’s feet.

“Holy Virgin!” cried she, “what will become of us? A man killed
in my apartment! If the peace–officers come, we are undone.”

“Had not Pangloss been hanged,” replied Candide, “he would have
given us most excellent advice, in this emergency; for he was a
profound philosopher. But, since he is not here, let us consult the old
woman.”

She was very sensible, and was beginning to give her advice, when
another door opened on a sudden. It was now one o’clock in the
morning, and of course the beginning of Sunday, which, by agreement,
fell to the lot of My Lord Inquisitor. Entering he discovered the
flagellated Candide with his drawn sword in his hand, a dead body
stretched on the floor, Cunegund frightened out of her wits, and the old
woman giving advice.

At that very moment, a sudden thought came into Candide’s
head.”If this holy man,” thought he, “should call assistance, I shall
most undoubtedly be consigned to the flames, and Miss Cunegund may
perhaps meet with no better treatment: besides, he was the cause of my
being so cruelly whipped; he is my rival; and as I have now begun to
dip my hands in blood, I will kill away, for there is no time to hesitate.”

This whole train of reasoning was clear and instantaneous; so that,
without giving time to the Inquisitor to recover from his surprise, he ran
him through the body, and laid him by the side of the Jew.

22 VOLTAIRE

“Here’s another fine piece of work!” cried Cunegund. “Now there
can be no mercy for us, we are excommunicated; our last hour is come.
But how could you, who are of so mild a temper, despatch a Jew and an
Inquisitor in two minutes’ time?”

“Beautiful maiden,” answered Candide, “when a man is in love, is
jealous, and has been flogged by the Inquisition, he becomes lost to all
reflection.”

The old woman then put in her word:
“There are three Andalusian horses in the stable, with as many

bridles and saddles; let the brave Candide get them ready. Madam has a
parcel of moidores and jewels, let us mount immediately, though I have
lost one buttock; let us set out for Cadiz; it is the finest weather in the
world, and there is great pleasure in traveling in the cool of the night.”

Candide, without any further hesitation, saddled the three horses;
and Miss Cunegund, the old woman, and he, set out, and traveled thirty
miles without once halting. While they were making the best of their
way, the Holy Brotherhood entered the house. My Lord, the Inquisitor,
was interred in a magnificent manner, and Master Issachar’s body was
thrown upon a dunghill.

Candide, Cunegund, and the old woman, had by this time reached
the little town of Avacena, in the midst of the mountains of Sierra
Morena, and were engaged in the following conversation in an inn,
where they had taken up their quarters.

C H A P T E R 1 0

In What Distress Candide, Cunegund, and the Old
Woman Arrive at Cadiz, and Of Their Embarkation

Who could it be that has robbed me of my moidores and jewels?”
exclaimed Miss Cunegund, all bathed in tears. “How shall we live?
What shall we do? Where shall I find Inquisitors and Jews who can
give me more?”

“Alas!” said the old woman, “I have a shrewd suspicion of a
reverend Franciscan father, who lay last night in the same inn with us at
Badajoz. God forbid I should condemn any one wrongfully, but he
came into our room twice, and he set off in the morning long before
us.”

“Alas!” said Candide, “Pangloss has often demonstrated to me that
the goods of this world are common to all men, and that everyone has
an equal right to the enjoyment of them; but, not withstanding,
according to these principles, the Franciscan ought to have left us
enough to carry us to the end of our journey. Have you nothing at all
left, my dear Miss Cunegund?”

“Not a maravedi,” replied she.
“What is to be done then?” said Candide.
“Sell one of the horses,” replied the old woman. “I will get up

behind Miss Cunegund, though I have only one buttock to ride on, and
we shall reach Cadiz.”

In the same inn there was a Benedictine friar, who bought the
horse very cheap. Candide, Cunegund, and the old woman, after
passing through Lucina, Chellas, and Letrixa, arrived at length at
Cadiz. A fleet was then getting ready, and troops were assembling in
order to induce the reverend fathers, Jesuits of Paraguay, who were
accused of having excited one of the Indian tribes in the neighborhood
of the town of the Holy Sacrament, to revolt against the Kings of Spain
and Portugal.

Candide, having been in the Bulgarian service, performed the
military exercise of that nation before the general of this little army
with so intrepid an air, and with such agility and expedition, that he
received the command of a company of foot. Being now made a
captain, he embarked with Miss Cunegund, the old woman, two valets,

24 VOLTAIRE

and the two Andalusian horses, which had belonged to the Grand
Inquisitor of Portugal.

During their voyage they amused themselves with many profound
reasonings on poor Pangloss’s philosophy.

“We are now going into another world, and surely it must be there
that everything is for the best; for I must confess that we have had some
little reason to complain of what passes in ours, both as to the physical
and moral part. Though I have a sincere love for you,” said Miss
Cunegund, “yet I still shudder at the reflection of what I have seen and
experienced.”

“All will be well,” replied Candide, “the sea of this new world is
already better than our European seas: it is smoother, and the winds
blow more regularly.”

“God grant it,” said Cunegund, “but I have met with such terrible
treatment in this world that I have almost lost all hopes of a better one.”

“What murmuring and complaining is here indeed!” cried the old
woman. “If you had suffered half what I have, there might be some
reason for it.”

Miss Cunegund could scarce refrain from laughing at the good old
woman, and thought it droll enough to pretend to a greater share of
misfortunes than her own.

“Alas! my good dame,” said she, “unless you had been ravished by
two Bulgarians, had received two deep wounds in your belly, had seen
two of your own castles demolished, had lost two fathers, and two
mothers, and seen both of them barbarously murdered before your eyes,
and to sum up all, had two lovers whipped at an auto–da–fe, I cannot
see how you could be more unfortunate than I. Add to this, though born
a baroness, and bearing seventy–two quarterings, I have been reduced
to the station of a cook–wench.”

“Miss,” replied the old woman, “you do not know my family as
yet; but if I were to show you my posteriors, you would not talk in this
manner, but suspend your judgment.” This speech raised a high
curiosity in Candide and Cunegund; and the old woman continued as
follows.

C H A P T E R 1 1

The History of the Old Woman

I have not always been blear–eyed. My nose did not always touch
my chin; nor was I always a servant. You must know that I am the
daughter of Pope Urban X, and of the Princess of Palestrina. To the age
of fourteen I was brought up in a castle, compared with which all the
castles of the German barons would not have been fit for stabling, and
one of my robes would have bought half the province of Westphalia. I
grew up, and improved in beauty, wit, and every graceful
accomplishment; and in the midst of pleasures, homage, and the highest
expectations. I already began to inspire the men with love. My breast
began to take its right form, and such a breast! white, firm, and formed
like that of the Venus de’ Medici; my eyebrows were as black as jet,
and as for my eyes, they darted flames and eclipsed the luster of the
stars, as I was told by the poets of our part of the world. My maids,
when they dressed and undressed me, used to fall into an ecstasy in
viewing me before and behind; and all the men longed to be in their
places.

“I was contracted in marriage to a sovereign prince of Massa
Carrara. Such a prince! as handsome as myself, sweet–tempered,
agreeable, witty, and in love with me over head and ears. I loved him,
too, as our sex generally do for the first time, with rapture, transport,
and idolatry. The nuptials were prepared with surprising pomp and
magnificence; the ceremony was attended with feasts, carousals, and
burlesques: all Italy composed sonnets in my praise, though not one of
them was tolerable.

“I was on the point of reaching the summit of bliss, when an old
marchioness, who had been mistress to the Prince, my husband, invited
him to drink chocolate. In less than two hours after he returned from
the visit, he died of most terrible convulsions.

“But this is a mere trifle. My mother, distracted to the highest
degree, and yet less afflicted than I, determined to absent herself for
some time from so fatal a place. As she had a very fine estate in the
neighborhood of Gaeta, we embarked on board a galley, which was
gilded like the high altar of St. Peter’s, at Rome. In our passage we
were boarded by a Sallee rover. Our men defended themselves like true

26 VOLTAIRE

Pope’s soldiers; they flung themselves upon their knees, laid down
their arms, and begged the corsair to give them absolution in articulo
mortis.

“The Moors presently stripped us as bare as ever we were born.
My mother, my maids of honor, and myself, were served all in the
same manner. It is amazing how quick these gentry are at undressing
people.But what surprised me most was, that they made a rude sort of
surgical examination of parts of the body which are sacred to the
functions of nature. I thought it a very strange kind of ceremony; for
thus we are generally apt to judge of things when we have not seen the
world. I afterwards learned that it was to discover if we had any
diamonds concealed. This practice had been established since time
immemorial among those civilized nations that scour the seas. I was
informed that the religious Knights of Malta never fail to make this
search whenever any Moors of either sex fall into their hands. It is a
part of the law of nations, from which they never deviate.

“I need not tell you how great a hardship it was for a young
princess and her mother to be made slaves and carried to Morocco.You
may easily imagine what we must have suffered on board a corsair. My
mother was still extremely handsome, our maids of honor, and even our
common waiting–women, had more charms than were to be found in
all Africa.

“As to myself, I was enchanting; I was beauty itself, and then I had
my virginity. But, alas! I did not retain it long; this precious flower,
which had been reserved for the lovely Prince of Massa Carrara, was
cropped by the captain of the Moorish vessel, who was a hideous
Negro, and thought he did me infinite honor. Indeed, both the Princess
of Palestrina and myself must have had very strong constitutions to
undergo all the hardships and violences we suffered before our arrival
at Morocco. But I will not detain you any longer with such common
things; they are hardly worth mentioning.

“Upon our arrival at Morocco we found that kingdom deluged with
blood. Fifty sons of the Emperor Muley Ishmael were each at the head
of a party. This produced fifty civil wars of blacks against blacks, of
tawnies against tawnies, and of mulattoes against mulattoes. In short,
the whole empire was one continued scene of carnage.

“No sooner were we landed than a party of blacks, of a contrary
faction to that of my captain, came to rob him of his booty. Next to the
money and jewels, we were the most valuable things he had. I
witnessed on this occasion such a battle as you never beheld in your
cold European climates. The northern nations have not that
fermentation in their blood, nor that raging lust for women that is so
common in Africa. The natives of Europe seem to have their veins

Candide 27

filled with milk only; but fire and vitriol circulate in those of the
inhabitants of Mount Atlas and the neighboring provinces. They fought
with the fury of the lions, tigers, and serpents of their country, to decide
who should have us. A Moor seized my mother by the right arm, while
my captain’s lieutenant held her by the left; another Moor laid hold of
her by the right leg, and one of our corsairs held her by the other. In
this manner almost all of our women were dragged by four soldiers.

“My captain kept me concealed behind him, and with his drawn
scimitar cut down everyone who opposed him; at length I saw all our
Italian women and my mother mangled and torn in pieces by the
monsters who contended for them. The captives, my companions, the
Moors who took us, the soldiers, the sailors, the blacks, the whites, the
mulattoes, and lastly, my captain himself, were all slain, and I remained
alone expiring upon a heap of dead bodies. Similar barbarous scenes
were transacted every day over the whole country, which is of three
hundred leagues in extent, and yet they never missed the five stated
times of prayer enjoined by their prophet Mahomet.

“I disengaged myself with great difficulty from such a heap of
corpses, and made a shift to crawl to a large orange tree that stood on
the bank of a neighboring rivulet, where I fell down exhausted with
fatigue, and overwhelmed with horror, despair, and hunger. My senses
being overpowered, I fell asleep, or rather seemed to be in a trance.
Thus I lay in a state of weakness and insensibility between life and
death, when I felt myself pressed by something that moved up and
down upon my body. This brought me to myself. I opened my eyes,
and saw a pretty fair–faced man, who sighed and muttered these words
between his teeth, ‘O che sciagura d’essere senza coglioni!”’

C H A P T E R 1 2

The Adventures of the Old Woman Continued

Astonished and delighted to hear my native language, and no less
surprised at the young man’s words, I told him that there were far
greater misfortunes in the world than what he complained of. And to
convince him of it, I gave him a short history of the horrible disasters
that had befallen me; and as soon as I had finished, fell into a swoon
again.

“He carried me in his arms to a neighboring cottage, where he had
me put to bed, procured me something to eat, waited on me with the
greatest attention, comforted me, caressed me, told me that he had
never seen anything so perfectly beautiful as myself, and that he had
never so much regretted the loss of what no one could restore to him.

“‘I was born at Naples,’ said he, ‘where they make eunuchs of
thousands of children every year; some die of the operation; some
acquire voices far beyond the most tuneful of your ladies; and others
are sent to govern states and empires. I underwent this operation very
successfully, and was one of the singers in the Princess of Palestrina’s
chapel.’

“‘How,’ cried I, ‘in my mother’s chapel!’
“‘The Princess of Palestrina, your mother!’ cried he, bursting into a

flood of tears. ‘Is it possible you should be the beautiful young princess
whom I had the care of bringing up till she was six years old, and who
at that tender age promised to be as fair as I now behold you?’

“‘I am the same,’ I replied. ‘My mother lies about a hundred yards
from here cut in pieces and buried under a heap of dead bodies.’

“I then related to him all that had befallen me, and he in return
acquainted me with all his adventures, and how he had been sent to the
court of the King of Morocco by a Christian prince to conclude a treaty
with that monarch; in consequence of which he was to be furnished
with military stores, and ships to destroy the commerce of other
Christian governments.

“‘I have executed my commission,’ said the eunuch; ‘I am going to
take ship at Ceuta, and I’ll take you along with me to Italy. Ma che
sciagura d’essere senza coglioni!’

Candide 29

“I thanked him with tears of joy, but, not withstanding, instead of
taking me with him to Italy, he carried me to Algiers, and sold me to
the Dey of that province. I had not been long a slave when the plague,
which had made the tour of Africa, Asia, and Europe, broke out at
Algiers with redoubled fury. You have seen an earthquake; but tell me,
miss, have you ever had the plague?”

“Never,” answered the young Baroness.
“If you had ever had it,” continued the old woman, “you would

own an earthquake was a trifle to it. It is very common in Africa; I was
seized with it. Figure to yourself the distressed condition of the
daughter of a Pope, only fifteen years old, and who in less than three
months had felt the miseries of poverty and slavery; had been
debauched almost every day; had beheld her mother cut into four
quarters; had experienced the scourges of famine and war; and was now
dying of the plague at Algiers. I did not, however, die of it; but my
eunuch, and the Dey, and almost the whole seraglio of Algiers, were
swept off.

“As soon as the first fury of this dreadful pestilence was over, a
sale was made of the Dey’s slaves. I was purchased by a merchant who
carried me to Tunis. This man sold me to another merchant, who sold
me again to another at Tripoli; from Tripoli I was sold to Alexandria,
from Alexandria to Smyrna, and from Smyrna to Constantinople. After
many changes, I at length became the property of an Aga of the
Janissaries, who, soon after I came into his possession, was ordered
away to the defense of Azoff, then besieged by the Russians.

“The Aga, being very fond of women, took his whole seraglio with
him, and lodged us in a small fort, with two black eunuchs and twenty
soldiers for our guard. Our army made a great slaughter among the
Russians; but they soon returned us the compliment. Azoff was taken
by storm, and the enemy spared neither age, sex, nor condition, but put
all to the sword, and laid the city in ashes. Our little fort alone held out;
they resolved to reduce us by famine.The twenty janissaries, who were
left to defend it, had bound themselves by an oath never to surrender
the place. Being reduced to the extremity of famine, they found
themselves obliged to kill our two eunuchs, and eat them rather than
violate their oath. But this horrible repast soon failing them, they next
determined to devour the women.

“We had a very pious and humane man, who gave them a most
excellent sermon on this occasion, exhorting them not to kill us all at
once. ‘Cut off only one of the buttocks of each of those ladies,’ said he,
‘and you will fare extremely well; if you are under the necessity of
having recourse to the same expedient again, you will find the like

30 VOLTAIRE

supply a few days hence. Heaven will approve of so charitable an
action, and work your deliverance.’

“By the force of this eloquence he easily persuaded them, and all
of us underwent the operation. The man applied the same balsam as
they do to children after circumcision. We were all ready to give up the
ghost.

“The Janissaries had scarcely time to finish the repast with which
we had supplied them, when the Russians attacked the place by means
of flat–bottomed boats, and not a single janissary escaped. The
Russians paid no regard to the condition we were in; but there are
French surgeons in all parts of the world, and one of them took us
under his care, and cured us. I shall never forget, while I live, that as
soon as my wounds were perfectly healed he made me certain
proposals. In general, he desired us all to be of a good cheer, assuring
us that the like had happened in many sieges; and that it was perfectly
agreeable to the laws of war.

“As soon as my companions were in a condition to walk, they were
sent to Moscow. As for me, I fell to the lot of a Boyard, who put me to
work in his garden, and gave me twenty lashes a day. But this
nobleman having about two years afterwards been broken alive upon
the wheel, with about thirty others, for some court intrigues, I took
advantage of the event, and made my escape. I traveled over a great
part of Russia. I was a long time an innkeeper’s servant at Riga, then at
Rostock, Wismar, Leipsic, Cassel, Utrecht, Leyden, The Hague, and
Rotterdam. I have grown old in misery and disgrace, living with only
one buttock, and having in perpetual remembrance that I am a Pope’s
daughter. I have been a hundred times upon the point of killing myself,
but still I was fond of life. This ridiculous weakness is, perhaps, one of
the dangerous principles implanted in our nature. For what can be more
absurd than to persist in carrying a burden of which we wish to be
eased? to detest, and yet to strive to preserve our existence? In a word,
to caress the serpent that devours us, and hug him close to our bosoms
till he has gnawed into our hearts?

“In the different countries which it has been my fate to traverse,
and at the many inns where I have been a servant, I have observed a
prodigious number of people who held their existence in abhorrence,
and yet I never knew more than twelve who voluntarily put an end to
their misery; namely, three Negroes, four Englishmen, as many
Genevese, and a German professor named Robek. My last place was
with the Jew, Don Issachar, who placed me near your person, my fair
lady; to whose fortunes I have attached myself, and have been more
concerned with your adventures than with my own. I should never have
even mentioned the latter to you, had you not a little piqued me on the

Candide 31

head of sufferings; and if it were not customary to tell stories on board
a ship in order to pass away the time.

“In short, my dear miss, I have a great deal of knowledge and
experience in the world, therefore take my advice: divert yourself, and
prevail upon each passenger to tell his story, and if there is one of them
all that has not cursed his existence many times, and said to himself
over and over again that he was the most wretched of mortals, I give
you leave to throw me headfirst into the sea.”

C H A P T E R 1 3

How Candide Was Obliged to Leave the Fair Cunegund
and the Old Woman

The fair Cunegund, being thus made acquainted with the history of
the old woman’s life and adventures, paid her all the respect and
civility due to a person of her rank and merit. She very readily acceded
to her proposal of engaging the passengers to relate their adventures in
their turns, and was at length, as well as Candide, compelled to
acknowledge that the old woman was in the right.

“It is a thousand pities,” said Candide, “that the sage Pangloss
should have been hanged contrary to the custom of an auto–da–fe, for
he would have given us a most admirable lecture on the moral and
physical evil which overspreads the earth and sea; and I think I should
have courage enough to presume to offer (with all due respect) some
few objections.”

While everyone was reciting his adventures, the ship continued on
her way, and at length arrived at Buenos Ayres, where Cunegund,
Captain Candide, and the old woman, landed and went to wait upon the
governor, Don Fernando d’Ibaraa y Figueora y Mascarenes y
Lampourdos y Souza. This nobleman carried himself with a
haughtiness suitable to a person who bore so many names. He spoke
with the most noble disdain to everyone, carried his nose so high,
strained his voice to such a pitch, assumed so imperious an air, and
stalked with so much loftiness and pride, that everyone who had the
honor of conversing with him was violently tempted to bastinade His
Excellency. He was immoderately fond of women, and Miss Cunegund
appeared in his eyes a paragon of beauty. The first thing he did was to
ask her if she was not the captain’s wife. The air with which he made
this demand alarmed Candide, who did not dare to say he was married
to her, because indeed he was not; neither did he venture to say she was
his sister, because she was not; and though a lie of this nature proved of
great service to one of the ancients, and might possibly be useful to
some of the moderns, yet the purity of his heart would not permit him
to violate the truth.

Candide 33

“Miss Cunegund,” replied he, “is to do me the honor to marry me,
and we humbly beseech Your Excellency to condescend to grace the
ceremony with your presence.”

Don Fernando d’Ibaraa y Figueora y Mascarenes y Lampourdos y
Souza, twirling his mustachio, and putting on a sarcastic smile, ordered
Captain Candide to go and review his company. The gentle Candide
obeyed, and the Governor was left with Miss Cunegund. He made her a
strong declaration of love, protesting that he was ready to give her his
hand in the face of the Church, or otherwise, as should appear most
agreeable to a young lady of her prodigious beauty.Cunegund desired
leave to retire a quarter of an hour to consult the old woman, and
determine how she should proceed.

The old woman gave her the following counsel:
“Miss, you have seventy–two quarterings in your arms, it is true,

but you have not a penny to bless yourself with. It is your own fault if
you do not become the wife of one of the greatest noblemen in South
America, with an exceeding fine mustachio. What business have you to
pride yourself upon an unshaken constancy? You have been outraged
by a Bulgarian soldier; a Jew and an Inquisitor have both tasted of your
favors. People take advantage of misfortunes. I must confess, were I in
your place, I should, without the least scruple, give my hand to the
Governor, and thereby make the fortune of the brave Captain Candide.”

While the old woman was thus haranguing, with all the prudence
that old age and experience furnish, a small bark entered the harbor, in
which was an alcayde and his alguazils. Matters had fallen out as
follows.

The old woman rightly guessed that the Franciscan with the long
sleeves, was the person who had taken Miss Cunegund’s money and
jewels, while they and Candide were at Badajoz, in their flight from
Lisbon. This same friar attempted to sell some of the diamonds to a
jeweler, who presently knew them to have belonged to the Grand
Inquisitor, and stopped them. The Franciscan, before he was hanged,
acknowledged that he had stolen them and described the persons, and
the road they had taken. The flight of Cunegund and Candide was
already the towntalk. They sent in pursuit of them to Cadiz; and the
vessel which had been sent to make the greater dispatch, had now
reached the port of Buenos Ayres. A report was spread that an alcayde
was going to land, and that he was in pursuit of the murderers of My
Lord, the Inquisitor. The sage old woman immediately saw what was to
be done.

“You cannot run away,” said she to Cunegund, “but you have
nothing to fear; it was not you who killed My Lord Inquisitor: besides,

34 VOLTAIRE

as the Governor is in love with you, he will not suffer you to be ill–
treated; therefore stand your ground.”

Then hurrying away to Candide, she said, “Be gone hence this
instant, or you will be burned alive.”

Candide found there was no time to be lost; but how could he part
from Cunegund, and whither must he fly for shelter?

C H A P T E R 1 4

The Reception Candide and Cacambo Met with among
the Jesuits in Paraguay

Candide had brought with him from Cadiz such a footman as one
often meets with on the coasts of Spain and in the colonies. He was the
fourth part of a Spaniard, of a mongrel breed, and born in Tucuman. He
had successively gone through the profession of a singing boy, sexton,
sailor, monk, peddler, soldier, and lackey. His name was Cacambo; he
had a great affection for his master, because his master was a very good
man. He immediately saddled the two Andalusian horses.

“Come, my good master, let us follow the old woman’s advice, and
make all the haste we can from this place without staying to look
behind us.”

Candide burst into a flood of tears, “O my dear Cunegund, must I
then be compelled to quit you just as the Governor was going to honor
us with his presence at our wedding! Cunegund, so long lost and found
again, what will now become of you?”

“Lord!” said Cacambo, ‘she must do as well as she can; women are
never at a loss. God takes care of them, and so let us make the best of
our way.”

“But whither wilt thou carry me? where can we go? what can we
do without Cunegund?” cried the disconsolate Candide.

“By St. James of Compostella,” said Cacambo, “you were going to
fight against the Jesuits of Paraguay; now let us go and fight for them; I
know the road perfectly well; I’ll conduct you to their kingdom; they
will be delighted with a captain that understands the Bulgarian drill;
you will certainly make a prodigious fortune. If we cannot succeed in
this world we may in another. It is a great pleasure to see new objects
and perform new exploits.”

“Then you have been in Paraguay?” asked Candide.
“Ay, marry, I have,” replied Cacambo. “I was a scout in the

College of the Assumption, and am as well acquainted with the new
government of the Los Padres as I am with the streets of Cadiz. Oh, it is
an admirable government, that is most certain! The kingdom is at
present upwards of three hundred leagues in diameter, and divided into
thirty provinces; the fathers there are masters of everything, and the

36 VOLTAIRE

people have no money at all; this you must allow is the masterpiece of
justice and reason. For my part, I see nothing so divine as the good
fathers, who wage war in this part of the world against the troops of
Spain and Portugal, at the same time that they hear the confessions of
those very princes in Europe; who kill Spaniards in America and send
them to Heaven at Madrid. This pleases me exceedingly, but let us push
forward; you are going to see the happiest and most fortunate of all
mortals. How charmed will those fathers be to hear that a captain who
understands the Bulgarian military drill is coming to them.”

As soon as they reached the first barrier, Cacambo called to the
advance guard, and told them that a captain wanted to speak to My
Lord, the General. Notice was given to the main guard, and
immediately a Paraguayan officer ran to throw himself at the feet of the
Commandant to impart this news to him. Candide and Cacambo were
immediately disarmed, and their two Andalusian horses were seized.
The two strangers were conducted between two files of musketeers, the
Commandant was at the further end with a three–cornered cap on his
head, his gown tucked up, a sword by his side, and a half–pike in his
hand; he made a sign, and instantly four and twenty soldiers drew up
round the newcomers. A sergeant told them that they must wait, the
Commandant could not speak to them; and that the Reverend Father
Provincial did not suffer any Spaniard to open his mouth but in his
presence, or to stay above three hours in the province.

“And where is the Reverend Father Provincial?” said Cacambo.
“He has just come from Mass and is at the parade,” replied the

sergeant, “and in about three hours’ time you may possibly have the
honor to kiss his spurs.”

“But,” said Cacambo, “the Captain, who, as well as myself, is
perishing of hunger, is no Spaniard, but a German; therefore, pray,
might we not be permitted to break our fast till we can be introduced to
His Reverence?”

The sergeant immediately went and acquainted the Commandant
with what he heard.

“God be praised,” said the Reverend Commandant, “since he is a
German I will hear what he has to say; let him be brought to my arbor.”

Immediately they conducted Candide to a beautiful pavilion
adomed with a colonnade of green marble, spotted with yellow, and
with an intertexture of vines, which served as a kind of cage for parrots,
humming birds, guinea hens, and all other curious kinds of birds. An
excellent breakfast was provided in vessels of gold; and while the
Paraguayans were eating coarse Indian corn out of wooden dishes in
the open air, and exposed to the burning heat of the sun, the Reverend
Father Commandant retired to his cool arbor.

Candide 37

He was a very handsome young man, round–faced, fair, and fresh–
colored, his eyebrows were finely arched, he had a piercing eye, the
tips of his ears were red, his lips vermilion, and he had a bold and
commanding air; but such a boldness as neither resembled that of a
Spaniard nor of a Jesuit. He ordered Candide and Cacambo to have
their arms restored to them, together with their two Andalusian
horses.Cacambo gave the poor beasts some oats to eat close by the
arbor, keeping a strict eye upon them all the while for fear of surprise.

Candide having kissed the hem of the Commandant’s robe, they
sat down to table.

“It seems you are a German,” said the Jesuit to him in that
language.

“Yes, Reverend Father,” answered Candide.
As they pronounced these words they looked at each other with

great amazement and with an emotion that neither could conceal.
“From what part of Germany do you come?” said the Jesuit.
“From the dirty province of Westphalia,” answered Candide.
“I was born in the castle of Thunder–ten–tronckh.”
“Oh heavens! is it possible?” said the Commandant.
“What a miracle!” cried Candide.
“Can it be you?” said the Commandant.
On this they both drew a few steps backwards, then running into

each other’s arms, embraced, and wept profusely.
“Is it you then, Reverend Father? You are the brother of the fair

Miss Cunegund? You that was slain by the Bulgarians! You the
Baron’s son! You a Jesuit in Paraguay! I must confess this is a strange
world we live in. O Pangloss! what joy would this have given you if
you had not been hanged.”

The Commandant dismissed the Negro slaves, and the
Paraguayans who presented them with liquor in crystal goblets. He
returned thanks to God and St. Ignatius a thousand times; he clasped
Candide in his arms, and both their faces were bathed in tears.

“You will be more surprised, more affected, more transported,”
said Candide, “when I tell you that Miss Cunegund, your sister, whose
belly was supposed to have been ripped open, is in perfect health.”

“In your neighborhood, with the Governor of Buenos Ayres; and I
myself was going to fight against you.”

Every word they uttered during this long conversation was
productive of some new matter of astonishment. Their souls fluttered
on their tongues, listened in their ears, and sparkled in their eyes. Like
true Germans, they continued a long while at table, waiting for the
Reverend Father; and the Commandant spoke to his dear Candide as
follows.

C H A P T E R 1 5

How Candide Killed the Brother of His Dear Cunegund

Never while I live shall I lose the remembrance of that horrible day
on which I saw my father and mother barbarously butchered before my
eyes, and my sister ravished. When the Bulgarians retired we searched
in vain for my dear sister. She was nowhere to be found; but the bodies
of my father, mother, and myself, with two servant maids and three
little boys, all of whom had been murdered by the remorseless enemy,
were thrown into a cart to be buried in a chapel belonging to the Jesuits,
within two leagues of our family seat. A Jesuit sprinkled us with some
holy water, which was confounded salty, and a few drops of it went
into my eyes; the father perceived that my eyelids stirred a little; he put
his hand upon my breast and felt my heartbeat; upon which he gave me
proper assistance, and at the end of three weeks I was perfectly
recovered. You know, my dear Candide, I was very handsome; I
became still more so, and the Reverend Father Croust, superior of that
house, took a great fancy to me; he gave me the habit of the order, and
some years afterwards I was sent to Rome. Our General stood in need
of new recruits of young German Jesuits. The sovereigns of Paraguay
admit of as few Spanish Jesuits as possible; they prefer those of other
nations, as being more obedient to command. The Reverend Father
General looked upon me as a proper person to work in that vineyard. I
set out in company with a Polander and a Tyrolese. Upon my arrival I
was honored with a subdeaconship and a lieutenancy. Now I am
colonel and priest. We shall give a warm reception to the King of
Spain’s troops; I can assure you they will be well excommunicated and
beaten. Providence has sent you hither to assist us. But is it true that my
dear sister Cunegund is in the neighborhood with the Governor of
Buenos Ayres?”

Candide swore that nothing could be more true; and the tears
began again to trickle down their cheeks. The Baron knew no end of
embracing Candide, be called him his brother, his deliverer.

“Perhaps,” said he, “my dear Candide, we shall be fortunate
enough to enter the town, sword in hand, and recover my sister
Cunegund.”

Candide 39

“Ah! that would crown my wishes,” replied Candide; “for I
intended to marry her; and I hope I shall still be able to effect it.”

“Insolent fellow!” cried the Baron. “You! you have the impudence
to marry my sister, who bears seventy–two quarterings! Really, I think
you have an insufferable degree of assurance to dare so much as to
mention such an audacious design to me.”

Candide, thunderstruck at the oddness of this speech, answered:
“Reverend Father, all the quarterings in the world are of no

signification. I have delivered your sister from a Jew and an Inquisitor;
she is under many obligations to me, and she is resolved to give me her
hand. My master, Pangloss, always told me that mankind are by nature
equal. Therefore, you may depend upon it that I will marry your sister.”

“We shall see to that, villain!” said the Jesuit, Baron of Thunder–
ten–tronckh, and struck him across the face with the flat side of his
sword. Candide in an instant drew his rapier and plunged it up to the
hilt in the Jesuit’s body; but in pulling it out reeking hot, he burst into
tears.

“Good God!” cried he, “I have killed my old master, my friend, my
brother–in–law. I am the best man in the world, and yet I have already
killed three men, and of these three, two were priests.”

Cacambo, who was standing sentry near the door of the arbor,
instantly ran up.

“Nothing remains,” said his master, “but to sell our lives as dearly
as possible; they will undoubtedly look into the arbor; we must die
sword in hand.”

Cacambo, who had seen many of this kind of adventures, was not
discouraged. He stripped the Baron of his Jesuit’s habit and put it upon
Candide, then gave him the dead man’s three–cornered cap and made
him mount on horseback. All this was done as quick as thought.

“Gallop, master,” cried Cacambo; “everybody will take you for a
Jesuit going to give orders; and we shall have passed the frontiers
before they will be able to overtake us.”

He flew as he spoke these words, crying out aloud in Spanish,
“Make way; make way for the Reverend Father Colonel.”

C H A P T E R 1 6

What Happened to Our Two Travelers with Two Girls,
Two Monkeys, and the Savages, Called Oreillons

Candide and his valet had already passed the frontiers before it was
known that the German Jesuit was dead. The wary Cacambo had taken
care to fill his wallet with bread, chocolate, some ham, some fruit, and
a few bottles of wine. They penetrated with their Andalusian horses
into a strange country, where they could discover no beaten path. At
length a beautiful meadow, intersected with purling rills, opened to
their view. Cacambo proposed to his master to take some nourishment,
and he set him an example.

“How can you desire me to feast upon ham, when I have killed the
Baron’s son and am doomed never more to see the beautiful
Cunegund?What will it avail me to prolong a wretched life that must be
spent far from her in remorse and despair? And then what will the
journal of Trevoux say?” was Candide’s reply.

While he was making these reflections he still continued eating.
The sun was now on the point of setting when the ears of our two
wanderers were assailed with cries which seemed to be uttered by a
female voice.They could not tell whether these were cries of grief or of
joy; however, they instantly started up, full of that inquietude and
apprehension which a strange place naturally inspires. The cries
proceeded from two young women who were tripping disrobed along
the mead, while two monkeys followed close at their heels biting at
their limbs. Candide was touched with compassion; he had learned to
shoot while he was among the Bulgarians, and he could hit a filbert in a
hedge without touching a leaf. Accordingly he took up his double–
barrelled Spanish gun, pulled the trigger, and laid the two monkeys
lifeless on the ground.

“God be praised, my dear Cacambo, I have rescued two poor girls
from a most perilous situation; if I have committed a sin in killing an
Inquisitor and a Jesuit, I have made ample amends by saving the lives
of these two distressed damsels. Who knows but they may be young
ladies of a good family, and that the assistance I have been so happy to
give them may procure us great advantage in this country?”

Candide 41

He was about to continue when he felt himself struck speechless at
seeing the two girls embracing the dead bodies of the monkeys in the
tenderest manner, bathing their wounds with their tears, and rending the
air with the most doleful lamentations.

“Really,” said he to Cacambo, “I should not have expected to see
such a prodigious share of good nature.”

“Master,” replied the knowing valet, “you have made a precious
piece of work of it; do you know that you have killed the lovers of
these two ladies?”

“Their lovers! Cacambo, you are jesting! It cannot be! I can never
believe it.”

“Dear sir,” replied Cacambo, “you are surprised at everything.
Why should you think it so strange that there should be a country where
monkeys insinuate themselves into the good graces of the ladies?They
are the fourth part of a man as I am the fourth part of a Spaniard.”

“Alas!” replied Candide, “I remember to have heard my master
Pangloss say that such accidents as these frequently came to pass in
former times, and that these commixtures are productive of centaurs,
fauns, and satyrs; and that many of the ancients had seen such
monsters; but I looked upon the whole as fabulous.”

“Now you are convinced,” said Cacambo, “that it is very true, and
you see what use is made of those creatures by persons who have not
had a proper education; all I am afraid of is that these same ladies may
play us some ugly trick.”

These judicious reflections operated so far on Candide as to make
him quit the meadow and strike into a thicket. There he and Cacambo
supped, and after heartily cursing the Grand Inquisitor, the Governor of
Buenos Ayres, and the Baron, they fell asleep on the ground. When
they awoke they were surprised to find that they could not move; the
reason was that the Oreillons who inhabit that country, and to whom
the ladies had given information of these two strangers, had bound
them with cords made of the bark of trees. They saw themselves
surrounded by fifty naked Oreillons armed with bows and arrows,
clubs, and hatchets of flint; some were making a fire under a large
cauldron; and others were preparing spits, crying out one and all, “A
Jesuit! a Jesuit! we shall be revenged; we shall have excellent cheer; let
us eat this Jesuit; let us eat him up.”

“I told you, master,” cried Cacambo, mournfully, “that these two
wenches would play us some scurvy trick.”

Candide, seeing the cauldron and the spits, cried out, “I suppose
they are going either to boil or roast us. Ah! what would Pangloss say if
he were to see how pure nature is formed? Everything is right; it may

42 VOLTAIRE

be so; but I must confess it is something hard to be bereft of dear Miss
Cunegund, and to be spitted like a rabbit by these barbarous Oreillons.”

Cacambo, who never lost his presence of mind in distress, said to
the disconsolate Candide, “Do not despair; I understand a little of the
jargon of these people; I will speak to them.”

“Ay, pray do,” said Candide, “and be sure you make them sensible
of the horrid barbarity of boiling and roasting human creatures, and
how little of Christianity there is in such practices.”

“Gentlemen,” said Cacambo, “you think perhaps you are going to
feast upon a Jesuit; if so, it is mighty well; nothing can be more
agreeable to justice than thus to treat your enemies. Indeed the law of
nature teaches us to kill our neighbor, and accordingly we find this
practiced all over the world; and if we do not indulge ourselves in
eating human flesh, it is because we have much better fare; but for your
parts, who have not such resources as we, it is certainly much better
judged to feast upon your enemies than to throw their bodies to the
fowls of the air; and thus lose all the fruits of your victory.

“But surely, gentlemen, you would not choose to eat your
friends.You imagine you are going to roast a Jesuit, whereas my master
is your friend, your defender, and you are going to spit the very man
who has been destroying your enemies; as to myself, I am your
countryman; this gentleman is my master, and so far from being a
Jesuit, give me leave to tell you he has very lately killed one of that
order, whose spoils he now wears, and which have probably occasioned
your mistake. To convince you of the truth of what I say, take the habit
he has on and carry it to the first barrier of the Jesuits’ kingdom, and
inquire whether my master did not kill one of their officers. There will
be little or no time lost by this, and you may still reserve our bodies in
your power to feast on if you should find what we have told you to be
false. But, on the contrary, if you find it to be true, I am persuaded you
are too well acquainted with the principles of the laws of society,
humanity, and justice, not to use us courteously, and suffer us to depart
unhurt.”

This speech appeared very reasonable to the Oreillons; they
deputed two of their people with all expedition to inquire into the truth
of this affair, who acquitted themselves of their commission like men
of sense, and soon returned with good tidings for our distressed
adventurers. Upon this they were loosed, and those who were so lately
going to roast and boil them now showed them all sorts of civilities,
offered them girls, gave them refreshments, and reconducted them to
the confines of their country, crying before them all the way, in token
of joy, “He is no Jesuit! he is no Jesuit!”

Candide 43

Candide could not help admiring the cause of his
deliverance.”What men! what manners!” cried he. “If I had not
fortunately run my sword up to the hilt in the body of Miss Cunegund’s
brother, I should have certainly been eaten alive. But, after all, pure
nature is an excellent thing; since these people, instead of eating me,
showed me a thousand civilities as soon as they knew was not a Jesuit.”

C H A P T E R 1 7

Candide and His Valet Arrive in the Country of El
Dorado – What They Saw There

When to the frontiers of the Oreillons, said Cacambo to Candide,
“You see, this hemisphere is not better than the other; now take my
advice and let us return to Europe by the shortest way possible.”

“But how can we get back?” said Candide; “and whither shall we
go?To my own country? The Bulgarians and the Abares are laying that
waste with fire and sword. Or shall we go to Portugal? There I shall be
burned; and if we abide here we are every moment in danger of being
spitted. But how can I bring myself to quit that part of the world where
my dear Miss Cunegund has her residence?”

“Let us return towards Cayenne,” said Cacambo. “There we shall
meet with some Frenchmen, for you know those gentry ramble all over
the world. Perhaps they will assist us, and God will look with pity on
our distress.”

It was not so easy to get to Cayenne. They knew pretty nearly
whereabouts it lay; but the mountains, rivers, precipices, robbers,
savages, were dreadful obstacles in the way. Their horses died with
fatigue and their provisions were at an end. They subsisted a whole
month on wild fruit, till at length they came to a little river bordered
with cocoa trees; the sight of which at once revived their drooping
spirits and furnished nourishment for their enfeebled bodies.

Cacambo, who was always giving as good advice as the old
woman herself, said to Candide, “You see there is no holding out any
longer; we have traveled enough on foot. I spy an empty canoe near the
river side; let us fill it with cocoanuts, get into it, and go down with the
stream; a river always leads to some inhabited place. If we do not meet
with agreeable things, we shall at least meet with something new.”

“Agreed,” replied Candide; “let us recommend ourselves to
Providence.”

They rowed a few leagues down the river, the banks of which were
in some places covered with flowers; in others barren; in some parts
smooth and level, and in others steep and rugged. The stream widened
as they went further on, till at length it passed under one of the frightful
rocks, whose summits seemed to reach the clouds. Here our two

Candide 45

travelers had the courage to commit themselves to the stream, which,
contracting in this part, hurried them along with a dreadful noise and
rapidity.

At the end of four and twenty hours they saw daylight again; but
their canoe was dashed to pieces against the rocks. They were obliged
to creep along, from rock to rock, for the space of a league, till at length
a spacious plain presented itself to their sight. This place was bounded
by a chain of inaccessible mountains.The country appeared cultivated
equally for pleasure and to produce the necessaries of life. The useful
and agreeable were here equally blended. The roads were covered, or
rather adorned, with carriages formed of glittering materials, in which
were men and women of a surprising beauty, drawn with great rapidity
by red sheep of a very large size; which far surpassed the finest
coursers of Andalusian Tetuan, or Mecquinez.

“Here is a country, however,” said Candide, “preferable to
Westphalia.”

He and Cacambo landed near the first village they saw, at the
entrance of which they perceived some children covered with tattered
garments of the richest brocade, playing at quoits. Our two inhabitants
of the other hemisphere amused themselves greatly with what they saw.
The quoits were large, round pieces, yellow, red, and green, which cast
a most glorious luster. Our travelers picked some of them up, and they
proved to be gold, emeralds, rubies, and diamonds; the least of which
would have been the greatest ornament to the superb throne of the
Great Mogul.

“Without doubt,” said Cacambo, “those children must be the
King’s sons that are playing at quoits.”

As he was uttering these words the schoolmaster of the village
appeared, who came to call the children to school.

“There,” said Candide, “is the preceptor of the royal family.”
The little ragamuffins immediately quitted their diversion, leaving

the quoits on the ground with all their other playthings.Candide
gathered them up, ran to the schoolmaster, and, with a most respectful
bow, presented them to him, giving him to understand by signs that
their Royal Highnesses had forgot their gold and precious stones. The
schoolmaster, with a smile, flung them upon the ground, then
examining Candide from head to foot with an air of admiration, he
turned his back and went on his way.

Our travelers took care, however, to gather up the gold, the rubies,
and the emeralds.

“Where are we?” cried Candide. “The King’s children in this
country must have an excellent education, since they are taught to show
such a contempt for gold and precious stones.”

46 VOLTAIRE

Cacambo was as much surprised as his master. They then drew
near the first house in the village, which was built after the manner of a
European palace. There was a crowd of people about the door, and a
still greater number in the house. The sound of the most delightful
instruments of music was heard, and the most agreeable smell came
from the kitchen. Cacambo went up to the door and heard those within
talking in the Peruvian language, which was his mother tongue; for
everyone knows that Cacambo was born in a village of Tucuman,
where no other language is spoken.

“I will be your interpreter here,” said he to Candide. “Let us go in;
this is an eating house.”

Immediately two waiters and two servant–girls, dressed in cloth of
gold, and their hair braided with ribbons of tissue, accosted the
strangers and invited them to sit down to the ordinary. Their dinner
consisted of four dishes of different soups, each garnished with two
young paroquets, a large dish of bouille that weighed two hundred
weight, two roasted monkeys of a delicious flavor, three hundred
hummingbirds in one dish, and six hundred flybirds in another; some
excellent ragouts, delicate tarts, and the whole served up in dishes of
rock–crystal. Several sorts of liquors, extracted from the sugarcane,
were handed about by the servants who attended.

Most of the company were chapmen and wagoners, all extremely
polite; they asked Cacambo a few questions with the utmost discretion
and circumspection; and replied to his in a most obliging and
satisfactory manner.

As soon as dinner was over, both Candide and Cacambo thought
they should pay very handsomely for their entertainment by laying
down two of those large gold pieces which they had picked off the
ground; but the landlord and landlady burst into a fit of laughing and
held their sides for some time.

When the fit was over, the landlord said, “Gentlemen, I plainly
perceive you are strangers, and such we are not accustomed to charge;
pardon us, therefore, for laughing when you offered us the common
pebbles of our highways for payment of your reckoning. To be sure,
you have none of the coin of this kingdom; but there is no necessity of
having any money at all to dine in this house. All the inns, which are
established for the convenience of those who carry on the trade of this
nation, are maintained by the government. You have found but very
indifferent entertainment here, because this is only a poor village; but
in almost every other of these public houses you will meet with a
reception worthy of persons of your merit.”

Candide 47

Cacambo explained the whole of this speech of the landlord to
Candide, who listened to it with the same astonishment with which his
friend communicated it.

“What sort of a country is this,” said the one to the other, “that is
unknown to all the world; and in which Nature has everywhere so
different an appearance to what she has in ours? Possibly this is that
part of the globe where everywhere is right, for there must certainly be
some such place. And, for all that Master Pangloss could say, I often
perceived that things went very ill in Westphalia.”

C H A P T E R 1 8

What They Saw in the Country of El Dorado

Cacambo vented all his curiosity upon his landlord by a thousand
different questions; the honest man answered him thus, “I am very
ignorant, sir, but I am contented with my ignorance; however, we have
in this neighborhood an old man retired from court, who is the most
learned and communicative person in the whole kingdom.”

He then conducted Cacambo to the old man; Candide acted now
only a second character, and attended his valet. They entered a very
plain house, for the door was nothing but silver, and the ceiling was
only of beaten gold, but wrought in such elegant taste as to vie with the
richest. The antechamber, indeed, was only incrusted with rubies and
emeralds; but the order in which everything was disposed made amends
for this great simplicity.

The old man received the strangers on his sofa, which was stuffed
with hummingbirds’ feathers; and ordered his servants to present them
with liquors in golden goblets, after which he satisfied their curiosity in
the following terms.

“I am now one hundred and seventy–two years old, and I learned
of my late father, who was equerry to the King, the amazing
revolutions of Peru, to which he had been an eyewitness. This kingdom
is the ancient patrimony of the Incas, who very imprudently quitted it to
conquer another part of the world, and were at length conquered and
destroyed themselves by the Spaniards.

“Those princes of their family who remained in their native
country acted more wisely. They ordained, with the consent of their
whole nation, that none of the inhabitants of our little kingdom should
ever quit it; and to this wise ordinance we owe the preservation of our
innocence and happiness. The Spaniards had some confused notion of
this country, to which they gave the name of El Dorado; and Sir Walter
Raleigh, an Englishman, actually came very near it about three hundred
years ago; but the inaccessible rocks and precipices with which our
country is surrounded on all sides, has hitherto secured us from the
rapacious fury of the people of Europe, who have an unaccountable
fondness for the pebbles and dirt of our land, for the sake of which they
would murder us all to the very last man.”

Candide 49

The conversation lasted some time and turned chiefly on the form
of government, their manners, their women, their public diversions, and
the arts. At length, Candide, who had always had a taste for
metaphysics, asked whether the people of that country had any religion.

The old man reddened a little at this question.
“Can you doubt it?” said he; “do you take us for wretches lost to

all sense of gratitude?”
Cacambo asked in a respectful manner what was the established

religion of El Dorado. The old man blushed again and said, “Can there
be two religions, then? Ours, I apprehend, is the religion of the whole
world; we worship God from morning till night.”

“Do you worship but one God?” said Cacambo, who still acted as
the interpreter of Candide’s doubts.

“Certainly,” said the old man; “there are not two, nor three, nor
four Gods. I must confess the people of your world ask very
extraordinary questions.”

However, Candide could not refrain from making many more
inquiries of the old man; he wanted to know in what manner they
prayed to God in El Dorado.

“We do not pray to Him at all,” said the reverend sage; “we have
nothing to ask of Him, He has given us all we want, and we give Him
thanks incessantly.”

Candide had a curiosity to see some of their priests, and desired
Cacambo to ask the old man where they were. At which he smiling
said, “My friends, we are all of us priests; the King and all the heads of
families sing solemn hymns of thanksgiving every morning,
accompanied by five or six thousand musicians.”

“What!” said Cacambo, “have you no monks among you to
dispute, to govern, to intrigue, and to burn people who are not of the
same opinion with themselves?”

“Do you take us for fools?” said the old man. “Here we are all of
one opinion, and know not what you mean by your monks.”

During the whole of this discourse Candide was in raptures, and he
said to himself, “What a prodigious difference is there between this
place and Westphalia; and this house and the Baron’s castle. Ah,
Master Pangloss! had you ever seen El Dorado, you would no longer
have maintained that the castle of Thunder–ten–tronckh was the finest
of all possible edifices; there is nothing like seeing the world, that’s
certain.”

This long conversation being ended, the old man ordered six sheep
to be harnessed and put to the coach, and sent twelve of his servants to
escort the travelers to court.

50 VOLTAIRE

“Excuse me,” said he, “for not waiting on you in person, my age
deprives me of that honor. The King will receive you in such a manner
that you will have no reason to complain; and doubtless you will make
a proper allowance for the customs of the country if they should not
happen altogether to please you.”

Candide and Cacambo got into the coach, the six sheep flew, and,
in less than a quarter of an hour, they arrived at the King’s palace,
which was situated at the further end of the capital. At the entrance was
a portal two hundred and twenty feet high and one hundred wide; but it
is impossible for words to express the materials of which it was built.
The reader, however, will readily conceive that they must have a
prodigious superiority over the pebbles and sand, which we call gold
and precious stones.

Twenty beautiful young virgins in waiting received Candide and
Cacambo on their alighting from the coach, conducted them to the bath
and clad them in robes woven of the down of hummingbirds; after
which they were introduced by the great officers of the crown of both
sexes to the King’s apartment, between two files of musicians, each file
consisting of a thousand, agreeable to the custom of the country.

When they drew near to the presence–chamber, Cacambo asked
one of the officers in what manner they were to pay their obeisance to
His Majesty; whether it was the custom to fall upon their knees, or to
prostrate themselves upon the ground; whether they were to put their
hands upon their heads, or behind their backs; whether they were to lick
the dust off the floor; in short, what was the ceremony usual on such
occasions.

“The custom,” said the great officer, “is to embrace the King and
kiss him on each cheek.”

Candide and Cacambo accordingly threw their arms round His
Majesty’s neck, who received them in the most gracious manner
imaginable, and very politely asked them to sup with him.

While supper was preparing, orders were given to show them the
city, where they saw public structures that reared their lofty heads to
the clouds; the marketplaces decorated with a thousand columns;
fountains of spring water, besides others of rose water, and of liquors
drawn from the sugarcane, incessantly flowing in the great squares,
which were paved with a kind of precious stones that emitted an odor
like that of cloves and cinnamon.

Candide asked to see the High Court of justice, the Parliament; but
was answered that they had none in that country, being utter strangers
to lawsuits. He then inquired if they had any prisons; they replied none.
But what gave him at once the greatest surprise and pleasure was the
Palace of Sciences, where he saw a gallery two thousand feet long,

Candide 51

filled with the various apparatus in mathematics and natural
philosophy.

After having spent the whole afternoon in seeing only about the
thousandth part of the city, they were brought back to the King’s
palace. Candide sat down at the table with His Majesty, his valet
Cacambo, and several ladies of the court. Never was entertainment
more elegant, nor could any one possibly show more wit than His
Majesty displayed while they were at supper. Cacambo explained all
the King’s bons mots to Candide, and, although they were translated,
they still appeared to be bons mots. Of all the things that surprised
Candide, this was not the least.

They spent a whole month in this hospitable place, during which
time Candide was continually saying to Cacambo, “I own, my friend,
once more, that the castle where I was born is a mere nothing in
comparison to the place where we now are; but still Miss Cunegund is
not here, and you yourself have doubtless some fair one in Europe for
whom you sigh. If we remain here we shall only be as others are;
whereas if we return to our own world with only a dozen of El Dorado
sheep, loaded with the pebbles of this country, we shall be richer than
all the kings in Europe; we shall no longer need to stand in awe of the
Inquisitors; and we may easily recover Miss Cunegund.”

This speech was perfectly agreeable to Cacambo. A fondness for
roving, for making a figure in their own country, and for boasting of
what they had seen in their travels, was so powerful in our two
wanderers that they resolved to be no longer happy; and demanded
permission of the King to quit the country.

“You are about to do a rash and silly action,” said the King. “I am
sensible my kingdom is an inconsiderable spot; but when people are
tolerably at their ease in any place, I should think it would be to their
interest to remain there. Most assuredly, I have no right to detain you,
or any strangers, against your wills; this is an act of tyranny to which
our manners and our laws are equally repugnant. All men are by nature
free; you have therefore an undoubted liberty to depart whenever you
please, but you will have many and great difficulties to encounter in
passing the frontiers. It is impossible to ascend that rapid river which
runs under high and vaulted rocks, and by which you were conveyed
hither by a kind of miracle. The mountains by which my kingdom are
hemmed in on all sides, are ten thousand feet high, and perfectly
perpendicular; they are above ten leagues across, and the descent from
them is one continued precipice.

“However, since you are determined to leave us, I will
immediately give orders to the superintendent of my carriages to cause
one to be made that will convey you very safely. When they have

52 VOLTAIRE

conducted you to the back of the mountains, nobody can attend you
farther; for my subjects have made a vow never to quit the kingdom,
and they are too prudent to break it. Ask me whatever else you please.”

“All we shall ask of Your Majesty,” said Cacambo, “is only a few
sheep laden with provisions, pebbles, and the clay of your country.”

The King smiled at the request and said, “I cannot imagine what
pleasure you Europeans find in our yellow clay; but take away as much
of it as you will, and much good may it do you.”

He immediately gave orders to his engineers to make a machine to
hoist these two extraordinary men out of the kingdom. Three thousand
good machinists went to work and finished it in about fifteen days, and
it did not cost more than twenty millions sterling of that country’s
money. Candide and Cacambo were placed on this machine, and they
took with them two large red sheep, bridled and saddled, to ride upon,
when they got on the other side of the mountains; twenty others to
serve as sumpters for carrying provisions; thirty laden with presents of
whatever was most curious in the country, and fifty with gold,
diamonds, and other precious stones. The King, at parting with our two
adventurers, embraced them with the greatest cordiality.

It was a curious sight to behold the manner of their setting off, and
the ingenious method by which they and their sheep were hoisted to the
top of the mountains. The machinists and engineers took leave of them
as soon as they had conveyed them to a place of safety, and Candide
was wholly occupied with the thoughts of presenting his sheep to Miss
Cunegund.

“Now,” cried he, “thanks to Heaven, we have more than sufficient
to pay the Governor of Buenos Ayres for Miss Cunegund, if she is
redeemable. Let us make the best of our way to Cayenne, where we
will take shipping and then we may at leisure think of what kingdom
we shall purchase with our riches.”

C H A P T E R 1 9

What Happened to Them at Surinam, and How Candide
Became Acquainted with Martin

Our travelers’ first day’s journey was very pleasant; they were
elated with the prospect of possessing more riches than were to be
found in Europe, Asia, and Africa together. Candide, in amorous
transports, cut the name of Miss Cunegund on almost every tree he
came to. The second day two of their sheep sunk in a morass, and were
swallowed up with their Jading; two more died of fatigue; some few
days afterwards seven or eight perished with hunger in a desert, and
others, at different times, tumbled down precipices, or were otherwise
lost, so that, after traveling about a hundred days they had only two
sheep left of the hundred and two they brought with them from El
Dorado.

Said Candide to Cacambo, “You see, my dear friend, how
perishable the riches of this world are; there is nothing solid but virtue.”

“Very true,” said Cacambo, “but we have still two sheep
remaining, with more treasure than ever the King of Spain will be
possessed of; and I espy a town at a distance, which I take to be
Surinam, a town belonging to the Dutch. We are now at the end of our
troubles, and at the beginning of happiness.”

As they drew near the town they saw a Negro stretched on the
ground with only one half of his habit, which was a kind of linen frock;
for the poor man had lost his left leg and his right hand.

“Good God,” said Candide in Dutch, “what dost thou here, friend,
in this deplorable condition?”

“I am waiting for my master, Mynheer Vanderdendur, the famous
trader,” answered the Negro.

“Was it Mynheer Vanderdendur that used you in this cruel
manner?”

“Yes, sir,” said the Negro; “it is the custom here. They give a linen
garment twice a year, and that is all our covering. When we labor in the
sugar works, and the mill happens to snatch hold of a finger, they
instantly chop off our hand; and when we attempt to run away, they cut
off a leg. Both these cases have happened to me, and it is at this
expense that you eat sugar in Europe; and yet when my mother sold me

54 VOLTAIRE

for ten patacoons on the coast of Guinea, she said to me, ‘My dear
child, bless our fetishes; adore them forever; they will make thee live
happy; thou hast the honor to be a slave to our lords the whites, by
which thou wilt make the fortune of us thy parents.’

“Alas! I know not whether I have made their fortunes; but they
have not made mine; dogs, monkeys, and parrots are a thousand times
less wretched than I. The Dutch fetishes who converted me tell me
every Sunday that the blacks and whites are all children of one father,
whom they call Adam. As for me, I do not understand anything of
genealogies; but if what these preachers say is true, we are all second
cousins; and you must allow that it is impossible to be worse treated by
our relations than we are.”

“O Pangloss!” cried out Candide, “such horrid doings never
entered thy imagination. Here is an end of the matter. I find myself,
after all, obliged to renounce thy Optimism.”

“Optimism,” said Cacambo, “what is that?”
“Alas!” replied Candide, “it is the obstinacy of maintaining that

everything is best when it is worst.”
And so saying he turned his eyes towards the poor Negro, and shed

a flood of tears; and in this weeping mood he entered the town of
Surinam.

Immediately upon their arrival our travelers inquired if there was
any vessel in the harbor which they might send to Buenos Ayres. The
person they addressed themselves to happened to be the master of a
Spanish bark, who offered to agree with them on moderate terms, and
appointed them a meeting at a public house. Thither Candide and his
faithful Cacambo went to wait for him, taking with them their two
sheep.

Candide, who was all frankness and sincerity, made an ingenuous
recital of his adventures to the Spaniard, declaring to him at the same
time his resolution of carrying off Miss Cunegund from the Governor
of Buenos Ayres.

“Oh, ho!” said the shipmaster, “if that is the case, get whom you
please to carry you to Buenos Ayres; for my part, I wash my hands of
the affair. It would prove a hanging matter to us all. The fair Cunegund
is the Governor’s favorite mistress.”

These words were like a clap of thunder to Candide; he wept
bitterly for a long time, and, taking Cacambo aside, he said to him, “I’ll
tell you, my dear friend, what you must do. We have each of us in our
pockets to the value of five or six millions in diamonds; you are
cleverer at these matters than I; you must go to Buenos Ayres and bring
off Miss Cunegund. If the Governor makes any difficulty give him a
million; if he holds out, give him two; as you have not killed an

Candide 55

Inquisitor, they will have no suspicion of you. I’ll fit out another ship
and go to Venice, where I will wait for you. Venice is a free country,
where we shall have nothing to fear from Bulgarians, Abares, Jews or
Inquisitors.”

Cacambo greatly applauded this wise resolution. He was
inconsolable at the thoughts of parting with so good a master, who
treated him more like an intimate friend than a servant; but the pleasure
of being able to do him a service soon got the better of his sorrow.
They embraced each other with a flood of tears. Candide charged him
not to forget the old woman. Cacambo set out the same day.This
Cacambo was a very honest fellow.

Candide continued some days longer at Surinam, waiting for any
captain to carry him and his two remaining sheep to Italy. He hired
domestics, and purchased many things necessary for a long voyage; at
length Mynheer Vanderdendur, skipper of a large Dutch vessel, came
and offered his service.

“What will you have,” said Candide, “to carry me, my servants,
my baggage, and these two sheep you see here, directly to Venice?”

The skipper asked ten thousand piastres, and Candide agreed to his
demand without hestitation.

“Ho, ho!” said the cunning Vanderdendur to himself, “this stranger
must be very rich; he agrees to give me ten thousand piastres without
hesitation.”

Returning a little while after, he told Candide that upon second
consideration he could not undertake the voyage for less than twenty
thousand.

“Very well; you shall have them,” said Candide.
“Zounds!” said the skipper to himself, “this man agrees to pay

twenty thousand piastres with as much ease as ten.”
Accordingly he went back again, and told him roundly that he

would not carry him to Venice for less than thirty thousand piastres.
“Then you shall have thirty thousand,” said Candide.
“Odso!” said the Dutchman once more to himself, “thirty thousand

piastres seem a trifle to this man. Those sheep must certainly be laden
with an immense treasure. I’ll e’en stop here and ask no more; but
make him pay down the thirty thousand piastres, and then we may see
what is to be done farther.”

Candide sold two small diamonds, the least of which was worth
more than all the skipper asked. He paid him beforehand, the two sheep
were put on board, and Candide followed in a small boat to join the
vessel in the road. The skipper took advantage of his opportunity,
hoisted sail, and put out to sea with a favorable wind. Candide,
confounded and amazed, soon lost sight of the ship.

56 VOLTAIRE

“Alas!” said he, “this is a trick like those in our old world!”
He returned back to the shore overwhelmed with grief; and,

indeed, he had lost what would have made the fortune of twenty
monarchs.

Straightway upon his landing he applied to the Dutch magistrate;
being transported with passion he thundered at the door, which being
opened, he went in, told his case, and talked a little louder than was
necessary. The magistrate began with fining him ten thousand piastres
for his petulance, and then listened very patiently to what he had to say,
promised to examine into the affair on the skipper’s return, and ordered
him to pay ten thousand piastres more for the fees of the court.

This treatment put Candide out of all patience; it is true, he had
suffered misfortunes a thousand times more grievous, but the cool
insolence of the judge, and the villainy of the skipper raised his choler
and threw him into a deep melancholy. The villainy of mankind
presented itself to his mind in all its deformity, and his soul was a prey
to the most gloomy ideas. After some time, hearing that the captain of a
French ship was ready to set sail for Bordeaux, as he had no more
sheep loaded with diamonds to put on board, he hired the cabin at the
usual price; and made it known in the town that he would pay the
passage and board of any honest man who would give him his company
during the voyage; besides making him a present of ten thousand
piastres, on condition that such person was the most dissatisfied with
his condition, and the most unfortunate in the whole province.

Upon this there appeared such a crowd of candidates that a large
fleet could not have contained them. Candide, willing to choose from
among those who appeared most likely to answer his intention, selected
twenty, who seemed to him the most sociable, and who all pretended to
merit the preference. He invited them to his inn, and promised to treat
them with a supper, on condition that every man should bind himself
by an oath to relate his own history; declaring at the same time, that he
would make choice of that person who should appear to him the most
deserving of compassion, and the most justly dissatisfied with his
condition in life; and that he would make a present to the rest.

This extraordinary assembly continued sitting till four in the
morning. Candide, while he was listening to their adventures, called to
mind what the old woman had said to him in their voyage to Buenos
Ayres, and the wager she had laid that there was not a person on board
the ship but had met with great misfortunes. Every story he heard put
him in mind of Pangloss.

“My old master,” said he, “would be confoundedly put to it to
demonstrate his favorite system. Would he were here! Certainly if

Candide 57

everything is for the best, it is in El Dorado, and not in the other parts
of the world.”

At length he determined in favor of a poor scholar, who had
labored ten years for the booksellers at Amsterdam: being of opinion
that no employment could be more detestable.

This scholar, who was in fact a very honest man, had been robbed
by his wife, beaten by his son, and forsaken by his daughter, who had
run away with a Portuguese. He had been likewise deprived of a small
employment on which he subsisted, and he was persecuted by the
clergy of Surinam, who took him for a Socinian. It must be
acknowledged that the other competitors were, at least, as wretched as
he; but Candide was in hopes that the company of a man of letters
would relieve the tediousness of the voyage. All the other candidates
complained that Candide had done them great injustice, but he stopped
their mouths by a present of a hundred piastres to each.

C H A P T E R 2 0

What Befell Candide and Martin on Their Passage

The old philosopher, whose name was Martin, took shipping with
Candide for Bordeaux. Both had seen and suffered a great deal, and had
the ship been going from Surinam to Japan round the Cape of Good
Hope, they could have found sufficient entertainment for each other
during the whole voyage, in discoursing upon moral and natural evil.

Candide, however, had one advantage over Martin: he lived in the
pleasing hopes of seeing Miss Cunegund once more; whereas, the poor
philosopher had nothing to hope for. Besides, Candide had money and
jewels, and, not withstanding he had lost a hundred red sheep laden
with the greatest treasure outside of El Dorado, and though he still
smarted from the reflection of the Dutch skipper’s knavery, yet when
he considered what he had still left, and repeated the name of
Cunegund, especially after meal times, he inclined to Pangloss’s
doctrine.

“And pray,” said he to Martin, “what is your opinion of the whole
of this system? What notion have you of moral and natural evil?”

“Sir,” replied Martin, “our priest accused me of being a Socinian;
but the real truth is, I am a Manichaean.”

“Nay, now you are jesting,” said Candide; “there are no
Manichaeans existing at present in the world.”

“And yet I am one,” said Martin; “but I cannot help it. I cannot for
the soul of me think otherwise.”

“Surely the Devil must be in you,” said Candide.
“He concerns himself so much,” replied Martin, “in the affairs of

this world that it is very probable he may be in me as well as
everywhere else; but I must confess, when I cast my eye on this globe,
or rather globule, I cannot help thinking that God has abandoned it to
some malignant being. I always except El Dorado. I scarce ever knew a
city that did not wish the destruction of its neighboring city; nor a
family that did not desire to exterminate some other family. The poor in
all parts of the world bear an inveterate hatred to the rich, even while
they creep and cringe to them; and the rich treat the poor like sheep,
whose wool and flesh they barter for money; a million of regimented
assassins traverse Europe from one end to the other, to get their bread

Candide 59

by regular depredation and murder, because it is the most
gentlemanlike profession. Even in those cities which seem to enjoy the
blessings of peace, and where the arts flourish, the inhabitants are
devoured with envy, care, and inquietudes, which are greater plagues
than any experienced in a town besieged. Private chagrins are still more
dreadful than public calamities. In a word,” concluded the philosopher,
“I have seen and suffered so much that I am a Manichaean.”

“And yet there is some good in the world,” replied Candide.
“Maybe so,” said Martin, “but it has escaped my knowledge.”
While they were deeply engaged in this dispute they heard the

report of cannon, which redoubled every moment. Each took out his
glass, and they spied two ships warmly engaged at the distance of about
three miles. The wind brought them both so near the French ship that
those on board her had the pleasure of seeing the fight with great
ease.After several smart broadsides the one gave the other a shot
between wind and water which sunk her outright. Then could Candide
and Martin plainly perceive a hundred men on the deck of the vessel
which was sinking, who, with hands uplifted to Heaven, sent forth
piercing cries, and were in a moment swallowed up by the waves.

“Well,” said Martin, “you now see in what manner mankind treat
one another.”

“It is certain,” said Candide, “that there is something diabolical in
this affair.” As he was speaking thus he spied something of a shining
red hue, which swam close to the vessel. The boat was hoisted out to
see what it might be, when it proved to be one of his sheep. Candide
felt more joy at the recovery of this one animal than he did grief when
he lost the other hundred, though laden with the large diamonds of El
Dorado.

The French captain quickly perceived that the victorious ship
belonged to the crown of Spain; that the other was a Dutch pirate, and
the very same captain who had robbed Candide. The immense riches
which this villain had amassed, were buried with him in the deep, and
only this one sheep saved out of the whole.

“You see,” said Candide to Martin, “that vice is sometimes
punished.This villain, the Dutch skipper, has met with the fate he
deserved.”

“Very true,” said Martin, “but why should the passengers be
doomed also to destruction? God has punished the knave, and the Devil
has drowned the rest.”

The French and Spanish ships continued their cruise, and Candide
and Martin their conversation. They disputed fourteen days
successively, at the end of which they were just as far advanced as the
first moment they began. However, they had the satisfaction of

60 VOLTAIRE

disputing, of communicating their ideas, and of mutually comforting
each other.Candide embraced his sheep with transport.

“Since I have found thee again,” said he, “I may possibly find my
Cunegund once more.”

C H A P T E R 2 1

Candide and Martin, While Thus Reasoning with Each
Other, Draw Near to the Coast of France

At length they descried the coast of France, when Candide said to
Martin, “Pray Monsieur Martin, were you ever in France?”

“Yes, sir,” said Martin, “I have been in several provinces of that
kingdom. In some, one half of the people are fools and madmen; in
some, they are too artful; in others, again, they are, in general, either
very good–natured or very brutal; while in others, they affect to be
witty, and in all, their ruling passion is love, the next is slander, and the
last is to talk nonsense.”

“But, pray, Monsieur Martin, were you ever in Paris?”
“Yes, sir, I have been in that city, and it is a place that contains the

several species just described; it is a chaos, a confused multitude, where
everyone seeks for pleasure without being able to find it; at least, as far
as I have observed during my short stay in that city. At my arrival I was
robbed of all I had in the world by pickpockets and sharpers, at the fair
of Saint–Germain. I was taken up myself for a robber, and confined in
prison a whole week; after which I hired myself as corrector to a press
in order to get a little money towards defraying my expenses back to
Holland on foot.I knew the whole tribe of scribblers, malcontents, and
fanatics. It is said the people of that city are very polite; I believe they
may be.”

“For my part, I have no curiosity to see France,” said Candide.
“You may easily conceive, my friend, that after spending a month in El
Dorado, I can desire to behold nothing upon earth but Miss Cunegund.
I am going to wait for her at Venice. I intend to pass through France, on
my way to Italy. Will you not bear me company?”

“With all my heart,” said Martin. “They say Venice is agreeable to
none but noble Venetians, but that, nevertheless, strangers are well
received there when they have plenty of money; now I have none, but
you have, therefore I will attend you wherever you please.”

“Now we are upon this subject,” said Candide, “do you think that
the earth was originally sea, as we read in that great book which
belongs to the captain of the ship?”

62 VOLTAIRE

“I believe nothing of it,” replied Martin, “any more than I do of the
many other chimeras which have been related to us for some time
past.”

“But then, to what end,” said Candide, “was the world formed?”
“To make us mad,” said Martin.
“Are you not surprised,” continued Candide, “at the love which the

two girls in the country of the Oreillons had for those two monkeys? –
You know I have told you the story.”

“Surprised?” replied Martin, “not in the least. I see nothing strange
in this passion. I have seen so many extraordinary things that there is
nothing extraordinary to me now.”

“Do you think,” said Candide, “that mankind always massacred
one another as they do now? Were they always guilty of lies, fraud,
treachery, ingratitude, inconstancy, envy, ambition, and cruelty? Were
they always thieves, fools, cowards, gluttons, drunkards, misers,
calumniators, debauchees, fanatics, and hypocrites?”

“Do you believe,” said Martin, “that hawks have always been
accustomed to eat pigeons when they came in their way?”

“Doubtless,” said Candide.
“Well then,” replied Martin, “if hawks have always had the same

nature, why should you pretend that mankind change theirs?”
“Oh,” said Candide, “there is a great deal of difference; for free

will –” and reasoning thus they arrived at Bordeaux.

C H A P T E R 2 2

What Happened to Candide and Martin in France

Candide stayed no longer at Bordeaux than was necessary to
dispose of a few of the pebbles he had brought from El Dorado, and to
provide himself with a post–chaise for two persons, for he could no
longer stir a step without his philosopher Martin. The only thing that
give him concern was being obliged to leave his sheep behind him,
which he intrusted to the care of the Academy of Sciences at Bordeaux,
who proposed, as a prize subject for the year, to prove why the wool of
this sheep was red; and the prize was adjudged to a northern sage, who
demonstrated by A plus B, minus C, divided by Z, that the sheep must
necessarily be red, and die of the mange.

In the meantime, all travelers whom Candide met with in the inns,
or on the road, told him to a man, that they were going to Paris. This
general eagerness gave him likewise a great desire to see this capital;
and it was not much out of his way to Venice.

He entered the city by the suburbs of Saint–Marceau, and thought
himself in one of the vilest hamlets in all Westphalia.

Candide had not been long at his inn, before he was seized with a
slight disorder, owing to the fatigue he had undergone. As he wore a
diamond of an enormous size on his finger and had among the rest of
his equipage a strong box that seemed very weighty, he soon found
himself between two physicians, whom he had not sent for, a number
of intimate friends whom he had never seen, and who would not quit
his bedside, and two women devotees, who were very careful in
providing him hot broths.

“I remember,” said Martin to him, “that the first time I came to
Paris I was likewise taken ill. I was very poor, and accordingly I had
neither friends, nurses, nor physicians, and yet I did very well.”

However, by dint of purging and bleeding, Candide’s disorder
became very serious. The priest of the parish came with all imaginable
politeness to desire a note of him, payable to the bearer in the other
world. Candide refused to comply with his request; but the two
devotees assured him that it was a new fashion. Candide replied, that he
was not one that followed the fashion. Martin was for throwing the
priest out of the window. The clerk swore Candide should not have

64 VOLTAIRE

Christian burial. Martin swore in his turn that he would bury the clerk
alive if he continued to plague them any longer. The dispute grew
warm; Martin took him by the shoulders and turned him out of the
room, which gave great scandal, and occasioned a proces–verbal.

Candide recovered, and till he was in a condition to go abroad had
a great deal of good company to pass the evenings with him in his
chamber. They played deep. Candide was surprised to find he could
never turn a trick; and Martin was not at all surprised at the matter.

Among those who did him the honors of the place was a little
spruce abbe of Perigord, one of those insinuating, busy, fawning,
impudent, necessary fellows, that lay wait for strangers on their arrival,
tell them all the scandal of the town, and offer to minister to their
pleasures at various prices. This man conducted Candide and Martin to
the playhouse; they were acting a new tragedy.Candide found himself
placed near a cluster of wits: this, however, did not prevent him from
shedding tears at some parts of the piece which were most affecting,
and best acted.

One of these talkers said to him between acts, “You are greatly to
blame to shed tears; that actress plays horribly, and the man that plays
with her still worse, and the piece itself is still more execrable than the
representation. The author does not understand a word of Arabic, and
yet he has laid his scene in Arabia, and what is more, he is a fellow
who does not believe in innate ideas. Tomorrow I will bring you a
score of pamphlets that have been written against him.”

“Pray, sir,” said Candide to the abbe, “how many theatrical pieces
have you in France?”

“Five or six thousand,” replied the abbe.
“Indeed! that is a great number,” said Candide, “but how many

good ones may there be?”
“About fifteen or sixteen.”
“Oh! that is a great number,” said Martin.
Candide was greatly taken with an actress, who performed the part

of Queen Elizabeth in a dull kind of tragedy that is played sometimes.
“That actress,” said he to Martin, “pleases me greatly; she has

some sort of resemblance to Miss Cunegund. I should be very glad to
pay my respects to her.”

The abbe of Perigord offered his service to introduce him to her at
her own house. Candide, who was brought up in Germany, desired to
know what might be the ceremonial used on those occasions, and how a
queen of England was treated in France.

“There is a necessary distinction to be observed in these matters,”
said the abbe. “In a country town we take them to a tavern; here in
Paris, they are treated with great respect during their lifetime, provided

Candide 65

they are handsome, and when they die we throw their bodies upon a
dunghill.”

“How?” said Candide, “throw a queen’s body upon a dunghill!”
“The gentleman is quite right,” said Martin, “he tells you nothing

but the truth. I happened to be at Paris when Miss Monimia made her
exit, as one may say, out of this world into another. She was refused
what they call here the rites of sepulture; that is to say, she was denied
the privilege of rotting in a churchyard by the side of all the beggars in
the parish. They buried her at the corner of Burgundy Street, which
must certainly have shocked her extremely, as she had very exalted
notions of things.”

“This is acting very impolitely,” said Candide.
“Lord!” said Martin, “what can be said to it? It is the way of these

people. Figure to yourself all the contradictions, all the inconsistencies
possible, and you may meet with them in the government, the courts of
justice, the churches, and the public spectacles of this odd nation.”

“Is it true,” said Candide, “that the people of Paris are always
laughing?”

“Yes,” replied the abbe, “but it is with anger in their hearts; they
express all their complaints by loud bursts of laughter, and commit the
most detestable crimes with a smile on their faces.”

“Who was that great overgrown beast,” said Candide, “who spoke
so ill to me of the piece with which I was so much affected, and of the
players who gave me so much pleasure?”

“A very good–for–nothing sort of a man I assure you,” answered
the abbe, “one who gets his livelihood by abusing every new book and
play that is written or performed; he dislikes much to see anyone meet
with success, like eunuchs, who detest everyone that possesses those
powers they are deprived of; he is one of those vipers in literature who
nourish themselves with their own venom; a pamphlet–monger.”

“A pamphlet–monger!” said Candide, “what is that?”
“Why, a pamphlet–monger,” replied the abbe, “is a writer of

pamphlets – a fool.”
Candide, Martin, and the abbe of Perigord argued thus on the

staircase, while they stood to see the people go out of the playhouse.
“Though I am very anxious to see Miss Cunegund again,” said

Candide, “yet I have a great inclination to sup with Miss Clairon, for I
am really much taken with her.”

The abbe was not a person to show his face at this lady’s house,
which was frequented by none but the best company.

“She is engaged this evening,” said he, “but I will do myself the
honor to introduce you to a lady of quality of my acquaintance, at

66 VOLTAIRE

whose house you will see as much of the manners of Paris as if you had
lived here for forty years.”

Candide, who was naturally curious, suffered himself to be
conducted to this lady’s house, which was in the suburbs of Saint–
Honore. The company was engaged at basser; twelve melancholy
punters held each in his hand a small pack of cards, the corners of
which were doubled down, and were so many registers of their ill
fortune. A profound silence reigned throughout the assembly, a pallid
dread had taken possession of the countenances of the punters, and
restless inquietude stretched every muscle of the face of him who kept
the bank; and the lady of the house, who was seated next to him,
observed with lynx’s eyes every play made, and noted those who
tallied, and made them undouble their cards with a severe exactness,
though mixed with a politeness, which she thought necessary not to
frighten away her customers. This lady assumed the title of
Marchioness of Parolignac.Her daughter, a girl of about fifteen years of
age, was one of the punters, and took care to give her mamma a hint, by
signs, when any one of the players attempted to repair the rigor of their
ill fortune by a little innocent deception. The company were thus
occupied when Candide, Martin, and the abbe made their entrance; not
a creature rose to salute them, or indeed took the least notice of them,
being wholly intent upon the business at hand.

“Ah!” said Candide, “My Lady Baroness of Thunder–ten–tronckh
would have behaved more civilly.”

However, the abbe whispered in the ear of the Marchioness, who
half raising herself from her seat, honored Candide with a gracious
smile, and gave Martin a nod of her head, with an air of inexpressible
dignity. She then ordered a seat for Candide, and desired him to make
one of their party at play; he did so, and in a few deals lost near a
thousand pieces; after which they supped very elegantly, and everyone
was surprised at seeing Candide lose so much money without appearing
to be the least disturbed at it. The servants in waiting said to each other,
“This is certainly some English lord.”

The supper was like most others of its kind in Paris. At first
everyone was silent; then followed a few confused murmurs, and
afterwards several insipid jokes passed and repassed, with false reports,
false reasonings, a little politics, and a great deal of scandal. The
conversation then turned upon the new productions in literature.

“Pray,” said the abbe, “good folks, have you seen the romance
written by a certain Gauchat, Doctor of Divinity?”

“Yes,” answered one of the company, “but I had not patience to go
through it. The town is pestered with a swarm of impertinent
productions, but this of Dr. Gauchat’s outdoes them all. In short, I was

Candide 67

so cursedly tired of reading this vile stuff that I even resolved to come
here, and make a party at basset.”

“But what say you to the archdeacon T–’s miscellaneous
collection,” said the abbe.

“Oh my God!” cried the Marchioness of Parolignac, “never
mention the tedious creature! Only think what pains he is at to tell one
things that all the world knows; and how he labors an argument that is
hardly worth the slightest consideration! how absurdly he makes use of
other people’s wit! how miserably he mangles what he has pilfered
from them! The man makes me quite sick! A few pages of the good
archdeacon are enough in conscience to satisfy anyone.”

There was at the table a person of learning and taste, who
supported what the Marchioness had advanced. They next began to talk
of tragedies. The lady desired to know how it came about that there
were several tragedies, which still continued to be played, though they
would not bear reading? The man of taste explained very clearly how a
piece may be in some manner interesting without having a grain of
merit. He showed, in a few words, that it is not sufficient to throw
together a few incidents that are to be met with in every romance, and
that to dazzle the spectator the thoughts should be new, without being
farfetched; frequently sublime, but always natural; the author should
have a thorough knowledge of the human heart and make it speak
properly; he should be a complete poet, without showing an affectation
of it in any of the characters of his piece; he should be a perfect master
of his language, speak it with all its purity, and with the utmost
harmony, and yet so as not to make the sense a slave to the rhyme.

“Whoever,” added he, “neglects any one of these rules, though he
may write two or three tragedies with tolerable success, will never be
reckoned in the number of good authors. There are very few good
tragedies; some are idylls, in very well–written and harmonious
dialogue; and others a chain of political reasonings that set one asleep,
or else pompous and high–flown amplification, that disgust rather than
please. Others again are the ravings of a madman, in an uncouth style,
unmeaning flights, or long apostrophes to the deities, for want of
knowing how to address mankind; in a word a collection of false
maxims and dull commonplace.”

Candide listened to this discourse with great attention, and
conceived a high opinion of the person who delivered it; and as the
Marchioness had taken care to place him near her side, he took the
liberty to whisper her softly in the ear and ask who this person was that
spoke so well.

“He is a man of letters,” replied Her Ladyship, “who never plays,
and whom the abbe brings with him to my house sometimes to spend

68 VOLTAIRE

an evening. He is a great judge of writing, especially in tragedy; he has
composed one himself, which was damned, and has written a book that
was never seen out of his bookseller’s shop, excepting only one copy,
which he sent me with a dedication, to which he had prefixed my
name.”

“Oh the great man,” cried Candide, “he is a second Pangloss.”
Then turning towards him, “Sir,” said he, “you are doubtless of

opinion that everything is for the best in the physical and moral world,
and that nothing could be otherwise than it is?”

“I, sir!” replied the man of letters, “I think no such thing, I assure
you; I find that all in this world is set the wrong end uppermost. No one
knows what is his rank, his office, nor what he does, nor what he
should do. With the exception of our evenings, which we generally pass
tolerably merrily, the rest of our time is spent in idle disputes and
quarrels, Jansenists against Molinists, the Parliament against the
Church, and one armed body of men against another; courtier against
courtier, husband against wife, and relations against relations. In short,
this world is nothing but one continued scene of civil war.”

“Yes,” said Candide, “and I have seen worse than all that; and yet
a learned man, who had the misfortune to be hanged, taught me that
everything was marvelously well, and that these evils you are speaking
of were only so many shades in a beautiful picture.”

“Your hempen sage,” said Martin, “laughed at you; these shades,
as you call them, are most horrible blemishes.”

“The men make these blemishes,” rejoined Candide, “and they
cannot do otherwise.”

“Then it is not their fault,” added Martin.
The greatest part of the gamesters, who did not understand a

syllable of this discourse, amused themselves with drinking, while
Martin reasoned with the learned gentleman and Candide entertained
the lady of the house with a part of his adventures.

After supper the Marchioness conducted Candide into her
dressingroom, and made him sit down under a canopy.

“Well,” said she, “are you still so violently fond of Miss Cunegund
of Thunder–ten–tronckh?”

“Yes, madam,” replied Candide.
The Marchioness said to him with a tender smile, “You answer me

like a young man born in Westphalia; a Frenchman would have said, ‘It
is true, madam, I had a great passion for Miss Cunegund; but since I
have seen you, I fear I can no longer love her as I did.’“

“Alas! madam,” replied Candide, “I will make you what answer
you please.”

Candide 69

“You fell in love with her, I find, in stooping to pick up her
handkerchief which she had dropped; you shall pick up my garter.”

“With all my heart, madam,” said Candide, and he picked it up.
“But you must tie it on again,” said the lady.
Candide tied it on again.
“Look ye, young man,” said the Marchioness, “you are a stranger;

I make some of my lovers here in Paris languish for me a whole
fortnight; but I surrender to you at first sight, because I am willing to do
the honors of my country to a young Westphalian.”

The fair one having cast her eye on two very large diamonds that
were upon the young stranger’s finger, praised them in so earnest a
manner that they were in an instant transferred from his finger to hers.

As Candide was going home with the abbe he felt some qualms of
conscience for having been guilty of infidelity to Miss Cunegund.The
abbe took part with him in his uneasiness; he had but an inconsiderable
share in the thousand pieces Candide had lost at play, and the two
diamonds which had been in a manner extorted from him; and therefore
very prudently designed to make the most he could of his new
acquaintance, which chance had thrown in his way. He talked much of
Miss Cunegund, and Candide assured him that he would heartily ask
pardon of that fair one for his infidelity to her, when he saw her at
Venice.

The abbe redoubled his civilities and seemed to interest himself
warmly in everything that Candide said, did, or seemed inclined to do.

“And so, sir, you have an engagement at Venice?”
“Yes, Monsieur l’Abbe,” answered Candide, “I must absolutely

wait upon Miss Cunegund,” and then the pleasure he took in talking
about the object he loved, led him insensibly to relate, according to
custom, part of his adventures with that illustrious Westphalian beauty.

“I fancy,” said the abbe, “Miss Cunegund has a great deal of wit,
and that her letters must be very entertaining.”

“I never received any from her,” said Candide; “for you are to
consider that, being expelled from the castle upon her account, I could
not write to her, especially as soon after my departure I heard she was
dead; but thank God I found afterwards she was living. I left her again
after this, and now I have sent a messenger to her near two thousand
leagues from here, and wait here for his return with an answer from
her.”

The artful abbe let not a word of all this escape him, though he
seemed to be musing upon something else. He soon took his leave of
the two adventurers, after having embraced them with the greatest
cordiality.

70 VOLTAIRE

The next morning, almost as soon as his eyes were open, Candide
received the following billet:

“My Dearest Lover – I have been ill in this city these eight days.I
have heard of your arrival, and should fly to your arms were I able to
stir. I was informed of your being on the way hither at Bordeaux, where
I left the faithful Cacambo, and the old woman, who will soon follow
me. The Governor of Buenos Ayres has taken everything from me but
your heart, which I still retain. Come to me immediately on the receipt
of this. Your presence will either give me new life, or kill me with the
pleasure.”

At the receipt of this charming, this unexpected letter, Candide felt
the utmost transports of joy; though, on the other hand, the
indisposition of his beloved Miss Cunegund overwhelmed him with
grief.Distracted between these two passions he took his gold and his
diamonds, and procured a person to conduct him and Martin to the
house where Miss Cunegund lodged. Upon entering the room he felt
his limbs tremble, his heart flutter, his tongue falter; he attempted to
undraw the curtain, and called for a light to the bedside.

“Lord sir,” cried a maidservant, who was waiting in the room,
“take care what you do, Miss cannot bear the least light,” and so saying
she pulled the curtain close again.

“Cunegund! my dear cried Candide, bathed in tears, “how do you
do?If you cannot bear the light, speak to me at least.”

“Alas! she cannot speak,” said the maid.
The sick lady then put a plump hand out of the bed and Candide

first bathed it with tears, then filled it with diamonds, leaving a purse of
gold upon the easy chair.

In the midst of his transports came an officer into the room,
followed by the abbe, and a file of musketeers.

“There,” said he, “are the two suspected foreigners.” At the same
time he ordered them to be seized and carried to prison.

“Travelers are not treated in this manner in the country of El
Dorado,” said Candide.

“I am more of a Manichaean now than ever,” said Martin.
“But pray, good sir, where are you going to carry us?” said

Candide.
“To a dungeon, my dear sir,” replied the officer.
When Martin had a little recovered himself, so as to form a cool

judgment of what had passed, he plainly perceived that the person who
had acted the part of Miss Cunegund was a cheat; that the abbe of
Perigord was a sharper who had imposed upon the honest simplicity of
Candide, and that the officer was a knave, whom they might easily get
rid of.

Candide 71

Candide following the advice of his friend Martin, and burning
with impatience to see the real Miss Cunegund, rather than be obliged
to appear at a court of justice, proposed to the officer to make him a
present of three small diamonds, each of them worth three thousand
pistoles.

“Ah, sir,” said the understrapper of justice, “had you commited
ever so much villainy, this would render you the honestest man living,
in my eyes. Three diamonds worth three thousand pistoles! Why, my
dear sir, so far from carrying you to jail, I would lose my life to serve
you. There are orders for stopping all strangers; but leave it to me, I
have a brother at Dieppe, in Normandy. I myself will conduct you
thither, and if you have a diamond left to give him he will take as much
care of you as I myself should.”

“But why,” said Candide, “do they stop all strangers?”
The abbe of Perigord made answer that it was because a poor devil

of the country of Atrebata heard somebody tell foolish stories, and this
induced him to commit a parricide; not such a one as that in the month
of May, 1610, but such as that in the month of December in the year
1594, and such as many that have been perpetrated in other months and
years, by other poor devils who had heard foolish stories.

The officer then explained to them what the abbe meant.
“Horrid monsters,” exclaimed Candide, “is it possible that such

scenes should pass among a people who are perpetually singing and
dancing? Is there no flying this abominable country immediately, this
execrable kingdom where monkeys provoke tigers? I have seen bears in
my country, but men I have beheld nowhere but in El Dorado. In the
name of God, sir,” said he to the officer, “do me the kindness to
conduct me to Venice, where I am to wait for Miss Cunegund.”

“Really, sir,” replied the officer, “I cannot possibly wait on you
farther than Lower Normandy.”

So saying, he ordered Candide’s irons to be struck off,
acknowledged himself mistaken, and sent his followers about their
business, after which he conducted Candide and Martin to Dieppe, and
left them to the care of his brother.

There happened just then to be a small Dutch ship in the harbor.
The Norman, whom the other three diamonds had converted into the
most obliging, serviceable being that ever breathed, took care to see
Candide and his attendants safe on board this vessel, that was just ready
to sail for Portsmouth in England. This was not the nearest way to
Venice, indeed, but Candide thought himself escaped out of Hell, and
did not, in the least, doubt but he should quickly find an opportunity of
resuming his voyage to Venice.

C H A P T E R 2 3

Candide and Martin Touch upon the English Coast –
What They See There

Ah Pangloss! Pangloss! ah Martin! ah my dear Miss Cunegund!
What sort of a world is this?” Thus exclaimed Candide as soon as he
got on board the Dutch ship.

“Why something very foolish, and very abominable,” said Martin.
“You are acquainted with England,” said Candide; “are they as

great fools in that country as in France?”
“Yes, but in a different manner,” answered Martin. “You know

that these two nations are at war about a few acres of barren land in the
neighborhood of Canada, and that they have expended much greater
sums in the contest than all Canada is worth. To say exactly whether
there are a greater number fit to be inhabitants of a madhouse in the one
country than the other, exceeds the limits of my imperfect capacity; I
know in general that the people we are going to visit are of a very dark
and gloomy disposition.”

As they were chatting thus together they arrived at Portsmouth.The
shore on each side the harbor was lined with a multitude of people,
whose eyes were steadfastly fixed on a lusty man who was kneeling
down on the deck of one of the men–of–war, with something tied
before his eyes. Opposite to this personage stood four soldiers, each of
whom shot three bullets into his skull, with all the composure
imaginable; and when it was done, the whole company went away
perfectly well satisfied.

“What the devil is all this for?” said Candide, “and what demon, or
foe of mankind, lords it thus tyrannically over the world?”

He then asked who was that lusty man who had been sent out of
the world with so much ceremony. When he received for answer, that it
was an admiral.

“And pray why do you put your admiral to death?”
“Because he did not put a sufficient number of his fellow creatures

to death. You must know, he had an engagement with a French admiral,
and it has been proved against him that he was not near enough to his
antagonist.”

Candide 73

“But,” replied Candide, “the French admiral must have been as far
from him.”

“There is no doubt of that; but in this country it is found requisite,
now and then, to put an admiral to death, in order to encourage the
others to fight.”

Candide was so shocked at what he saw and heard, that he would
not set foot on shore, but made a bargain with the Dutch skipper (were
he even to rob him like the captain of Surinam) to carry him directly to
Venice.

The skipper was ready in two days. They sailed along the coast of
France, and passed within sight of Lisbon, at which Candide trembled.
From thence they proceeded to the Straits, entered the Mediterranean,
and at length arrived at Venice.

“God be praised,” said Candide, embracing Martin, “this is the
place where I am to behold my beloved Cunegund once again. I can
confide in Cacambo, like another self. All is well, all is very well, all is
well as possible.”

C H A P T E R 2 4

Of Pacquette and Friar Giroflee

Upon their arrival at Venice Candide went in search of Cacambo at
every inn and coffee–house, and among all the ladies of pleasure, but
could hear nothing of him. He sent every day to inquire what ships
were in, still no news of Cacambo.

“It is strange,” said he to Martin, “very strange that I should have
time to sail from Surinam to Bordeaux; to travel thence to Paris, to
Dieppe, to Portsmouth; to sail along the coast of Portugal and Spain,
and up the Mediterranean to spend some months at Venice; and that my
lovely Cunegund should not have arrived. Instead of her, I only met
with a Parisian impostor, and a rascally abbe of Perigord.Cunegund is
actually dead, and I have nothing to do but follow her.Alas! how much
better would it have been for me to have remained in the paradise of El
Dorado than to have returned to this cursed Europe!You are in the
right, my dear Martin; you are certainly in the right; all is misery and
deceit.”

He fell into a deep melancholy, and neither went to the opera then
in vogue, nor partook of any of the diversions of the Carnival; nay, he
even slighted the fair sex.

Martin said to him, “Upon my word, I think you are very simple to
imagine that a rascally valet, with five or six millions in his pocket,
would go in search of your mistress to the further of the world, and
bring her to Venice to meet you. If he finds her he will take her for
himself; if he does not, he will take another. Let me advise you to
forget your valet Cacambo, and your mistress Cunegund.”

Martin’s speech was not the most consolatory to the dejected
Candide. His melancholy increased, and Martin never ceased trying to
prove to him that there is very little virtue or happiness in this world;
except, perhaps, in El Dorado, where hardly anybody can gain
admittance.

While they were disputing on this important subject, and still
expecting Miss Cunegund, Candide perceived a young Theatin friar in
the Piazza San Marco, with a girl under his arm. The Theatin looked
fresh–colored, plump, and vigorous; his eyes sparkled; his air and gait

Candide 75

were bold and lofty. The girl was pretty, and was singing a song; and
every now and then gave her Theatin an amorous ogle and wantonly
pinched his ruddy cheeks.

“You will at least allow,” said Candide to Martin, “that these two
are happy. Hitherto I have met with none but unfortunate people in the
whole habitable globe, except in El Dorado; but as to this couple, I
would venture to lay a wager they are happy.”

“Done!” said Martin, “they are not what you imagine.”
“Well, we have only to ask them to dine with us,” said Candide,

“and you will see whether I am mistaken or not.”
Thereupon he accosted them, and with great politeness invited

them to his inn to eat some macaroni, with Lombard partridges and
caviar, and to drink a bottle of Montepulciano, Lacryma Christi,
Cyprus, and Samos wine. The girl blushed; the Theatin accepted the
invitation and she followed him, eyeing Candide every now and then
with a mixture of surprise and confusion, while the tears stole down her
cheeks. No sooner did she enter his apartment than she cried out,
“How, Monsieur Candide, have you quite forgot your Pacquette? do
you not know her again?”

Candide had not regarded her with any degree of attention before,
being wholly occupied with the thoughts of his dear Cunegund.

“Ah! is it you, child? was it you that reduced Dr. Pangloss to that
fine condition I saw him in?”

“Alas! sir,” answered Pacquette, “it was I, indeed. I find you are
acquainted with everything; and I have been informed of all the
misfortunes that happened to the whole family of My Lady Baroness
and the fair Cunegund. But I can safely swear to you that my lot was no
less deplorable; I was innocence itself when you saw me last. A
Franciscan, who was my confessor, easily seduced me; the
consequences proved terrible. I was obliged to leave the castle some
time after the Baron kicked you out by the backside from there; and if a
famous surgeon had not taken compassion on me, I had been a dead
woman. Gratitude obliged me to live with him some time as his
mistress; his wife, who was a very devil for jealousy, beat me
unmercifully every day. Oh! she was a perfect fury. The doctor himself
was the most ugly of all mortals, and I the most wretched creature
existing, to be continually beaten for a man whom I did not love.You
are sensible, sir, how dangerous it was for an ill–natured woman to be
married to a physician. Incensed at the behavior of his wife, he one day
gave her so affectionate a remedy for a slight cold she had caught that
she died in less than two hours in most dreadful convulsions. Her
relations prosecuted the husband, who was obliged to fly, and I was
sent to prison. My innocence would not have saved me, if I had not

76 VOLTAIRE

been tolerably handsome. The judge gave me my liberty on condition
he should succeed the doctor. However, I was soon supplanted by a
rival, turned off without a farthing, and obliged to continue the
abominable trade which you men think so pleasing, but which to us
unhappy creatures is the most dreadful of all sufferings. At length I
came to follow the business at Venice. Ah!sir, did you but know what it
is to be obliged to receive every visitor; old tradesmen, counselors,
monks, watermen, and abbes; to be exposed to all their insolence and
abuse; to be often necessitated to borrow a petticoat, only that it may be
taken up by some disagreeable wretch; to be robbed by one gallant of
what we get from another; to be subject to the extortions of civil
magistrates; and to have forever before one’s eyes the prospect of old
age, a hospital, or a dunghill, you would conclude that I am one of the
most unhappy wretches breathing.”

Thus did Pacquette unbosom herself to honest Candide in his
closet, in the presence of Martin, who took occasion to say to him,
“You see I have half won the wager already.”

Friar Giroflee was all this time in the parlor refreshing himself
with a glass or two of wine till dinner was ready.

“But,” said Candide to Pacquette, “you looked so gay and
contented, when I met you, you sang and caressed the Theatin with so
much fondness, that I absolutely thought you as happy as you say you
are now miserable.”

“Ah! dear sir,” said Pacquette, “this is one of the miseries of the
trade; yesterday I was stripped and beaten by an officer; yet today I
must appear good humored and gay to please a friar.”

Candide was convinced and acknowledged that Martin was in the
right.They sat down to table with Pacquette and the Theatin; the
entertainment was agreeable, and towards the end they began to
converse together with some freedom.

“Father,” said Candide to the friar, “you seem to me to enjoy a
state of happiness that even kings might envy; joy and health are
painted in your countenance. You have a pretty wench to divert you;
and you seem to be perfectly well contented with your condition as a
Theatin.”

“Faith, sir,” said Friar Giroflee, “I wish with all my soul the
Theatins were every one of them at the bottom of the sea. I have been
tempted a thousand times to set fire to the monastery and go and turn
Turk. My parents obliged me, at the age of fifteen, to put on this
detestable habit only to increase the fortune of an elder brother of mine,
whom God confound! jealousy, discord, and fury, reside in our
monastery. It is true I have preached often paltry sermons, by which I
have got a little money, part of which the prior robs me of, and the

Candide 77

remainder helps to pay my girls; but, not withstanding, at night, when I
go hence to my monastery, I am ready to dash my brains against the
walls of the dormitory; and this is the case with all the rest of our
fraternity.”

Martin, turning towards Candide, with his usual indifference, said,
“Well, what think you now? have I won the wager entirely?”

Candide gave two thousand piastres to Pacquette, and a thousand
to Friar Giroflee, saying, “I will answer that this will make them
happy.”

“I am not of your opinion,” said Martin, “perhaps this money will
only make them wretched.”

“Be that as it may,” said Candide, “one thing comforts me; I see
that one often meets with those whom one never expected to see again;
so that, perhaps, as I have found my red sheep and Pacquette, I may be
lucky enough to find Miss Cunegund also.”

“I wish,” said Martin, “she one day may make you happy; but I
doubt it much.”

“You lack faith,” said Candide.
“It is because,” said Martin, “I have seen the world.”
“Observe those gondoliers,” said Candide, “are they not

perpetually singing?”
“You do not see them,” answered Martin, “at home with their

wives and brats. The doge has his chagrin, gondoliers
theirs.Nevertheless, in the main, I look upon the gondolier’s life as
preferable to that of the doge; but the difference is so trifling that it is
not worth the trouble of examining into.”

“I have heard great talk,” said Candide, “of the Senator
Pococurante, who lives in that fine house at the Brenta, where, they
say, he entertains foreigners in the most polite manner.”

“They pretend this man is a perfect stranger to uneasiness. I should
be glad to see so extraordinary a being,” said Martin.

Candide thereupon sent a messenger to Seignor Pococurante,
desiring permission to wait on him the next day.

C H A P T E R 2 5

Candide and Martin Pay a Visit to Seignor Pococurante,
a Noble Venetian

Candide and his friend Martin went in a gondola on the Brenta,
and arrived at the palace of the noble Pococurante. The gardens were
laid out in elegant taste, and adorned with fine marble statues; his
palace was built after the most approved rules of architecture. The
master of the house, who was a man of affairs, and very rich, received
our two travelers with great politeness, but without much ceremony,
which somewhat disconcerted Candide, but was not at all displeasing to
Martin.

As soon as they were seated, two very pretty girls, neatly dressed,
brought in chocolate, which was extremely well prepared.Candide
could not help praising their beauty and graceful carriage.

“The creatures are all right,” said the senator; “I amuse myself with
them sometimes, for I am heartily tired of the women of the town, their
coquetry, their jealousy, their quarrels, their humors, their meannesses,
their pride, and their folly; I am weary of making sonnets, or of paying
for sonnets to be made on them; but after all, these two girls begin to
grow very indifferent to me.”

After having refreshed himself, Candide walked into a large
gallery, where he was struck with the sight of a fine collection of
paintings.

“Pray,” said Candide, “by what master are the two first of these?”
“They are by Raphael,” answered the senator. “I gave a great deal

of money for them seven years ago, purely out of curiosity, as they
were said to be the finest pieces in Italy; but I cannot say they please
me: the coloring is dark and heavy; the figures do not swell nor come
out enough; and the drapery is bad. In short, notwithstanding the
encomiums lavished upon them, they are not, in my opinion, a true
representation of nature. I approve of no paintings save those wherein I
think I behold nature itself; and there are few, if any, of that kind to be
met with. I have what is called a fine collection, but I take no manner of
delight in it.”

While dinner was being prepared Pococurante ordered a
concert.Candide praised the music to the skies.

Candide 79

“This noise,” said the noble Venetian, “may amuse one for a little
time, but if it were to last above half an hour, it would grow tiresome to
everybody, though perhaps no one would care to own it.Music has
become the art of executing what is difficult; now, whatever is difficult
cannot be long pleasing.

“I believe I might take more pleasure in an opera, if they had not
made such a monster of that species of dramatic entertainment as
perfectly shocks me; and I am amazed how people can bear to see
wretched tragedies set to music; where the scenes are contrived for no
other purpose than to lug in, as it were by the ears, three or four
ridiculous songs, to give a favorite actress an opportunity of exhibiting
her pipe. Let who will die away in raptures at the trills of a eunuch
quavering the majestic part of Caesar or Cato, and strutting in a foolish
manner upon the stage, but for my part I have long ago renounced these
paltry entertainments, which constitute the glory of modern Italy, and
are so dearly purchased by crowned heads.”

Candide opposed these sentiments; but he did it in a discreet
manner; as for Martin, he was entirely of the old senator’s opinion.

Dinner being served they sat down to table, and, after a hearty
repast, returned to the library. Candide, observing Homer richly bound,
commended the noble Venetian’s taste.

“This,” said he, “is a book that was once the delight of the great
Pangloss, the best philosopher in Germany.”

“Homer is no favorite of mine,” answered Pococurante, coolly, “I
was made to believe once that I took a pleasure in reading him; but his
continual repetitions of battles have all such a resemblance with each
other; his gods that are forever in haste and bustle, without ever doing
anything; his Helen, who is the cause of the war, and yet hardly acts in
the whole performance; his Troy, that holds out so long, without being
taken: in short, all these things together make the poem very insipid to
me. I have asked some learned men, whether they are not in reality as
much tired as myself with reading this poet: those who spoke
ingenuously, assured me that he had made them fall asleep, and yet that
they could not well avoid giving him a place in their libraries; but that
it was merely as they would do an antique, or those rusty medals which
are kept only for curiosity, and are of no manner of use in commerce.”

“But your excellency does not surely form the same opinion of
Virgil?” said Candide.

“Why, I grant,” replied Pococurante, “that the second, third, fourth,
and sixth books of his Aeneid, are excellent; but as for his pious
Aeneas, his strong Cloanthus, his friendly Achates, his boy Ascanius,
his silly king Latinus, his ill–bred Amata, his insipid Lavinia, and some
other characters much in the same strain, I think there cannot in nature

80 VOLTAIRE

be anything more flat and disagreeable. I must confess I prefer Tasso
far beyond him; nay, even that sleepy taleteller Ariosto.”

“May I take the liberty to ask if you do not experience great
pleasure from reading Horace?” said Candide.

“There are maxims in this writer,” replied Pococurante, “whence a
man of the world may reap some benefit; and the short measure of the
verse makes them more easily to be retained in the memory. But I see
nothing extraordinary in his journey to Brundusium, and his account of
his had dinner; nor in his dirty, low quarrel between one Rupillius,
whose words, as he expresses it, were full of poisonous filth; and
another, whose language was dipped in vinegar. His indelicate verses
against old women and witches have frequently given me great offense:
nor can I discover the great merit of his telling his friend Maecenas,
that if he will but rank him in the class of lyric poets, his lofty head
shall touch the stars. Ignorant readers are apt to judge a writer by his
reputation. For my part, I read only to please myself. I like nothing but
what makes for my purpose.”

Candide, who had been brought up with a notion of never making
use of his own judgment, was astonished at what he heard; but Martin
found there was a good deal of reason in the senator’s remarks.

“Oh! here is a Tully,” said Candide; “this great man I fancy you
are never tired of reading?”

“Indeed I never read him at all,” replied Pococurante. “What is it to
me whether he pleads for Rabirius or Cluentius? I try causes enough
myself. I had once some liking for his philosophical works; but when I
found he doubted everything, I thought I knew as much as himself, and
had no need of a guide to learn ignorance.”

“Ha!” cried Martin, “here are fourscore volumes of the memoirs of
the Academy of Sciences; perhaps there may be something curious and
valuable in this collection.”

“Yes,” answered Pococurante, “so there might if any one of these
compilers of this rubbish had only invented the art of pin–making; but
all these volumes are filled with mere chimerical systems, without one
single article conductive to real utility.”

“I see a prodigious number of plays,” said Candide, “in Italian,
Spanish, and French.”

“Yes,” replied the Venetian, “there are I think three thousand, and
not three dozen of them good for anything. As to those huge volumes
of divinity, and those enormous collections of sermons, they are not all
together worth one single page in Seneca; and I fancy you will readily
believe that neither myself, nor anyone else, ever looks into them.”

Martin, perceiving some shelves filled with English books, said to
the senator, “I fancy that a republican must be highly delighted with

Candide 81

those books, which are most of them written with a noble spirit of
freedom.”

“It is noble to write as we think,” said Pococurante; “it is the
privilege of humanity. Throughout Italy we write only what we do not
think; and the present inhabitants of the country of the Caesars and
Antonines dare not acquire a single idea without the permission of a
Dominican father. I should be enamored of the spirit of the English
nation, did it not utterly frustrate the good effects it would produce by
passion and the spirit of party.”

Candide, seeing a Milton, asked the senator if he did not think that
author a great man.

“Who?” said Pococurante sharply; “that barbarian who writes a
tedious commentary in ten books of rumbling verse, on the first chapter
of Genesis? that slovenly imitator of the Greeks, who disfigures the
creation, by making the Messiah take a pair of compasses from
Heaven’s armory to plan the world; whereas Moses represented the
Diety as producing the whole universe by his fiat? Can I think you have
any esteem for a writer who has spoiled Tasso’s Hell and the Devil;
who transforms Lucifer sometimes into a toad, and at others into a
pygmy; who makes him say the same thing over again a hundred times;
who metamorphoses him into a school–divine; and who, by an absurdly
serious imitation of Ariosto’s comic invention of firearms, represents
the devils and angels cannonading each other in Heaven? Neither I nor
any other Italian can possibly take pleasure in such melancholy
reveries; but the marriage of Sin and Death, and snakes issuing from
the womb of the former, are enough to make any person sick that is not
lost to all sense of delicacy. This obscene, whimsical, and disagreeable
poem met with the neglect it deserved at its first publication; and I only
treat the author now as he was treated in his own country by his
contemporaries.”

Candide was sensibly grieved at this speech, as he had a great
respect for Homer, and was fond of Milton.

“Alas!” said he softly to Martin, “I am afraid this man holds our
German poets in great contempt.”

“There would be no such great harm in that,” said Martin.
“O what a surprising man!” said Candide, still to himself; “what a

prodigious genius is this Pococurante! nothing can please him.”
After finishing their survey of the library, they went down into the

garden, when Candide commended the several beauties that offered
themselves to his view.

“I know nothing upon earth laid out in such had taste,” said
Pococurante; “everything about it is childish and trifling; but I shall
have another laid out tomorrow upon a nobler plan.”

82 VOLTAIRE

As soon as our two travelers had taken leave of His Excellency,
Candide said to Martin, “Well, I hope you will own that this man is the
happiest of all mortals, for he is above everything he possesses.”

“But do not you see,” answered Martin, “that he likewise dislikes
everything he possesses? It was an observation of Plato, long since, that
those are not the best stomachs that reject, without distinction, all sorts
of aliments.”

“True,” said Candide, “but still there must certainly be a pleasure
in criticising everything, and in perceiving faults where others think
they see beauties.”

“That is,” replied Martin, “there is a pleasure in having no
pleasure.”

“Well, well,” said Candide, “I find that I shall be the only happy
man at last, when I am blessed with the sight of my dear Cunegund.”

“It is good to hope,” said Martin.
In the meanwhile, days and weeks passed away, and no news of

Cacambo. Candide was so overwhelmed with grief, that he did not
reflect on the behavior of Pacquette and Friar Giroflee, who never
stayed to return him thanks for the presents he had so generously made
them.

C H A P T E R 2 6

Candide and Martin Sup with Six Sharpers – Who They
Were

One evening as Candide, with his attendant Martin, was going to
sit down to supper with some foreigners who lodged in the same inn
where they had taken up their quarters, a man with a face the color of
soot came behind him, and taking him by the arm, said, “Hold yourself
in readiness to go along with us; be sure you do not fail.”

Upon this, turning about to see from whom these words came, he
beheld Cacambo. Nothing but the sight of Miss Cunegund could have
given him greater joy and surprise. He was almost beside himself, and
embraced this dear friend.

“Cunegund!” said he, “Cunegund is come with you doubtless!
Where, where is she? Carry me to her this instant, that I may die with
joy in her presence.”

“Cunegund is not here,” answered Cacambo; “she is in
Constantinople.”

“Good heavens! in Constantinople! but no matter if she were in
China, I would fly thither. Quick, quick, dear Cacambo, let us be
gone.”

“Soft and fair,” said Cacambo, “stay till you have supped. I cannot
at present stay to say anything more to you; I am a slave, and my
master waits for me; I must go and attend him at table: but mum! say
not a word, only get your supper, and hold yourself in readiness.”

Candide, divided between joy and grief, charmed to have thus met
with his faithful agent again, and surprised to hear he was a slave, his
heart palpitating, his senses confused, but full of the hopes of
recovering his dear Cunegund, sat down to table with Martin, who
beheld all these scenes with great unconcern, and with six strangers,
who had come to spend the Carnival at Venice.

Cacambo waited at table upon one of those strangers. When supper
was nearly over, he drew near to his master, and whispered in his ear:

“Sire, Your Majesty may go when you please; the ship is ready”;
and so saying he left the room.

The guests, surprised at what they had heard, looked at each other
without speaking a word; when another servant drawing near to his

84 VOLTAIRE

master, in like manner said, “Sire, Your Majesty’s post–chaise is at
Padua, and the bark is ready.” The master made him a sign, and he
instantly withdrew.

The company all stared at each other again, and the general
astonishment was increased. A third servant then approached another of
the strangers, and said, “Sire, if Your Majesty will be advised by me,
you will not make any longer stay in this place; I will go and get
everything ready”; and instantly disappeared.

Candide and Martin then took it for granted that this was some of
the diversions of the Carnival, and that these were characters in
masquerade. Then a fourth domestic said to the fourth stranger, “Your
Majesty may set off when you please”; saying which, he went away
like the rest. A fifth valet said the same to a fifth master. But the sixth
domestic spoke in a different style to the person on whom he waited,
and who sat near to Candide.

“Troth, sir,” said he, “they will trust Your Majesty no longer, nor
myself neither; and we may both of us chance to be sent to jail this very
night; and therefore I shall take care of myself, and so adieu.”

The servants being all gone, the six strangers, with Candide and
Martin, remained in a profound silence. At length Candide broke it by
saying:

“Gentlemen, this is a very singular joke upon my word; how came
you all to be kings? For my part I own frankly, that neither my friend
Martin here, nor myself, have any claim to royalty.”

Cacambo’s master then began, with great gravity, to deliver
himself thus in Italian:

“I am not joking in the least, my name is Achmet III. I was Grand
Sultan for many years; I dethroned my brother, my nephew dethroned
me, my viziers lost their heads, and I am condemned to end my days in
the old seraglio. My nephew, the Grand Sultan Mahomet, gives me
permission to travel sometimes for my health, and I am come to spend
the Carnival at Venice.”

A young man who sat by Achmet, spoke next, and said:
“My name is Ivan. I was once Emperor of all the Russians, but was

dethroned in my cradle. My parents were confined, and I was brought
up in a prison, yet I am sometimes allowed to travel, though always
with persons to keep a guard over me, and I come to spend the Carnival
at Venice.”

The third said:
“I am Charles Edward, King of England; my father has renounced

his right to the throne in my favor. I have fought in defense of my
rights, and near a thousand of my friends have had their hearts taken
out of their bodies alive and thrown in their faces. I have myself been

Candide 85

confined in a prison. I am going to Rome to visit the King, my father,
who was dethroned as well as myself; and my grandfather and I have
come to spend the Carnival at Venice.”

The fourth spoke thus:
“I am the King of Poland; the fortune of war has stripped me of my

hereditary dominions. My father experienced the same vicissitudes of
fate. I resign myself to the will of Providence, in the same manner as
Sultan Achmet, the Emperor Ivan, and King Charles Edward, whom
God long preserve; and I have come to spend the Carnival at Venice.”

The fifth said:
“I am King of Poland also. I have twice lost my kingdom; but

Providence has given me other dominions, where I have done more
good than all the Sarmatian kings put together were ever able to do on
the banks of the Vistula; I resign myself likewise to Providence; and
have come to spend the Carnival at Venice.”

It now came to the sixth monarch’s turn to speak. “Gentlemen,”
said he, “I am not so great a prince as the rest of you, it is true, but I
am, however, a crowned head. I am Theodore, elected King of Corsica.
I have had the title of Majesty, and am now hardly treated with
common civility. I have coined money, and am not now worth a single
ducat. I have had two secretaries, and am now without a valet. I was
once seated on a throne, and since that have lain upon a truss of straw,
in a common jail in London, and I very much fear I shall meet with the
same fate here in Venice, where I came, like Your Majesties, to divert
myself at the Carnival.”

The other five Kings listened to this speech with great attention; it
excited their compassion; each of them made the unhappy Theodore a
present of twenty sequins, and Candide gave him a diamond, worth just
a hundred times that sum.

“Who can this private person be,” said the five Kings to one
another, “who is able to give, and has actually given, a hundred times
as much as any of us?”

Just as they rose from table, in came four Serene Highnesses, who
had also been stripped of their territories by the fortune of war, and had
come to spend the remainder of the Carnival at Venice. Candide took
no manner of notice of them; for his thoughts were wholly employed
on his voyage to Constantinople, where he intended to go in search of
his lovely Miss Cunegund.

C H A P T E R 2 7

Candide’s Voyage to Constantinople

The trusty Cacambo had already engaged the captain of the
Turkish ship that was to carry Sultan Achmet back to Constantinople to
take Candide and Martin on board. Accordingly they both embarked,
after paying their obeisance to his miserable Highness. As they were
going on board, Candide said to Martin:

“You see we supped in company with six dethroned Kings, and to
one of them I gave charity. Perhaps there may be a great many other
princes still more unfortunate. For my part I have lost only a hundred
sheep, and am now going to fly to the arms of my charming Miss
Cunegund. My dear Martin, I must insist on it, that Pangloss was in the
right. All is for the best.”

“I wish it may be,” said Martin.
“But this was an odd adventure we met with at Venice. I do not

think there ever was an instance before of six dethroned monarchs
supping together at a public inn.”

“This is not more extraordinary,” said Martin, “than most of what
has happened to us. It is a very common thing for kings to be
dethroned; and as for our having the honor to sup with six of them, it is
a mere accident, not deserving our attention.”

As soon as Candide set his foot on board the vessel, he flew to his
old friend and valet Cacambo and, throwing his arms about his neck,
embraced him with transports of joy.

“Well,” said he, “what news of Miss Cunegund? Does she still
continue the paragon of beauty? Does she love me still? How does she
do? You have, doubtless, purchased a superb palace for her at
Constantinople.”

“My dear master,” replied Cacambo, “Miss Cunegund washes
dishes on the banks of the Propontis, in the house of a prince who has
very few to wash. She is at present a slave in the family of an ancient
sovereign named Ragotsky, whom the Grand Turk allows three crowns
a day to maintain him in his exile; but the most melancholy
circumstance of all is, that she is turned horribly ugly.”

“Ugly or handsome,” said Candide, “I am a man of honor and, as
such, am obliged to love her still. But how could she possibly have

Candide 87

been reduced to so abject a condition, when I sent five or six millions to
her by you?”

“Lord bless me,” said Cacambo, “was not I obliged to give two
millions to Seignor Don Fernando d’Ibaraa y Figueora y Mascarenes y
Lampourdos y Souza, the Governor of Buenos Ayres, for liberty to take
Miss Cunegund away with me? And then did not a brave fellow of a
pirate gallantly strip us of all the rest? And then did not this same pirate
carry us with him to Cape Matapan, to Milo, to Nicaria, to Samos, to
Petra, to the Dardanelles, to Marmora, to Scutari? Miss Cunegund and
the old woman are now servants to the prince I have told you of; and I
myself am slave to the dethroned Sultan.”

“What a chain of shocking accidents!” exclaimed Candide. “But
after all, I have still some diamonds left, with which I can easily
procure Miss Cunegund’s liberty. It is a pity though she is grown so
ugly.”

Then turning to Martin, “What think you, friend,” said he, “whose
condition is most to be pitied, the Emperor Achmet’s, the Emperor
Ivan’s, King Charles Edward’s, or mine?”

“Faith, I cannot resolve your question,” said Martin, “unless I had
been in the breasts of you all.”

“Ah!” cried Candide, “was Pangloss here now, he would have
known, and satisfied me at once.”

“I know not,” said Martin, “in what balance your Pangloss could
have weighed the misfortunes of mankind, and have set a just
estimation on their sufferings. All that I pretend to know of the matter
is that there are millions of men on the earth, whose conditions are a
hundred times more pitiable than those of King Charles Edward, the
Emperor Ivan, or Sultan Achmet.”

“Why, that may be,” answered Candide.
In a few days they reached the Bosphorus; and the first thing

Candide did was to pay a high ransom for Cacambo; then, without
losing time, he and his companions went on board a galley, in order to
search for his Cunegund on the banks of the Propontis, notwithstanding
she was grown so ugly.

There were two slaves among the crew of the galley, who rowed
very ill, and to whose bare backs the master of the vessel frequently
applied a lash. Candide, from natural sympathy, looked at these two
slaves more attentively than at any of the rest, and drew near them with
an eye of pity. Their features, though greatly disfigured, appeared to
him to bear a strong resemblance with those of Pangloss and the
unhappy Baron Jesuit, Miss Cunegund’s brother. This idea affected him
with grief and compassion: he examined them more attentively than
before.

88 VOLTAIRE

“In troth,” said he, turning to Martin, “if I had not seen my master
Pangloss fairly hanged, and had not myself been unlucky enough to run
the Baron through the body, I should absolutely think those two rowers
were the men.”

No sooner had Candide uttered the names of the Baron and
Pangloss, than the two slaves gave a great cry, ceased rowing, and let
fall their oars out of their hands. The master of the vessel, seeing this,
ran up to them, and redoubled the discipline of the lash.

“Hold, hold,” cried Candide, “I will give you what money you
shall ask for these two persons.”

“Good heavens! it is Candide,” said one of the men.
“Candide!” cried the other.
“Do I dream,” said Candide, “or am I awake? Am I actually on

board this galley? Is this My Lord the Baron, whom I killed? and that
my master Pangloss, whom I saw hanged before my face?”

“It is I! it is I!” cried they both together.
“What! is this your great philosopher?” said Martin.
“My dear sir,” said Candide to the master of the galley, “how much

do you ask for the ransom of the Baron of Thunder–ten–tronckh, who is
one of the first barons of the empire, and of Monsieur Pangloss, the
most profound metaphysician in Germany?”

“Why, then, Christian cur,” replied the Turkish captain, “since
these two dogs of Christian slaves are barons and metaphysicians, who
no doubt are of high rank in their own country, thou shalt give me fifty
thousand sequins.”

“You shall have them, sir; carry me back as quick as thought to
Constantinople, and you shall receive the money immediately –
No!carry me first to Miss Cunegund.”

The captain, upon Candide’s first proposal, had already tacked
about, and he made the crew ply their oars so effectually, that the vessel
flew through the water, quicker than a bird cleaves the air.

Candide bestowed a thousand embraces on the Baron and
Pangloss. “And so then, my dear Baron, I did not kill you? and you, my
dear Pangloss, are come to life again after your hanging? But how came
you slaves on board a Turkish galley?”

“And is it true that my dear sister is in this country?” said the
Baron.

“Yes,” said Cacambo.
“And do I once again behold my dear Candide?” said Pangloss.
Candide presented Martin and Cacambo to them; they embraced

each other, and all spoke together. The galley flew like lightning, and
soon they were got back to port. Candide instantly sent for a Jew, to
whom he sold for fifty thousand sequins a diamond richly worth one

Candide 89

hundred thousand, though the fellow swore to him all the time by
Father Abraham that he gave him the most he could possibly afford.He
no sooner got the money into his hands, than he paid it down for the
ransom of the Baron and Pangloss. The latter flung himself at the feet
of his deliverer, and bathed him with his tears; the former thanked him
with a gracious nod, and promised to return him the money the first
opportunity.

“But is it possible,” said he, “that my sister should be in Turkey?”
“Nothing is more possible,” answered Cacambo, “for she scours

the dishes in the house of a Transylvanian prince.”
Candide sent directly for two Jews, and sold more diamonds to

them; and then he set out with his companions in another galley, to
deliver Miss Cunegund from slavery.

C H A P T E R 2 8

What Befell Candide, Cunegund, Pangloss, Martin, etc.

Pardon,” said Candide to the Baron; “once more let me entreat
your pardon, Reverend Father, for running you through the body.”

“Say no more about it,” replied the Baron. “I was a little too hasty I
must own; but as you seem to be desirous to know by what accident I
came to be a slave on board the galley where you saw me, I will inform
you. After I had been cured of the wound you gave me, by the College
apothecary, I was attacked and carried off by a party of Spanish troops,
who clapped me in prison in Buenos Ayres, at the very time my sister
was setting out from there. I asked leave to return to Rome, to the
general of my Order, who appointed me chaplain to the French
Ambassador at Constantinople. I had not been a week in my new
office, when I happened to meet one evening a young Icoglan,
extremely handsome and well–made. The weather was very hot; the
young man had an inclination to bathe. I took the opportunity to bathe
likewise. I did not know it was a crime for a Christian to be found
naked in company with a young Turk. A cadi ordered me to receive a
hundred blows on the soles of my feet, and sent me to the galleys. I do
not believe that there was ever an act of more flagrant injustice. But I
would fain know how my sister came to be a scullion to a
Transylvanian prince, who has taken refuge among the Turks?”

“But how happens it that I behold you again, my dear Pangloss?”
said Candide.

“It is true,” answered Pangloss, “you saw me hanged, though I
ought properly to have been burned; but you may remember, that it
rained extremely hard when they were going to roast me. The storm
was so violent that they found it impossible to light the fire; so they
hanged me because they could do no better. A surgeon purchased my
body, carried it home, and prepared to dissect me. He began by making
a crucial incision from my navel to the clavicle. It is impossible for
anyone to have been more lamely hanged than I had been.The
executioner was a subdeacon, and knew how to burn people very well,
but as for hanging, he was a novice at it, being quite out of practice; the
cord being wet, and not slipping properly, the noose did not join. In
short, I still continued to breathe; the crucial incision made me scream

Candide 91

to such a degree, that my surgeon fell flat upon his back; and imagining
it was the Devil he was dissecting, ran away, and in his fright tumbled
down stairs. His wife hearing the noise, flew from the next room, and
seeing me stretched upon the table with my crucial incision, was still
more terrified than her husband, and fell upon him. When they had a
little recovered themselves, I heard her say to her husband, ‘My dear,
how could you think of dissecting a heretic? Don’t you know that the
Devil is always in them? I’ll run directly to a priest to come and drive
the evil spirit out.’ I trembled from head to foot at hearing her talk in
this manner, and exerted what little strength I had left to cry out, ‘Have
mercy on me!’ At length the Portuguese barber took courage, sewed up
my wound, and his wife nursed me; and I was upon my legs in a
fortnight’s time. The barber got me a place to be lackey to a Knight of
Malta, who was going to Venice; but finding my master had no money
to pay me my wages, I entered into the service of a Venetian merchant
and went with him to Constantinople.

“One day I happened to enter a mosque, where I saw no one but an
old man and a very pretty young female devotee, who was telling her
beads; her neck was quite bare, and in her bosom she had a beautiful
nosegay of tulips, roses, anemones, ranunculuses, hyacinths, and
auriculas; she let fall her nosegay. I ran immediately to take it up, and
presented it to her with a most respectful bow. I was so long in
delivering it that the man began to be angry; and, perceiving I was a
Christian, he cried out for help; they carried me before the cadi, who
ordered me to receive one hundred bastinadoes, and sent me to the
galleys. I was chained in the very galley and to the very same bench
with the Baron. On board this galley there were four young men
belonging to Marseilles, five Neapolitan priests, and two monks of
Corfu, who told us that the like adventures happened every day. The
Baron pretended that he had been worse used than myself; and I
insisted that there was far less harm in taking up a nosegay, and putting
it into a woman’s bosom, than to be found stark naked with a young
Icoglan. We were continually whipped, and received twenty lashes a
day with a heavy thong, when the concatenation of sublunary events
brought you on board our galley to ransom us from slavery.”

“Well, my dear Pangloss,” said Candide to him, “when You were
hanged, dissected, whipped, and tugging at the oar, did you continue to
think that everything in this world happens for the best?”

“I have always abided by my first opinion,” answered Pangloss;
“for, after all, I am a philosopher, and it would not become me to
retract my sentiments; especially as Leibnitz could not be in the wrong:
and that preestablished harmony is the finest thing in the world, as well
as a plenum and the materia subtilis.”

C H A P T E R 2 9

In What Manner Candide Found Miss Cunegund and the
Old Woman Again

While Candide, the Baron, Pangloss, Martin, and Cacambo, were
relating their several adventures, and reasoning on the contingent or
noncontingent events of this world; on causes and effects; on moral and
physical evil; on free will and necessity; and on the consolation that
may be felt by a person when a slave and chained to an oar in a Turkish
galley, they arrived at the house of the Transylvanian prince on the
shores of the Propontis. The first objects they beheld there, were Miss
Cunegund and the old woman, who were hanging some tablecloths on a
line to dry.

The Baron turned pale at the sight. Even the tender Candide, that
affectionate lover, upon seeing his fair Cunegund all sunburned, with
bleary eyes, a withered neck, wrinkled face and arms, all covered with
a red scurf, started back with horror; but, not withstanding, recovering
himself, he advanced towards her out of good manners. She embraced
Candide and her brother; they embraced the old woman, and Candide
ransomed them both.

There was a small farm in the neighborhood which the old woman
proposed to Candide to make shift with till the company should meet
with a more favorable destiny. Cunegund, not knowing that she was
grown ugly, as no one had informed her of it, reminded Candide of his
promise in so peremptory a manner, that the simple lad did not dare to
refuse her; he then acquainted the Baron that he was going to marry his
sister.

“I will never suffer,” said the Baron, “my sister to be guilty of an
action so derogatory to her birth and family; nor will I bear this
insolence on your part. No, I never will be reproached that my nephews
are not qualified for the first ecclesiastical dignities in Germany; nor
shall a sister of mine ever be the wife of any person below the rank of
Baron of the Empire.”

Cunegund flung herself at her brother’s feet, and bedewed them
with her tears; but he still continued inflexible.

“Thou foolish fellow, said Candide, “have I not delivered thee
from the galleys, paid thy ransom, and thy sister’s, too, who was a

Candide 93

scullion, and is very ugly, and yet condescend to marry her? and shalt
thou pretend to oppose the match! If I were to listen only to the dictates
of my anger, I should kill thee again.”

“Thou mayest kill me again,” said the Baron; “but thou shalt not
marry my sister while I am living.”

C H A P T E R 3 0

Conclusion

Candide had, in truth, no great inclination to marry Miss
Cunegund; but the extreme impertinence of the Baron determined him
to conclude the match; and Cunegund pressed him so warmly, that he
could not recant. He consulted Pangloss, Martin, and the faithful
Cacambo. Pangloss composed a fine memorial, by which he proved
that the Baron had no right over his sister; and that she might,
according to all the laws of the Empire, marry Candide with the left
hand. Martin concluded to throw the Baron into the sea; Cacambo
decided that he must be delivered to the Turkish captain and sent to the
galleys; after which he should be conveyed by the first ship to the
Father General at Rome. This advice was found to be good; the old
woman approved of it, and not a syllable was said to his sister; the
business was executed for a little money; and they had the pleasure of
tricking a Jesuit, and punishing the pride of a German baron.

It was altogether natural to imagine, that after undergoing so many
disasters, Candide, married to his mistress and living with the
philosopher Pangloss, the philosopher Martin, the prudent Cacambo,
and the old woman, having besides brought home so many diamonds
from the country of the ancient Incas, would lead the most agreeable
life in the world. But he had been so robbed by the Jews, that he had
nothing left but his little farm; his wife, every day growing more and
more ugly, became headstrong and insupportable; the old woman was
infirm, and more ill–natured yet than Cunegund. Cacambo, who
worked in the garden, and carried the produce of it to sell in
Constantinople, was above his labor, and cursed his fate. Pangloss
despaired of making a figure in any of the German universities. And as
to Martin, he was firmly persuaded that a person is equally ill–situated
everywhere.He took things with patience.

Candide, Martin, and Pangloss disputed sometimes about
metaphysics and morality. Boats were often seen passing under the
windows of the farm laden with effendis, bashaws, and cadis, that were
going into banishment to Lemnos, Mytilene and Erzerum. And other
cadis, bashaws, and effendis were seen coming back to succeed the
place of the exiles, and were driven out in their turns. They saw several

Candide 95

heads curiously stuck upon poles, and carried as presents to the
Sublime Porte. Such sights gave occasion to frequent dissertations; and
when no disputes were in progress, the irksomeness was so excessive
that the old woman ventured one day to tell them:

“I would be glad to know which is worst, to be ravished a hundred
times by Negro pirates, to have one buttock cut off, to run the gauntlet
among the Bulgarians, to be whipped and hanged at an auto–da–fe, to
be dissected, to be chained to an oar in a galley; and, in short, to
experience all the miseries through which every one of us hath passed,
or to remain here doing nothing?”

“This,” said Candide, “is a grand question.”
This discourse gave birth to new reflections, and Martin especially

concluded that man was born to live in the convulsions of disquiet, or
in the lethargy of idleness. Though Candide did not absolutely agree to
this, yet he did not determine anything on that head. Pangloss avowed
that he had undergone dreadful sufferings; but having once maintained
that everything went on as well as possible, he still maintained it, and at
the same time believed nothing of it.

There was one thing which more than ever confirmed Martin in his
detestable principles, made Candide hesitate, and embarrassed
Pangloss, which was the arrival of Pacquette and Brother Giroflee one
day at their farm. This couple had been in the utmost distress; they had
very speedily made away with their three thousand piastres; they had
parted, been reconciled; quarreled again, been thrown into prison; had
made their escape, and at last Brother Giroflee had turned Turk.
Pacquette still continued to follow her trade; but she got little or
nothing by it.

“I foresaw very well,” said Martin to Candide “that your presents
would soon be squandered, and only make them more miserable. You
and Cacambo have spent millions of piastres, and yet you are not more
happy than Brother Giroflee and Pacquette.”

“Ah!” said Pangloss to Pacquette, “it is Heaven that has brought
you here among us, my poor child! Do you know that you have cost me
the tip of my nose, one eye, and one ear? What a handsome shape is
here!and what is this world!”

This new adventure engaged them more deeply than ever in
philosophical disputations.

In the neighborhood lived a famous dervish who passed for the
best philosopher in Turkey; they went to consult him: Pangloss, who
was their spokesman, addressed him thus:

“Master, we come to entreat you to tell us why so strange an
animal as man has been formed?”

96 VOLTAIRE

“Why do you trouble your head about it?” said the dervish; “is it
any business of yours?”

“But, Reverend Father,” said Candide, “there is a horrible deal of
evil on the earth.”

“What signifies it,” said the dervish, “whether there is evil or
good? When His Highness sends a ship to Egypt does he trouble his
head whether the rats in the vessel are at their ease or not?”

“What must then be done?” said Pangloss.
“Be silent,” answered the dervish.
“I flattered myself,” replied Pangloss, “to have reasoned a little

with you on the causes and effects, on the best of possible worlds, the
origin of evil, the nature of the soul, and a pre–established harmony.”

At these words the dervish shut the door in their faces.
During this conversation, news was spread abroad that two viziers

of the bench and the mufti had just been strangled at Constantinople,
and several of their friends impaled. This catastrophe made a great
noise for some hours. Pangloss, Candide, and Martin, as they were
returning to the little farm, met with a good–looking old man, who was
taking the air at his door, under an alcove formed of the boughs of
orange trees. Pangloss, who was as inquisitive as he was disputative,
asked him what was the name of the mufti who was lately strangled.

“I cannot tell,” answered the good old man; “I never knew the
name of any mufti, or vizier breathing. I am entirely ignorant of the
event you speak of; I presume that in general such as are concerned in
public affairs sometimes come to a miserable end; and that they deserve
it: but I never inquire what is doing at Constantinople; I am contented
with sending thither the produce of my garden, which I cultivate with
my own hands.”

After saying these words, he invited the strangers to come into his
house. His two daughters and two sons presented them with divers sorts
of sherbet of their own making; besides caymac, heightened with the
peels of candied citrons, oranges, lemons, pineapples, pistachio nuts,
and Mocha coffee unadulterated with the bad coffee of Batavia or the
American islands. After which the two daughters of this good
Mussulman perfumed the beards of Candide, Pangloss, and Martin.

“You must certainly have a vast estate,” said Candide to the Turk.
“I have no more than twenty acres of ground,” he replied, “the

whole of which I cultivate myself with the help of my children; and our
labor keeps off from us three great evils – idleness, vice, and want.”

Candide, as he was returning home, made profound reflections on
the Turk’s discourse.

Candide 97

“This good old man,” said he to Pangloss and Martin, “appears to
me to have chosen for himself a lot much preferable to that of the six
Kings with whom we had the honor to sup.”

“Human grandeur,” said Pangloss, “is very dangerous, if we
believe the testimonies of almost all philosophers; for we find Eglon,
King of Moab, was assassinated by Aod; Absalom was hanged by the
hair of his head, and run through with three darts; King Nadab, son of
Jeroboam, was slain by Baaza; King Ela by Zimri; Okosias by Jehu;
Athaliah by Jehoiada; the Kings Jehooiakim, Jeconiah, and Zedekiah,
were led into captivity: I need not tell you what was the fate of Croesus,
Astyages, Darius, Dionysius of Syracuse, Pyrrhus, Perseus, Hannibal,
Jugurtha, Ariovistus, Caesar, Pompey, Nero, Otho, Vitellius, Domitian,
Richard II of England, Edward II, Henry VI, Richard Ill, Mary Stuart,
Charles I, the three Henrys of France, and the Emperor Henry IV.”

“Neither need you tell me,” said Candide, “that we must take care
of our garden.”

“You are in the right,” said Pangloss; “for when man was put into
the garden of Eden, it was with an intent to dress it; and this proves that
man was not born to be idle.”

“Work then without disputing,” said Martin; “it is the only way to
render life supportable.”

The little society, one and all, entered into this laudable design and
set themselves to exert their different talents. The little piece of ground
yielded them a plentiful crop. Cunegund indeed was very ugly, but she
became an excellent hand at pastrywork: Pacquette embroidered; the
old woman had the care of the linen. There was none, down to Brother
Giroflee, but did some service; he was a very good carpenter, and
became an honest man. Pangloss used now and then to say to Candide:

“There is a concatenation of all events in the best of possible
worlds; for, in short, had you not been kicked out of a fine castle for the
love of Miss Cunegund; had you not been put into the Inquisition; had
you not traveled over America on foot; had you not run the Baron
through the body; and had you not lost all your sheep, which you
brought from the good country of El Dorado, you would not have been
here to eat preserved citrons and pistachio nuts.”

“Excellently observed,” answered Candide; “but let us cultivate
our garden.”

–– THE END ––

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Table of Contents

Title Page
Copyright Page
Introduction

THERESE RAQUIN
Preface to the Second Edition (1868)
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
XVII
XVIII
XIX
XX
XXI
XXII
XXIII
XXIV
XXV
XXVI
XXVII
XXVIII
XXIX
XXX
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XXXI
XXXII

Notes
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THÉRÈSE RAQUIN
ÉMILE ZOLA, born in Paris in 1840, was brought up in Aix-en-Provence in an atmosphere of
struggling poverty after the death of his father in 1847. He was educated at the College Bourbon at
Aix and then at the Lycée Saint-Louis in Paris. After failing the baccalauréat twice and then taking
menial clerical employment, he joined the newly founded publishing house Hachette in 1862. and
quickly rose to become head of publicity. Having published his first novel in 1865 he left Hachette
the following year to become a full-time journalist and writer. Thérèse Raquin appeared in 1867 and
caused a scandal, to which he responded with his famous Preface to the novel’s second edition in
1868 in which he laid claim to being a ‘Naturalist’. That same year he began work on a series of
novels intended to trace scientifically the effects of heredity and environment in one family: Les
Rougon-Macquart. This great cycle eventually contained twenty novels, which appeared between
1871 and 1893. In 1877 the seventh of these, L’Assommoir (The Drinking Den), a study of
alcoholism in working-class Paris, brought him abiding wealth and fame. On completion of the
Rougon-Macquart series he began a new cycle of novels, Les Trois Villes: Lourdes, Rome, Paris
(1894-8), a violent attack on the Church of Rome, which led to another cycle, Les Quatre Évangiles.
While his later writing was less successful, he remained a celebrated figure on account of the Dreyfus
case, in which his powerful interventions played an important part in redressing a heinous
miscarriage of justice. His marriage in 1870 had remained childless, but his happy, public
relationship in later life with Jeanne Rozerot, initially one of his domestic servants, brought him a son
and a daughter. He died in mysterious circumstances in 1902., the victim of an accident or murder.

ROBIN BUSS is a writer and translator who works as a freelance journalist and as television critic
for The Times Educational Supplement. He studied at the University of Paris, where he took a degree
and doctorate in French literature. He is part-author of the article ‘French Literature’ in
Encyclopaedia Britannica and has published critical studies of works by Vigny and Cocteau, and
three books on European cinema, The French through Their Films (1988), Italian Films (1989) and
French Film Noir (1994). He has translated a number of other volumes for Penguin, including Émile
Zola’s L’Assommoir and Au Bonheur des Dames.
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PENGUIN BOOKS

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First published 1867
This translation first published 2004
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Introduction
(New readers are advised that this Introduction makes
the details of the plot explicit.)

Thérèse Raquin is the only one of Émile Zola’s works outside his novel-cycle Les Rougon-
Macquart and his polemic J‘Accuse that is widely read. Indeed, with a few individual works from
that twenty-volume cycle, it represents the height of his achievement as a novelist. Published in 1867,
when Zola was only twenty-seven, it was not his first work of fiction, but it is the book that
established his reputation as one of the outstanding novelists of the younger generation. Denounced by
the critic of Le Figaro as ‘putrid’, ‘a pool of filth and blood’,1 it achieved a notoriety that would
pursue Zola throughout his life and, at the same time, established the ‘experimental’ method that he
would apply in the twenty volumes of Les Rougon-Macquart. We can say, with his biographer Henri
Mitterand, that ‘Zola’s career as a novelist only really begins with Thérèse Raquin.’2
The novel does, however, differ from the later works in some important respects. Les Rougon-
Macquart was a hugely ambitious project, designed (according to its subtitle) to constitute ‘The
Natural and Social History of a Family under the Second Empire’.3 The individual volumes in the
cycle centre on a particular aspect of life in that period: provincial and national politics (La Fortune
des Rougon, Son Excellence Eugène Rougon); the Parisian working class (Le Ventre de Paris,
L’Assommoir); the industrial working class (Germinal); the peasantry (La Terre); and so on.
Entering into these different milieux is part of the pleasure of reading Zola, and he supported the
fictional narrative with extensive documentary research — into life in a large department store, for
example, when writing Au Bonheur des Dames, or among workers on the railway, for L a Bête
humaine. Behind the chief protagonists in all these novels, one is aware of a host of minor figures
and, beyond them, of the crowd: the crowd in the Parisian streets and markets, the shoppers in the
department store, the miners, politicians, priests, soldiers, stockbrokers, workers and peasants who
populate the background of the picture.
This is not the case in Thérèse Raquin. Here is a tale of adultery, murder and madness, set mainly
in a single location and with a cast of four leading characters and four minor ones (five, if we count
the cat, François). Only during the scenes on the river (Chapters XI and XII) and in the Morgue
(Chapter XIII) does one have any sense of other people moving around in the background; only very
exceptionally does the writer introduce another character with a speaking part, like the painter who
makes a fleeting appearance in Chapter XXV. For the rest of the time, he concentrates our attention on
Thérèse, Camille, Laurent and Madame Raquin, with occasional appearances by the group of guests
who visit them every Thursday: Grivet, the Michauds, father and son, the son’s wife, Suzanne; and, of
course, by the cat. In the forefront of this picture is Thérèse, the half-Arab orphan who is abandoned
by her father to be brought up by her aunt, the haberdasher, Madame Raquin. Thérèse has to compete
for her aunt’s affections with her cousin, Madame Raquin’s sickly son, Camille. It is an uneven
Page 9

struggle. Camille gets all the attention, while Thérèse learns to hold in her frustration and resentment,
her natural energy and health smothered by the possessive mother and feeble son. When the time
comes, she accepts marriage to Camille for want of anything better and prepares for a life of endless
Thursday evenings playing dominoes in the company of Madame Raquin’s friends: the former
policeman, Michaud, and his son, and the railway clerk, Grivet. The stage is set for a tragedy that
will be set off by the arrival of Camille’s friend Laurent, a sturdy lad, self-indulgent and
unscrupulous, who releases the full force of Thérèse’s passionate nature — under the watchful eye of
François, the cat.
The novel is intentionally claustrophobic. Thérèse Raquin is a chamber piece, a melodrama, a
horror story about two murderers who descend into madness, haunted by the shade of their victim and
observed eventually by a paralysed woman, who cannot move or speak, but has to listen and watch as
they disintegrate in front of her. We are meant to share her feeling of powerlessness and revulsion.
We are fascinated spectators of what happens to Thérèse and Laurent, alongside the stricken Madame
Raquin — and the equally mute and eloquent cat.
The significance of the cat can be overestimated. After all, the beast does little in the book except
what cats do in real life. It hangs around and watches quietly, as its human owners get on with their
lives. But Laurent, in his folly, attributes to the cat supernatural powers of understanding and
judgement: when he and Thérèse start their affair, the cat seems to be watching them with
disapproval; after the murder, it seems to know what has happened to Camille. Perhaps we make a
mistake similar to Laurent’s when we think that the cat plays a significant role in the novel. Perhaps
the animal is purely for decoration, but few critics would think so. They have often compared
François to the cat in Manet’s painting Olympia (exhibited in 1865). From here, they have gone on to
see him as a symbol of female sexuality, a ‘familiar’ or demon, and (like Laurent) as the reincarnation
of the dead Camille.4 He could be any or all of these things. A modern psychoanalyst might even wish
to read something into the fact that the cat has the same name as Zola’s father, François (Francesco),
who died when Zola was barely seven years old. But the attention critics have paid to François the
cat comes more from a desire to link Zola’s novel to Manet’s painting, because of what one knows to
be Manet’s role in Zola’s intellectual life at the time: ‘We will see Olympia’s cat in Thérèse
Raquin’s bedroom,’ says Henri Mitterand. 5 The presence of this knowing cat in Manet’s painting and
in Zola’s novel provides a peg on which to hang the assertion of the artist’s importance to the
novelist’s work.
However, this focus on the cat implies some immediate connection, as though one were suggesting
that Zola might have seen Manet’s painting in the Salon of 1865 and thought: ‘Ah! I can use that cat!’
This may, indeed, have been the case, but in itself the transfer of the cat to the novel is purely trivial,
whereas we know that, in fact, the study of Manet and other painters was of crucial importance to
Zola’s thought and to his development as a writer. Rather than influences, in the narrow sense, it is
better to think in terms of the aesthetic climate in which Zola was working, at a formative moment in
his life and a time of great intellectual excitement. The constituents of that environment can be
summed up under the heading of four names: Paris; Édouard Manet; Honoré de Balzac; and Claude
Bernard.

Page 10

Paris is where Émile Zola was born, the son of a civil engineer; but when he was three years old the
family moved south, to Aix-en-Provence, because his father was to work on building what is now
called the Canal Zola. Then, in April 1847, the father, François Zola, died suddenly of pneumonia,
caught apparently during a coach journey to Marseille. Émile and his mother stayed on in Aix, where
from 1852 he boarded at the College Bourbon. One of his fellow pupils and close friends (among a
collection of otherwise rather unsympathetic schoolmates) was the painter Paul Cézanne.
François Zola had left a complicated financial legacy, and his wife, Emilie, was to spend many
years in an unsuccessful battle to retrieve a share of the capital of the canal company from François’s
main backer, the politician Jules Migeon. It was in order to further this suit that she eventually settled
in Paris, leaving her son at school and, in the holidays, with his grand-parents in Aix. Then, in
February 1858, after the death of her own mother, Emilie called on Émile to join her. At the age of
seventeen he returned to the capital to finish his studies at the Lycée Saint-Louis.
The young Zola must have felt a great sense of excitement and new horizons at this return to Paris
from the provinces, though for many years his life in the capital was to be hard. Emilie failed to
obtain any money from her lawsuit and her husband’s estate. Émile fell ill and left the lycée without
passing his baccalauréat, and for two years he was obliged to earn a living by taking menial clerical
jobs, until he joined the dispatch department of the publishing firm Hachette in March 1862. At the
same time, he was reading and writing voraciously. He even considered becoming one of the many
writers employed by the prolific Alexandre Dumas, but when he made inquiries, he found that Dumas
was not recruiting ghosts for the moment.
At the same time, during these years of penury, he was discovering Paris. He was a keen flâneur
(if one can be keen about strolling) and wandered around the city in the heyday of the Second Empire,
at a time when it was being transformed by the efforts of Baron Haussmann. Haussmann, Prefect of
Paris, was responsible for the major programme of rebuilding between 1853 and 1869, which
destroyed many remnants of the medieval city, putting in their place the broad avenues of the grand
boulevards and other characteristic features of modern Paris. Many other buildings, including most of
those mentioned in Thérèse Raquin, were being pulled down and rebuilt at the time. This city in
transition forms the background to many of Zola’s novels in Les Rougon-Macquart.
The city has a less obvious, but still important, role in this earlier novel. The Paris of Thérèse
Raquin is not the Paris of high society, finance, politics or business. Nor is it precisely the working-
class Paris of L’Assommoir (The Drinking Den). Its characters all come from the lower-middle
classes: junior civil servants, officials, clerks and shopkeepers. The city in which they live is not the
glamorous Paris of the boulevards, the Opera and the tourist sights (though they may walk along the
Champs-Élysées on a Sunday); theirs is the Paris of dingy backstreets and dank, ill-lit premises; of
railway offices; of the Morgue.
Above all, it is the Paris of the Seine. The river is constantly present. It passes only a few steps
from the Passage du Pont-Neuf, where Thérèse and Mme Raquin live; they have moved here from the
little Norman town of Vernon, which also lies on the Seine, about fifty-five kilometres downriver
from Paris. Laurent comes from the village of Jeufosse, built around an island in the river, between
Vernon and Mantes-la-Jolie. Camille and Laurent work for the Orléans Railway Company, which had
its headquarters in the Gare d‘Orléans, right beside the Quai d’Austerlitz (it is now known as the
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Gare d‘Austerlitz). Camille is drowned at Saint-Ouen, on that wide meander of the Seine to the north-
west of Paris, and his body ends up in the Morgue, on the Quai de l’Archevêché, on the tip of the Île
de la Cite. Of this novel, if of any, it could be said that a river runs through it.
The Seine, however, is not just any watercourse; it is the main artery of Paris. The city, like all
large cities during the nineteenth century, had come to be seen not only as a place of culture and
civilized society, or even as a place of opportunity (the role that Balzac eventually gives it in Le Père
Goriot), but also increasingly as a site of poverty, misery, loneliness, alienation, crime, vice and
degradation. The young Zola had experienced the excitement of arriving in Paris as an ambitious
young poet with the future ahead of him, but he had also experienced disappointment and poverty. He
had known the bohemian Paris where he had his first sexual experience and lived with his first
mistress. He had seen the filth and cold of the city, witnessed what it could do to those who failed,
and sensed the terrible realities hidden in its meaner streets. This, too, was exciting, the stuff of
literature, whether in the poems of Baudelaire or the popular novels of Eugène Sue.
The river in Thérèse Raquin has several faces, but they are mainly sinister or, at least, negative
ones. At Vernon, Mme Raquin has a garden that goes right down to the Seine where Thérèse likes to
lie in the grass, thinking of nothing; but even here she fantasizes that the river is about to rise up and
engulf her. Camille enjoys strolling beside the river on his way to and from work, watching it flow
and, like Thérèse, has no thoughts in his head; but the river is not to be lucky for him. After the
murder, Laurent sees dreadful visions in the Seine at night, though he later finds a moment of peace
strolling along the quais, momentarily forgetting his crime …
The river, linking the places and people in the book, has a symbolic function, as do so many
inanimate objects in Zola’s work. One can also read it as a mythical place, the river Lethe, river of
oblivion and death; or see it as a figure for the unconscious, for dark desires and for the terrors of the
mind. Zola himself, like Laurent, lived for a while in the Rue Saint-Victor, a few minutes’ walk from
the quais, he worked briefly for the Compagnie des Docks, he spent summer afternoons lazing on the
water at Vitry. He must often have walked along the banks of the Seine, especially at times when he
was unemployed, staring into the river, as his characters do in Thérèse Raquin.

The Seine, as it flowed through the peaceful landscape of northern France, had an increasing appeal
for writers and artists. Among the latter, the trend was towards subjects taken from everyday life,
landscapes painted (or at least sketched) in the open and scenes of simple people engaged in ordinary
activities: the peasants of Jean-François Millet’s L’Angélus (1859), for example. Millet spent much
of his life in the Norman riverside village of Barbizon, which gave its name to a school of painting
dedicated to the countryside and the open air.
Zola had come to Paris from Aix with instructions from his school friend Paul Cézanne to report
back on the art scene in the capital, and this he did, giving an account of the Salon of 1859, the
biennial exhibition sponsored by the Académie des Beaux-Arts and the official showcase for new
work in the visual arts. Already, the Salon was starting to reflect conflicts between different trends,
and it was turned into a battleground with the arrival of the Impressionists in the 1860s, though the
seeds of these upheavals were sown in 1859, when works submitted by Manet and Whistler were
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rejected by the Académie.
In 1861, a painting by Pissarro was also rejected by the Salon committee, and protests from the
younger painters grew. The emperor, Napoleon III, demanded that for the following exhibition, in
1863, the painters who had been rejected by the Académie should be allowed to exhibit their works
in another part of the Palais de l‘Industrie, in what became known as the Salon des Refuses. It was at
the first of these that Édouard Manet exhibited his pastoral scene Le Déjeuner sur l’herbe, which
showed two young students, fully clothed in modern dress, apparently enjoying a picnic beside a
naked woman, with another bathing in the river behind them. The Empress Eugénie was shocked by
this canvas and it caused a scandal.
Zola wrote a passionate defence of Le Déjeuner sur l‘herbe and Manet’s other outrageous
painting, Olympia (the one with the cat). As Robert Lethbridge argues, Zola may have seen Manet’s
notoriety as a means to establish his own name, even though Manet himself may have had doubts
about ‘such blatant exercises in publicity’.6 He would become an acquaintance of Manet, of Pissarro
and of other writers and painters. In late 1867, Zola sat for a portrait by Manet, which was exhibited
in the Salon in 1868. He would later record the artistic life of the 1860s and the struggle of the
Impressionists in one of the novels of Les Rougon-Macquart, L’Œuvre (1886). Outside literature,
painting was the art that interested him most. He often referred to Manet as a ‘Naturalist’ painter,
using the word to associate the new, anti-Romantic movement in art with his own practice in
literature.
This connection with the world of the plastic arts is reflected in various ways and at different
levels in Thérèse Raquin. The most overt link is the character of Laurent, a young peasant who has
come up to Paris and wants to be an artist, not because he is driven by any particular urge to paint, but
because he thinks that a painter’s life will be ‘a jolly business, not too tiring’, and allow him to
‘smoke and lark around all day long’ (Chapter V). Zola’s description of Laurent’s paintings, in
particular the portrait of Camille, shows how futile this approach is, and this gives the writer an
opportunity to describe what painting should not be: Laurent’s technique is ‘stiff, dry, like a parody of
the primitive masters’, he is hesitant and he paints ‘with the tips of the brushes … making short, tight
hatching strokes, as he might when using a pencil’ (Chapter VI). Ironically, it is only in a state of
nervous collapse following Camille’s murder that Laurent discovers a real talent for painting —
evidence of Zola’s belief in the relation between neurosis and artistic creation.
Particular paintings may have directly inspired some of the scenes in the novel: Le Déjeuner sur
l‘herbe could well have been in Zola’s mind as he described Thérèse, Laurent and Camille in Saint-
Ouen finding a shady spot with a carpet of green where the ‘fallen leaves lay on the ground in a
reddish layer’, while the ‘tree trunks were standing upright, numberless, like clusters of Gothic
columns, and the branches dipped right down to their foreheads, so that their only horizon was the
bronze vault of dying leaves and the black-and-white shafts of the aspens and oaks‘, making ‘a
melancholy pit in the silence and cool of a narrow clearing’ (Chapter XI). And the image of the dead
girl whom Laurent sees in the Morgue, her ‘fresh, plump body … paling with very delicate variations
of tint … half smiling, her head slightly to one side, offering her bosom in a provocative manner’ with
‘a black stripe on her neck, like a necklace of shadow’ (Chapter XIII), was probably suggested by
Manet’s Olympia, who has a black velvet choker round her neck. In each case, though, if Zola has
Page 13

borrowed from Manet, he has transposed the meaning of the work, giving it a more sinister
significance that fits his purpose in the novel.
In any case, it is not necessary to find such direct correspondences between particular paintings
and passages in the novel to be aware of the influence of painting on the author. Contemporary critics
talked about the ‘painterly’ qualities of his writing. His descriptions are carefully composed, with a
strong sense of colour. In Thérèse Raquin, in fact, he uses a palette of dark colours and half-tones to
convey a strong sense of chiaroscuro. The adjectives ‘yellow’ and ‘yellowish’ occur with particular
frequency, as do ‘greenish’, ‘bluish’, etc., in settings that are dark, dingy and gloomy. Apart from
which, Zola’s mind was so imbued with ideas about painting that they influence his whole aesthetic:
he wanted to do in literature what painters do on canvas: to represent the reality of nature without
mere imitation of nature, discovering its poetic truth and the individual essence of the person creating
the work.

Thérèse Raquin was not Zola’s first published work; it came after a rather long literary
apprenticeship and an extended reflection on the nature of literature and the tasks of the writer. His
first book, which appeared in 1864, was a collection of Provençal stories, the Contes à Ninon. In the
following year, he published the semi-autobiographical La Confession de Claude, and this was
followed in 1866 by the short novel Le Vœu d‘une morte, a story of love and devotion. He even
wrote a serial novel in the manner of Eugène Sue, Les Mysteres de Marseille, which he later
dismissed as merely a pot-boiler (though Henri Mitterand and others have found it interesting and
pointed out how much time and effort Zola devoted to the work). He was a prolific journalist, a
literary and art critic, and the author of an important manifesto, ‘Two Definitions of the Modern
Novel’, a paper which he sent to the Congrès scientifique de France, held in Aix-en-Provence in
December 1866.
He was also reading a good deal, going to the theatre, visiting exhibitions, talking to a widening
circle of friends — all of which helped to define what he saw as the current situation of literature and
the writer’s task. Zola had read with interest the exiled Victor Hugo’s essay on literary genius,
William Shakespeare (1864). The 1860s saw a continuing reaction against Romanticism in literature,
with the publication in 1866 of the first volume of Le Parnasse contemporain, an anthology of poetry
including work by Paul Verlaine, Leconte de Lisle and Stéphane Mallarmé: Zola was to make fun of
these Parnassians a couple of years later in an article for L’Événement illustré; he was no longer
greatly interested in poetry, despite his schoolboy efforts at writing verse.
His chief concern was the novel, a form that carried less prestige than poetry, but had a much
wider appeal to an increasingly literate public. If it was to establish and retain its status as a major
literary form, it would have to demonstrate that it was not merely frivolous entertainment, but a
literary art, offering at the same time a means to analyse human psychology and human society. The
historical novel, popular in the earlier years of the century, had revealed new possibilities for the
genre as an analytical tool, and Balzac had shown how fiction could use an imaginative construct to
explore the workings of society in the novels of La Comédie humaine.
Zola greatly admired Balzac, whom he discovered only in the mid 1860s: he praised in particular
Page 14

Balzac’s ability ‘to see both the inside and the outside of contemporary society’.7 Eventually, Les
Rougon-Macquart would be an enterprise comparable to Balzac’s, doing for the Second Empire
what La Comédie humaine had done for the Restoration: the opening of Thérèse Raquin, carefully
situating the coming action with its description of the Passage du Pont-Neuf, has a decidedly
‘Balzacian’ feel, recalling the scene-setting first pages of novels such as Le Père Goriot and César
Birotteau. The aim is to establish a realistic environment in which the characters can develop, both
as individuals and as representatives of their class and time.
The break with the fantastic story-telling of the Romantics and, at the same time, with the popular
novel of adventure and melodrama, was most decisively made by the novelist whom Zola would
come to admire most among his contemporaries: Gustave Flaubert. Flaubert’s Madame Bovary had
been published in book form in 1857, but was already the subject of a prosecution for obscenity and
blasphemy when it appeared as a serial in the previous year (charges on which Flaubert was
acquitted). Zola would soon be able to sympathize with Flaubert’s predicament — and also to
appreciate how useful a sensational controversy could be for the sales of a novel and the fame of its
author. Throughout his life, he was happy to attract controversy and to exploit his reputation for
scandal.
Zola came late to Flaubert’s masterpiece, as he had done to Balzac, not reading Madame Bovary
until the mid 1860s; but it made an enormous impression. The story of the adulterous doctor’s wife,
who dreams of romance and commits suicide after an unhappy love affair, was important to him on
many counts, including as an analysis of the tedium of contemporary provincial society and as an
exercise in style. Flaubert’s method was as far removed as one could imagine from that of prolific
popular novelists such as Alexandre Dumas or Eugène Sue: he honed every word, he wrote and
rewrote tirelessly, he had an almost religious veneration for his art and he aimed as far as possible to
remove the artist from his work. The writer was to be a recorder of reality who shrank from nothing:
the description of Emma Bovary’s death from poisoning makes no concessions to the sensibilities of
the susceptible reader; nor does it, on the other hand, indulge in the horror for its own sake. The
writer merely observes and refuses to turn away. Flaubert, for Zola, was ‘the pioneer of the century,
the painter and philosopher of our modern world’.8
Flaubert’s immediate imitators included the brothers Edmond and Jules Goncourt, now
remembered chiefly as the authors of a literary journal. In 1864, they published their fifth novel,
Germinie Lacerteux, the story of a servant girl’s descent into alcoholism, degradation and hysteria.
The writers’ brief Preface — ‘the public likes false novels, this is a true one’ — became a manifesto
of Naturalism. They began by proclaiming that, in a democratic age, the ‘lower orders’ deserved to
be the subject of a novel, and that the novel, as a genre, was now ‘the great, serious, passionate and
vital form of literary study and social inquiry’, having taken upon itself ‘the studies and duties of
science’. The Goncourts were aware of the influence of their method and subject matter on Zola, their
younger contemporary, whom they referred to in a rather proprietorial manner as ‘our admirer and
our pupil’.9
Even when literary and artistic Romanticism was at its height in France, in the 1820s and 1830s,
there had been critics who saw it as a futile reaction against an age that was becoming increasingly
scientific and utilitarian. ‘The idea of beauty presided over the civilization of Antiquity; modern
Page 15

society is increasingly dominated by those of truth, justice and utility,’ one wrote in the Revue
encyclopédique in 1828,10 and this argument helped to explain the social alienation of the Byronic
outsider. Zola was to use a similar contrast between the novel in Antiquity (‘a pleasant lie, a tissue of
wonderful adventures’) and the modern novel, adapted to the ‘scientific and methodical tendencies of
the modern world’.11 Balzac, in his Preface to the Comédie humaine, had put forward the idea of the
novelist as a kind of natural scientist, classifying society in much the same way as Buffon12 had
classified the natural world: ‘there will always be social species as there are zoological species’.
The image that Zola uses most frequently is not the Balzacian one of the Naturalist, but that of the
surgeon. In the Preface to the second edition of Thérèse Raquin,13 in which he defends the novel
against its critics, he writes of having performed ‘on two living bodies the analytical work that
surgeons carry out on dead ones’; and he sees himself as ‘a mere analyst, who may have turned his
attention to human corruption, but in the same way as a doctor becomes absorbed in an operating
theatre’. The writer, he insists, is describing, analysing, representing with the detachment of an artist
looking at his nude model or a doctor examining a patient.

It is not surprising, therefore, that he finds the ultimate philosophical underpinning of what he is doing
not in art or literature, but in science. The title of his theoretical work Le Roman experimental (1880)
should not be read in what would almost certainly be its modern meaning, referring to fiction that
experiments with literary form. What Zola means is the novel as experiment, in the scientific sense,
adopting a title that deliberately echoes the doctor and scientist Claude Bernard’s Introduction à
l’étude de la médecine expérimentale (1865) and La Science expérimentale (1878). The first of
these was among the works that most influenced Zola’s intellectual development in the years leading
up to the writing of Thérèse Raquin, with its description of the application of scientific method to
medicine and the need for systematic observation and verification.
The underpinning of Bernard’s ideas came from the Positivist philosophy of Auguste Comte, whose
Cours de philosophie positive had been published between 1830 and 1842. With the anti-Romantic
critics of the 1830s, Comte believed that humankind had entered a stage of development dominated by
positive, scientific understanding, which could be applied not only to the natural world, but also to
society; it was to be based on observation of material phenomena and on experience, rejecting
theoretical or metaphysical propositions that could not be verified by experiment or observation.
Comte’s philosophy was to influence Zola particularly through the writings of the critic and
historian Hippolyte Taine, whom he may first have encountered thanks to one of his teachers at the
lycée, Pierre-Émile Levasseur,14 and he would certainly have encountered Taine later, after he
started to work for the publisher Hachette, Taine being one of their authors. It was through Taine that
he came to appreciate Balzac, and he would pay tribute to the critic in a long article in La Revue
contemporaine (15 February 1866), later saying of Taine that ‘he is, in our age, the highest
manifestation of our curiosities, or of our need to analyse, of our desire to reduce everything to the
pure mechanism of the mathematical sciences’.15
Taine’s literary and historical criticism was based on a Positivist approach that saw writers, like
other historical figures, as the product of ‘race, milieu, moment’. But if the task of the critic is to study
Page 16

the work of writers who are shaped by their heredity and their environment, why should the writer not
treat the characters in fiction in the same way? They, too, can be treated as the product of a particular
race, milieu and historical moment. The novel, instead of being a mere fantasy, will become a
laboratory in which the novelist carries out his experiment, a scientific instrument for the analysis of
individuals and society.
Of course, Zola was writing in the days before Freud and psychoanalysis; theories of human
psychology contained elements that we would nowadays find odd. In particular, doctors still believed
in the idea of ‘temperament’, which derived from the medieval concept of ‘humours’. According to
the Larousse dictionary of 1875, human temperaments could be divided up into bilious, sanguine,
nervous and lymphatic, with an additional category, phlegmatic (a combination of lymphatic and
bilious). The nervous and sanguine temperaments were to be considered more or less normal, while
the bilious and lymphatic were weaker and pathological.16
The Larousse dictionary shows that there had been some development in the concept since the
Middle Ages. For a start, the melancholic temperament had been discarded, and the temperaments
were no longer considered to be so closely related to particular organs of the body or to the four
elements, earth, air, fire and water. Nor were they thought of as innate: a person’s temperament could
alter according to circumstances, so there were cases of ‘mixed’ temperaments and many individuals
were unclassifiable. But the basic theory — that humans could be divided into psychological types
according to certain physiological criteria — was still accepted, not least by Zola. ‘In Thérèse
Raquin I set out to study temperament, not character,’ he wrote in the Preface to the second edition,
meaning by this that he wanted to show how human beings of a particular disposition react when
placed in a given set of circumstances. And throughout the novel he refers to the sanguine
temperament of Laurent and the nervous temperament of Thérèse, these two temperaments being
opposite and complementary. Laurent is earthy, driven by his animal needs, while Thérèse is nervous,
changeable, hysterical; and each of the main protagonists in the novel has physical characteristics that
correspond to the traditional descriptions of his or her particular temperament: Laurent’s ruddy
cheeks, Thérèse’s pale face and the lymphatic Camille’s blond hair. 17 What Zola aims to do here is
exactly what he attributed to the Goncourts in his review of Germinie Lacerteux: putting ‘a certain
temperament in contact with certain facts and certain beings’.18 And the Goncourts themselves had
written in their diary: ‘Since Balzac, the novel has had nothing in common with what our fathers
understood by “novel”. The present-day novel is made with documents described or noted down
from nature, just as history is made out of written documents.‘19 The ‘milieu’ and the ‘moment’ were
ready for Zola’s first serious attempt to apply his theories in Thérèse Raquin.

In December 1866, Zola published a short story in Le Figaro under the ironic title ‘Un mariage
d’amour’ (‘A Love Match’). This tells how a young man, Michel, marries a ‘thin, nervous’ girl,
Suzanne, who is ‘neither ugly, nor beautiful’. For three years they live together in harmony, until
Suzanne starts to fall passionately in love with one of her husband’s friends, Jacques. Tacitly, the two
lovers get the idea of killing Michel.
One day, all three of them set out for a day on the river at Corbeil. After ordering dinner, they hire
Page 17

a boat and, when it is hidden behind the tall trees on an island, Jacques starts a fight with Michel,
who bites him on the cheek. After a short struggle, he pushes Michel overboard, then capsizes the
boat. Michel is drowned, the two lovers are rescued and no one suspects murder.
Every day, Jacques goes to the Morgue. When at last he recognizes Michel’s body, he feels a
shudder of horror, though up to then the thought of the crime has left him unmoved. Hoping to drive
away his fears, he marries Suzanne, but the couple find that their passion for one another has cooled
and they are haunted by the spectre of Michel. In fact, they come to hate one another, each accusing
the other of being responsible for the crime. The scar on Jacques’s face is a permanent reminder of
the killing and horrifies Suzanne whenever she sees it.
Finally, their suffering becomes intolerable and each of them decides to get rid of the sole witness
to their crime. Finding each other preparing poison, they realize what is happening, burst into tears
and take the poison themselves, dying in each other’s arms. ‘Their confession was found on a table,
and it was after reading that grim document that I was able to write the story of this love match.’
It is clear that the outlines of Zola’s future novel are in this story, which occupies four pages in the
Petits Classiques Larousse edition of Thérèse Raquin, where it is reproduced in full.
Though the final sentence of ‘Un mariage d’amour’ makes it sound like a news story, the inspiration
for the plot came from a novel by Adolphe Belot and Ernest Daudet, La Venus de Gordes, which
Zola had received from the publisher in his capacity as a book reviewer. This was the melodramatic
story of a love affair in the Lubéron, in which a woman and her lover try to poison, then shoot her
husband, a crime for which they are imprisoned, the woman eventually dying of yellow fever in the
penal colony of Cayenne. There is a long way from this to ‘Un mariage d’amour’, and further still to
Thérèse Raquin.
Zola started working on his first major novel early in 1867. In fact, he was engaged on two books:
Thérèse Raquin, which he wrote in the mornings; and Les Mystères de Marseille, which occupied
his afternoons. He was quite clear in his mind that Thérèse Raquin was the more important of the
two. He had proposed it in February to Arsène Houssaye for the periodical La Revue du XIXe siècle,
as a development in six parts of ‘Un mariage d’amour’; but by the time the novel was written, in June
1867, La Revue du XIXe siècle had folded, so it was transferred to L’Artiste (another publication of
Arsène Houssaye and his son, Henri), where it appeared, under the same title as the short story, Un
mariage d’amour, in three parts from August to October, with a few cuts, which the Houssayes had
asked for to spare their readers’ sensibilities. In November 1867, the novel appeared in book form
under its final title.
‘The work is very dramatic, very poignant, and I am counting on a horror success,’ Zola wrote in a
letter of 13 September 1867.20 Those who reviewed the novel on its first appearance (like Louis
Ulbach, quoted earlier) saw Zola’s intention, though they did not always share his estimate of the
novel’s qualities: ‘a tormented work’, ‘medical dissections’, ‘crude colours’, ‘brutality’, ‘mire,
blood and bestial love’, were some of the terms used to describe Zola’s work,21 which was generally
ascribed to the genre of the horror novel. The horror element, in this psychological study, is indicated
by Zola’s vocabulary. One drawback is the relative poverty of the vocabulary which Zola has at his
disposal to describe the psychological state of the three main protagonists (Thérèse, Laurent, Mme
Page 18

Raquin) from Chapter XXII onwards. It is a vocabulary mainly drawn from the language of
sensational fiction: ‘sinister’, ‘horrible’, ‘base’, ‘monstrous’, ‘fear’, ‘repulsion’, ‘anguish’ and
’terror’ recur over and over. Characters are ‘mad with terror and despair’ and suffer ‘crises of terror
and agony’ which make them stammer and stutter as they speak. In their agitation, they dream of
‘tranquil happiness’ and ‘simple affection’, yet they are condemned to suffer ‘torments’ and
‘agonies’.
In one respect, in particular, the language fails him: he is obliged to speak of ‘remorse’ in relation
to Laurent and Thérèse; yet, as an atheist engaged in an essentially materialistic project, he has been
at pains to insist that what the two murderers feel has nothing to do with the Christian idea of
conscience: it is a purely nervous and physiological reaction. When Thérèse does pray for
forgiveness (Chapter XXIX), Zola makes it clear that her ‘dramas of repentance’ are acted out for the
sole benefit of Mme Raquin, and that they are calculating, selfish and hypocritical — all the more so
since this play-acting imposes ‘the most unspeakable agony’ on her aunt. But, despite this, it is hard
for the reader not to interpret her feelings of remorse and those of Laurent as indications of guilt
brought about by a sense of sin. Regardless of where the remorse comes from, most readers now see
this as a very moral tale.
Despite having sometimes been obliged to have recourse to the language of melodrama, Thérèse
Raquin is a novel of considerable power, which it owes partly to its compression, its structure and
the simplicity of its plot. It has the urgency and inevitability of a classical tragedy. It stands, too, as a
bridge between the Gothic novel and the modern psychological thriller, using the vocabulary of
sensationalist horror in an earnest attempt to get inside the minds of the perpetrators of a crime and to
study the repercussions of their act. One should be careful about taking too literally Zola’s own
claims for his method in writing the novel: there is something slightly disingenuous about his
protestations, in the Preface to the second edition, that he is doing nothing more than a doctor
examining a patient or a painter studying a model. In any case, however much Zola claimed
throughout his career that his enterprise was essentially scientific, he never believed that the novelist
was engaged in a purely mechanical exercise, any more than he thought that an artist like Manet was
simply reproducing reality. The proof is here in this novel, in the character of Laurent. If the artist’s
work is just to recount what he sees, then how is it that Laurent, who does not have the talent to do
this at the start of the book, acquires it as a result of the nervous strain to which he is subjected by the
murder? From the start, Zola had a high concept of the writer’s individual contribution to the work
and to the art that he brings to it. The careful structure of this novel, its complex links to the art and
literature of its age, and its network of symbolic references — not least those represented by that
enigmatic presence, François, the cat — make it far more than an outdated exercise in psychological
analysis, and justify its enduring popularity in Zola’s work.

NOTES
1 It has been suggested that the critic in question, Louis Ulbach, writing as ‘Ferragus’, may have
colluded with Zola in order to create a sensation around the novel. See Armand Lanoux, Bonjour,
Monsieur Zola (Paris: Hachette, 1962).
Page 19

2 Henri Mitterand, Zola. I. Sous le regard d‘Olympia, 1840 — 1871 (Paris: Fayard, 1999), p. 572.
3 The Second Empire: the period of rule by the Emperor Napoleon III (1852-70).
4 See, for example, the three pages that François-Marie Mourad devotes to the cat, François, in his
annotated edition of Thérèse Raquin (see Further Reading); and Robert Lethbridge’s article, where
he says that ‘the cat … although at first sight of minor importance, is one of a network of symbols at
the heart of the narrative’ (see Further Reading, p. 291).
5 Mitterand, Zola. I., p. 433. The link between the novel and Manet’s painting is a key theme in
Mitterand’s biography: for the cat, see also the reference to Olympia on p. 507; and, for the more
general links, see the chapter ‘Thérèse et Olympia’, pp. 566-600.
6 Lethbridge, see Further Reading, p. 280.
7 Quoted by Mitterand, Zola. I., p. 441.
8 From Zola’s work of 1881, Les Romanciers naturalistes (quoted by Mitterand, ibid., p. 665).
9 Edmond and Jules Goncourt, Journal. Mémoires de la vie littéraire (Paris: Fasquelle,
Flammarion, 1956), vol. 2, p. 474.
10 Revue encyclopédique, vol. XXXIX (1828), p. 117.
11 In his ‘Two Definitions of the Modern Novel’ (quoted by Mitterand, Zola. I., p. 513).
12 See Chapter III, notes 2 and 4.
13 See pp. 3-8.
14 See Mitterand, Zola. I., pp. 163-5.
15 In Mes haines (2nd ed., Paris: Charpentier, 1879, p. 231).
16 See Grand dictionnaire universel du XIXe siècle (Paris: Larousse, 1875), article ‘Tempérament’,
p. 1578.
17 See Mitterand’s Introduction to the 1970 Garnier-Flammarion edition of Thérèse Raquin, where
he gives a table showing all the characteristics of these three, Thérèse, Laurent and Camille,
according to the temperament of each.
18 In Le Salut public de Lyon (February 1865).
19 Edmond and Jules Goncourt, Journal, vol. 2, p. 96. This entry for 24 October 1864 was made at
the time when the Goncourts were writing Germinie Lacerteux.
20 Émile Zola, Correspondance, ed. B. H. Bakker (Montreal: University of Montreal Press, 1978),
vol. I, p. 523.
21 Quoted by Russell Cousins, Zola: Thérèse Raquin (London: Grant and Cutler, 1992), p. 12.
Page 20

Further Reading
Brown, Frederick, Zola. A Life (New York: Macmillan, 1995)
Hemmings, F. W. J., The Life and Times of Émile Zola (London: Paul Elek, 1977)
Lapp, John C., Zola before the ‘Rougon-Macquart’ (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1964)
Schumacher, Claude, Zola. Thérèse Raquin (Glasgow: University of Glasgow Press, 1990)
Wilson, Angus, Émile Zola. An Introductory Study of His Novels (London: Seeker and Warburg,
1952)

Two studies of Thérèse Raquin (with quotations in French):
Cousins, Russell, Zola. Thérèse Raquin (London: Grant and Cutler, 1992)
Lethbridge, Robert, ‘Zola, Manet and Thérèse Raquin’ in French Studies, XXXIV, no. 3 (July,
1980), pp. 278-99

Critical Edition (French):
Émile Zola, Thérèse Raquin, ed. François-Marie Mourad (Paris: Petits Classiques Larousse, 2002)
Page 21

Note on Adaptation and Translation
The relatively simple narrative of Thérèse Raquin, and the fact that it is set almost entirely in one
location, soon made Zola consider an adaptation for the theatre. He had written a melodrama from
Les Mystères de Marseille, so it was natural for him to think of adapting his other novel of the time
for the stage. His play from Thérèse Raquin eventually opened at the Theatre de la Renaissance in
Paris on 11 July 1873, where it ran for only nine performances (though it was occasionally revived
later).
A more elaborate stage adaptation was made by Marcelle Maurette in 1947, and another by
Raymond Rouleau in 1981. The last of these is generally considered the most successful and most
faithful to Zola’s presumed intentions, though it is also furthest from the plot of the novel: Rouleau
gives Camille overtly homosexual leanings, for example, and makes Suzanne a victim of sexual
abuse.
There have also been several versions for the cinema, the best-known being Jacques Feyder’s
(now lost) 1928 silent version, a Franco-German co-production, stylistically influenced by German
expressionist cinema; and Marcel Carné’s film of 1953, with Simone Signoret and Raf Vallone,
which was a success on first release, though it departs considerably from the novel. For example,
Carné introduces the character of a sailor who tries to blackmail Thérèse and Laurent after the
murder, and he reworks the plot in various other ways to make it more plausible for a twentieth-
century audience.
The first English translation of Thérèse Raquin that I can find was one by John Stirling published
in America in 1881. It was not until the Irish novelist George Moore negotiated the translation rights
in 1884 with the publisher Henry Vizetelly (and his son, Ernest, who did the translations) that Zola’s
work began to appear in England. The Vizetellys brought out their first translation of Thérèse Raquin
in 1886 and there have been several other versions since then. As its source, the present translation
uses Henri Mitterand’s edition for Garnier-Flammarion (1970), which reproduces the text of the 1868
edition, together with Zola’s Preface to the second edition of that same year.
Two previous translators, Leonard Tancock (who did the version for Penguin Classics published
in 1962, which the present translation replaces), and Andrew Rothwell (whose version for Oxford
World Classics appeared in 1992), point to certain characteristics of Zola’s novel which make it ‘an
awkward work to translate’ (Rothwell) and set ‘peculiar problems’ (Tancock) for the translator. One
of these is Zola’s tendency to refer repeatedly to characters by certain set phrases: ‘the old
haberdasher’ (for Mme Raquin); ‘the drowned man’ (for Camille); ‘the retired police commissioner’
(for Michaud). Both translators consider these to be, in Tancock’s words, ‘impossibly clumsy
locutions’ and have chosen to rephrase them. I find these repetitions less bothersome than my
predecessors appear to have done, and on the whole, when Zola refers to Michaud as ‘the retired
police commissioner’, I do the same.
In fact, I am slightly surprised at these previous translators’ uneasiness about Zola’s style. As well
as their problem with clumsy locutions, both Tancock and Rothwell feel that Zola ‘fails to graduate
Page 22

his climaxes’ (Tancock), ‘so that subsequent intensification can only be achieved by accumulation
and repetition’ (Rothwell). Both of them have felt it was not part of the translator’s job to correct
‘such pervasive stylistic features’, but to retain them with regret. I accept that, as I point out in my
Introduction, there is a problem in the limited vocabulary at Zola’s disposal to describe the mental
state of the two main characters, but this is a feature of the text, and not a difficulty for the translator.
Finally, Rothwell also says that he has made ‘some alterations to the tense-sequences in certain
passages’ and points to Zola’s frequent use of the imperfect tense, and that ‘it has proved necessary
on occasion to decide between frequentative and narrative uses of the French imperfect tense, a
distinction which Zola deliberately blurs in order to convey the monotony of the life led by the
Raquin household, but which can lead to apparent temporal contradictions in English’.
In fact, Zola’s use of the imperfect is one of the characteristic features of his style. As Anne Judge
and F. G. Headley say in their Reference Grammar of Modern French: 1 ‘Flaubert and then, to a far
greater extent, Zola are said to have “given the imperfect artistic overtones” which it never had
before’, using it to place ‘the reader in the middle of the action …’ And the ‘artistic overtones’ may
be ‘artistic’ in the narrow sense as well as in the general one. Grévisse,2 talking about the same
‘narrative’ use of the imperfect, notes that it is sometimes called the ‘picturesque’ imperfect and
quotes Brunetière’s ‘well-chosen description [when he says]: “it is a painter’s technique … The
imperfect, here, serves to prolong the duration of the action being described by the verb, and in a
sense immobilizes it before the reader’s eyes”’ — which seems particularly significant in the case of
Zola, given his interest in applying the techniques of painting to writing.
It is not possible to follow Zola’s choice of tenses precisely when translating into English, but in
translating Thérèse Raquin I have been constantly aware of Zola’s use of verb tenses and have tried
to find an appropriate English equivalent. I hope overall that I have managed to convey something of
Zola’s style, even if his repetitions, superlatives, accumulations and imperfect tenses may
occasionally strike the English reader as odd. Having said that, my overriding aim has been to
produce a readable and accurate translation that will respect the qualities of a remarkable novel and
bring it to a new generation of English readers.
NOTES
1 A. Judge and F. G. Headley, A Reference Grammar of Modern French (London: Edward Arnold,
1983), p. 107.
2 Maurice Grévisse, Le Bon Usage, revised by André Goosse (Paris: Duculot, 1986), p. 1291.
Page 23

THERESE RAQUIN Page 24

Preface to the Second Edition (1868)
I naïvely thought that this novel could do without a Preface. Being accustomed to speak my mind out
loud and to stress the least detail in what I write, I hoped that I might be understood and judged
without having to explain myself further. It seems that I was wrong.
The critics greeted this book with anger and indignation. Some virtuous folk, in no less virtuous
newspapers, puckered their faces in disgust as they picked it up with the tongs to throw it on the fire.
Even the little literary papers — those same literary papers that every evening report the gossip from
bedrooms and private dining rooms — held their noses and spoke of stinking filth. I have no
complaint to make about this reception; on the contrary, I am charmed to discover that my colleagues
have the sensitive feelings of young ladies. It is quite evident that my book belongs to my critics and
that they may find it repulsive without giving me any cause for protest. What I do mind, however, is
that not one of the prudish journalists who have blushed as they read Thérèse Raquin seems to me to
have understood the novel. If they had understood it, perhaps they would have blushed even more, but
at least I should now be enjoying the private satisfaction of seeing that they were disgusted for the
right reason. Nothing is more irritating than to hear honest writers protest about depravity when one is
quite certain that they make these noises without knowing what they are protesting about.
It is necessary, therefore, for me to present my work to these critics myself. I shall do so in a few
lines, simply in order to avoid any misunderstanding in the future.
In Thérèse Raquin I set out to study temperament, not character. 1 That sums up the whole book. I
chose protagonists who were supremely dominated by their nerves and their blood, deprived of free
will and drawn into every action of their lives by the predetermined lot of their flesh. Thérèse and
Laurent are human animals, nothing more. In these animals, I have tried to follow step by step the
silent operation of desires, the urgings of instinct and the cerebral disorders consequent on a nervous
crisis. The love between my two heroes is the satisfaction of a need; the murder that they commit is
the outcome of their adultery, an outcome that they accept as wolves accept the killing of a sheep; and
finally what I have been compelled to call their ‘remorse’,2 consists in a simple organic disruption, a
revolt of the nervous system when it has been stretched to breaking-point. I freely admit that the soul
is entirely absent, which is as I wanted it.
The reader will have started, I hope, to understand that my aim has been above all scientific. When
I created my two protagonists, Thérèse and Laurent, I chose to set myself certain problems and to
solve them. Thus I tried to explain the strange union that can take place between two different
temperaments, showing the profound disturbance of a sanguine nature when it comes into contact with
a nervous one. Those who read the novel carefully will see that each chapter is the study of a curious
case of physiology. In a word, I wanted only one thing: given a powerful man and a dissatisfied
woman, to search out the beast in them, and nothing but the beast, plunge them into a violent drama
and meticulously note the feelings and actions of these two beings. I have merely performed on two
living bodies the analytical work that surgeons carry out on dead ones.
One must admit that it is hard, having completed such a task and still entirely devoted to the serious
Page 25

pleasures of the search for truth, to hear people accuse you of having no other end except that of
describing obscene pictures. I am in the same position as one of those painters of nudes who work
untouched by a hint of desire, and who are quite astonished when a critic announces that he is
scandalized by the living flesh in their paintings. While I was writing Thérèse Raquin, I forgot
everybody and lost myself in a precise, minute reproduction of life, giving myself up entirely to an
analysis of the working of the human animal; and I can assure you that there was nothing immoral for
me in the cruel love of Thérèse and Laurent, nothing that could arouse evil desires. The humanity of
the models disappeared as it does in the eyes of an artist who has a naked woman lounging in front of
him and who considers only how to put that woman on his canvas in all the truth of her form and
colour. So I was greatly astonished when I heard my book described as a pool of mud and gore, a
drain, a foul sewer, and heaven knows what else. I know the little games that critics play; I’ve done
the same myself. But I must admit, I was a little disconcerted by this single-minded hostility. What!
Was there not just one of my colleagues prepared to explain my book, let alone defend it? In the
chorus of voices proclaiming: ‘The author of Thérèse Raquin is a wretched hysteric who enjoys
exhibiting pornography,’ I waited in vain for a single voice to reply: ‘No, this writer is a mere
analyst, who may have turned his attention to human corruption, but in the same way as a doctor
becomes absorbed in an operating theatre.’
Notice that I am not at all asking for the sympathy of the press towards a book that, apparently,
revolts its delicate senses. I do not hope for so much. I am merely astonished that my fellow writers
have turned me into a kind of literary sewage worker, even though their experienced eyes should
detect an author’s intentions within ten pages; and I am content merely to beg them humbly to be so
kind in future as to see me as I am and to discuss me for what I am.
Even so, it would have been easy for them to understand Thérèse Raquin, to consider it from a
viewpoint of observation and analysis and to show me my true faults, without picking up a handful of
mud and throwing it in my face, in the name of morality. It would have demanded a little intelligence
and a few general notions of real criticism. In the scientific field, the accusation of immorality proves
absolutely nothing. I do not know if my novel is immoral; I admit that I have never concerned myself
with making it more or less chaste. What I do know is that I never for a moment thought I was putting
in the filth that moral individuals find there. I wrote every scene, even the most passionate ones, with
the pure curiosity of a scientist. And I defy any of my critics to find a single page that is really
licentious or written for the readers of those little pink volumes, those indiscretions of the boudoir
and the back stage,3 which are published in editions of ten thousand at a time and warmly
recommended by the same newspapers that were so sickened by the truths in Thérèse Raquin.
So, a few insults, a lot of silliness: that is all I have read up to now about my work. I am stating it
here calmly, as I would to a friend who asked me privately what I thought of the attitudes of critics
towards me. A highly talented writer, to whom I was complaining about the lack of sympathy that I
enjoy, replied with this profound observation: ‘You have one huge failing which will close every
door to you: you cannot talk for two minutes to a halfwit without letting him know that he is one.’ This
cannot be helped. I realize that I am harming myself with the critics by accusing them of lacking in
intelligence, yet I cannot prevent myself from showing the contempt that I feel for their narrow
outlook and the judgements that they hand down blindly, without any system behind them. Of course, I
am referring to everyday criticism, which applies all the literary prejudices of fools and is unable to
Page 26

adopt the broadly human outlook that a human work needs if it is to be understood. Never have I seen
such ineptitude. The few blows that minor critics have thrown at me in connection with Thérèse
Raquin have, as always, landed on thin air. Their aim is essentially misdirected: they applaud the
pirouetting of some over-painted actress and then bewail the immorality of a physiological study,
understanding nothing, not wanting to understand anything, and constantly hitting out whenever their
idiocy panics and tells them to hit out. It is infuriating to be beaten for a crime that one did not
commit. At times, I regret not having written obscenities; I feel that I should be happier getting a
beating that I deserve, amid this hail of blows stupidly landing on my head, like tiles from a roof,
without my knowing why.
In our times, there are only two or three men who can read, understand and judge a book.4 I accept
criticism from them, certain that they would not speak until they had discovered my intentions and
assessed the results of my efforts. They would be very careful not to mention those great empty
words: ‘morality’ and ‘literary modesty’. They would recognize my right, at a time when we enjoy
freedom in art, to choose my subjects wherever I please, asking me only for works that are
conscientious, and knowing that only stupidity harms the dignity of literature. They would surely not
be surprised by the scientific analysis that I tried to apply in Thérèse Raquin. They would recognize
it as the modern method and the universal research tool that our century uses so passionately to lay
bare the secrets of the future. Whatever their conclusions, they would accept my point of departure:
the study of temperament and of the profound modifications of an organism through the influence of
environment and circumstances. I would be faced with true judges, with men honestly searching for
truth, without puerility or false modesty, who do not feel that they must appear to be sickened by the
sight of naked, living anatomical specimens. A sincere study purifies everything, as fire does. Of
course, my work would be very humble in the presence of this tribunal that I have imagined: I should
call down on it all the severity of those critics and wish it to come away from them blackened with
crossings-out. But at least I should have the great joy of having been criticized for what I tried to do,
not for something that I did not do.
Even now, it seems to me that I can hear the judgement of such great critics, whose methodical and
Naturalist criticism has revived the sciences, history and literature. ‘Thérèse Raquin is the study of
too exceptional a case; the drama of modern life is more adaptable than this, less enveloped in horror
and madness. Such cases are to be shifted to the background of a novel.5 A wish to lose none of his
observations encouraged the author to foreground every detail, so giving still more tension and
harshness to the whole. Apart from that, the style does not have the simplicity required by an
analytical novel. In short, for the writer now to make a good novel, he will have to see society from a
broader perspective, paint it in its many and various guises, and above all adopt a clear, natural
written style.’
I have tried to reply in twenty lines to attacks that are annoying because of their naive bad faith, and
I notice that I have started to discourse with myself, as always happens when I keep a pen in my hand
for too long. I will stop, knowing that readers do not like this. If I had the will and the time to write a
manifesto, I might perhaps have tried to defend what one journalist, speaking of Thérèse Raquin,
called ‘putrid literature’.6 But, then, what’s the use? The group of Naturalist writers to which I have
the honour to belong has enough courage and energy to produce strong works that carry their own
defence in them. One must have all the bias and blindness of a particular type of critic to oblige a
Page 27

novelist to write a Preface. Since, out of love for clarity, I have committed the sin of writing one, I
ask pardon of intelligent folk who can see clearly without having someone light a lamp for them in
broad daylight.

Émile Zola

15 April 1868
Page 28

I
At the end of the Rue Guénégaud, if you follow it away from the river, you find the Passage du Pont-
Neuf, a sort of dark, narrow corridor linking the Rue Mazarine to the Rue de Seine.1 This passageway
is, at most, thirty paces long and two wide, paved with yellowish, worn stones which have come
loose and constantly give off an acrid dampness. The glass roof, sloping at a right angle, is black with
grime.
On fair summer days when the sun burns down heavily on the streets, a whitish light penetrates the
dirty panes of glass and lurks miserably about the arcade. On foul winter days, on a foggy morning,
the glass roof casts only shadows over the slimy paving: mean, soiled shadows.
Built into the left wall are dark, low, flattened shops which exhale the dank air of cellars. There
are secondhand booksellers, toyshops and paper merchants whose displays sleep dimly in the shades,
grey with dust. The little square panes of the shop windows cast strange, greenish reflections on the
goods inside. Behind them, the shops are full of darkness, gloomy holes in which weird figures move
around.
On the right, along the whole length of the passageway, there is a wall, against which the
shopkeepers opposite have set up narrow cupboards; nameless objects, goods forgotten for twenty
years, lie there on narrow shelves painted a repellent shade of brown. A woman selling costume
jewellery does business from one of the cupboards, offering rings at fifteen sous,2 delicately placed
on a bed of blue velvet at the bottom of a mahogany box.
Above the glass roof, the wall extends, black, crudely rendered, as though stricken with leprosy
and crisscrossed with scars.
This Passage du Pont-Neuf is not a place for strolling. People use it to avoid making a detour, to
gain a few minutes. Down it walk busy folk whose only thought is to march briskly straight ahead.
You see apprentices in their aprons, seamstresses delivering their finished work, and men and women
with parcels under their arms. You also see old men lurking in the dreary light of the glass roof, and
gangs of little children who come running here after school to kick up a row, banging their clogs on
the pavement. The crisp, hurried sound of footsteps on stone rings out all day long with irritating
irregularity. No one speaks, no one stops; all these people are speeding past on their business,
walking quickly along with downcast eyes, without sparing a single glance for the displays of goods.
The shopkeepers look suspiciously at any passer-by who by a miracle happens to pause in front of
their windows.
In the evening, the arcade is lit by three gaslights enclosed in heavy, square lanterns. These hang
down from the glass roof, on which they cast patches of yellowish light, spreading pale circles of
luminescence around them that shimmer and appear to vanish from time to time. The passageway
looks as though it might really be a hiding-place for cutthroats; great shadows spread across the
paving and damp draughts blow in from the street; it has the appearance of an underground gallery
dimly lit by three funerary lanterns. The shopkeepers make do with nothing more than the meagre
illumination that the gas lamps cast on their windows. Inside the shops, they merely set up a lamp
Page 29

with a shade on a corner of the counter, which allows passers-by to detect what is lurking at the back
of these holes where darkness inhabits even in daytime. Along the dingy line of windows, that of a
paper merchant shines out: the yellow flames of two shale-oil lamps burn into the blackness. And, on
the opposite side, a candle stuck into the glass mantle of an oil lamp puts glimmering stars in the box
of costume jewellery. The woman who owns the shop is dozing at the back of her cupboard, with her
hands wrapped in a shawl.
A few years ago, facing this jewellers’, there was a shop with bottle-green woodwork oozing
humidity from every crack. The sign was a long narrow plank with the word Haberdashery in black;
and, on one of the glass panes in the door, was a woman’s name in red letters: Thérèse Raquin.
Window displays on either side reached far back into the shop, lined with blue paper.
In daylight, all that the eye could see was these windows, in a soft chiaroscuro.
On one side, there were a few articles of clothing: fluted tulle bonnets at two or three francs
apiece; muslin sleeves and collars; and woollens, stockings, socks and braces. Each item, yellow
with age, hung pitifully from a wire hook, so that the window, from top to bottom, was full of whitish
rags that took on a mournful appearance in the transparent gloom. The brand-new bonnets shone
whiter, making bald patches against the blue paper lining the window, while the coloured stockings,
hanging from a rail, struck dark notes against the pale, dim emptiness of the muslin.
On the other side, behind a narrower window, were piled large skeins of green wool, black buttons
sewn on to white cards, boxes of every size and colour, hairnets with steel drops stretched across
circles of bluish paper, fans of knitting needles, tapestry patterns and reels of ribbon — a pile of dull,
washed-out objects that had doubtless been reposing in this same spot for five or six years. All the
colours had faded to a dirty grey in this cupboard rotten with dust and damp.
Around midday, in summer, when the sun’s rays burned down redly on the squares and streets
around, you could make out the serious, pale face of a young woman behind the bonnets in the other
window. Her profile stood out dimly against the blackness of the shop. A long, narrow, sharp nose
reached down from the short, low forehead; her lips were two slender lines of pale pink; and her
short but strong chin was attached to the neck by a supple, plump curve. You could not see her body,
which was shrouded in gloom; only the profile of the face was visible, dull white, with a wide-open,
black eye pierced in it, seeming to be crushed under the weight of a thick, dark mass of hair. There it
stayed for hours on end, calm and motionless, between two bonnets on which the damp rails had left
two lines of rust.
In the evening, when the lamp was lit, you could see the inside of the shop. It was longer across
than it was deep. At one end, there was a little counter, while at the other a spiral staircase led up to
the rooms on the first floor. Against the walls stood display cases, cupboards and lines of green
boxes; four chairs and a table completed the furniture. The room seemed naked and cold; the
merchandise was packed up and squeezed into corners, instead of lying around here and there with its
cheerful mixture of colours.
Normally, there were two women sitting behind the counter: the young woman with the serious face
and an old one who would smile as she dozed. The latter was about sixty, with a placid, chubby face
that turned pale under the light of the lamp. A large tabby cat would crouch at one end of the counter,
Page 30

watching her as she slept.
Further on, sitting on a chair, a man of some thirty years would be reading or chatting to the young
woman in a low voice. He was small, puny and listless in manner, with a thin beard and his face
covered in freckles: he looked like a sickly, spoiled child.
Shortly before ten o’clock, the old woman would wake up. They shut the shop and the whole family
went upstairs to bed. The tabby purred as it followed its masters, rubbing its head against each
banister as it went.
Upstairs, the house consisted of three rooms. The staircase opened into a dining room that also
served as a sitting room. On the left was a porcelain stove in an alcove, with a sideboard opposite.
Then there were chairs along the walls and a round table, fully open, occupying the middle. At the
back, behind a glazed partition, was a dark kitchen. There were two bedrooms, one on either side of
this living room.
The old woman, after kissing her son and daughter-in-law, would retire to her room. The cat slept
on a chair in the kitchen. The couple went into their own room; this had a second door, leading to a
staircase, which opened into the arcade through a dark, narrow alleyway.
The husband, constantly shivering with fever, would go to bed, while the young woman opened the
window to close the shutters. She used to stay there for a few minutes, facing the great black wall
with its crude rendering, which rose up and extended beyond the glass roof of the gallery. She would
cast a vague glance at this wall and silently go to bed in her turn, with an air of contemptuous
indifference.
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II
Mme Raquin was a former haberdasher from Vernon. 1 For nearly twenty-five years, she had lived in
a small shop in that town. A few years after the death of her husband, she had grown tired of it all and
sold off the business. Her savings, together with the money from this sale, gave her a capital of forty
thousand francs, which she invested, so that it brought in an income of two thousand a year. This
would be easily enough for her. She lived a reclusive life, knowing nothing of the agonizing joys and
sorrows of this world. She had created an existence of peace and happiness for herself.
For four hundred francs, she rented a little house with a garden running down to the Seine. It was a
secluded, private residence that faintly suggested a convent; a narrow path led to this retreat, which
was set in the midst of wide meadows. The windows of the house overlooked the river and the empty
slopes on the far bank. The good lady, who was now over fifty, buried herself in this solitude and
enjoyed days of tranquillity with her son, Camille, and her niece, Thérèse.
Camille was then twenty years old. His mother still spoiled him like a little boy. She loved him
because she had fought to keep him alive during a long childhood full of suffering. One after the other,
the child had had every fever and every kind of sickness imaginable. For fifteen years, Mme Raquin
kept up the struggle against these dreadful illnesses that came one after another to wrench her child
away from her. She conquered each one in turn through her patience, her care and her devotion.
When he had grown up and been saved from death, Camille was still trembling from the repeated
shocks that had struck him. His growth had been arrested and he remained small and stunted. The
movements of his spindly arms and legs were slow and wearisome. His mother loved him all the
more for the weakness that bowed him down. She looked with triumphant tenderness on his poor,
pale little face and remembered that she had given life to him more than ten times.
In the occasional periods of respite from his suffering, the child attended classes at a commercial
school in Vernon. There he learned spelling and arithmetic. His education did not go beyond the four
rules of adding, subtraction, multiplication and division, and a very basic knowledge of grammar.
Later on, he took lessons in writing and doing accounts. Mme Raquin became very nervous when
anyone advised her to send her boy off to boarding school; she knew that he would die if he was
away from her, and said that the books would kill him. Camille remained in his ignorance and this
ignorance was like an additional weakness in him.
At eighteen, with nothing to do and bored to death in the atmosphere of tender care with which his
mother encased him, he took a post as clerk in a cloth merchant’s. He earned sixty francs a month. He
had the sort of unquiet spirit that made it unbearable to him to remain idle. He felt calmer, his health
was better, when he was doing this mindless task, this clerical job that kept him bent all day over the
invoices, over those vast lines of figures, each one of which he spelled out patiently. In the evening,
worn out, his head empty, he had a sense of profound enjoyment in the exhaustion that overtook him.
He had to row with his mother before she would allow him to enter the cloth merchant’s; she wanted
to keep him always beside her, tucked up in a blanket, far from the hazards of life. The young man put
his foot down. He demanded work as other children demand toys, not out of any sense of obligation,
Page 32

but by an instinctive, natural need. His mother’s tenderness and devotion had given him a vicious
streak of egotism; he thought that he loved whoever felt sorry for him and caressed him, though in
reality he lived apart, buried in himself, caring only for his own well-being and seeking by every
possible means to multiply his own pleasure. When he got sick of Mme Raquin’s loving kindness, he
threw himself with delight into a mindless occupation that kept him away from her herbal teas and her
potions. Then, in the evening, when he got back from the office, he ran down to the banks of the Seine
with his cousin Thérèse.
Thérèse was then eighteen years old. One day, sixteen years earlier, when Mme Raquin was still a
haberdasher, her brother, Captain Degans, brought a little girl to her in his arms. He was back from
Algeria.2
‘Here’s a child; you’re its aunt,’ he told her, with a smile. ‘Her mother is dead … I don’t know
what to do with her. I’m letting you have her.’
The haberdasher took the child, smiled at her and kissed her ruddy cheeks. Degans stayed at
Vernon for three days. His sister hardly asked him any questions about the girl that he was giving her.
She had a vague notion that the dear little thing had been born in Oran and that her mother was a
native woman of great beauty. An hour before he left, the captain handed over a birth certificate in
which Thérèse was recognized by him as his child and bore his name. He left and they never saw him
again. A few years later, he was killed in Africa.
Thérèse grew up sleeping in the same bed as Camille and wrapped in the warm tenderness of her
aunt. She had an iron constitution and was treated like a sickly child, sharing her cousin’s medicine
and kept in the warm atmosphere of the sick boy’s room. She stayed for hours crouching in front of the
fire, lost in thought, staring straight into the flames without blinking. This convalescent life that was
imposed on her drove her back into herself. She became accustomed to speaking in a low voice,
walking along quietly, and staying silent and motionless on a chair, looking blankly with wide-open
eyes. Yet, when she did raise an arm or take a step, there was a feline suppleness in her, a mass of
energy and passion dormant within her torpid frame. One day, her cousin had fallen over in a faint.
She picked him up and carried him off brusquely, this sudden outburst of strength putting large patches
of red on her face. The cloistered life that she led and the debilitating regime imposed on her could
not weaken her sturdy, slender body, but her face did assume a pale, slightly yellowish tint, and she
became almost ugly through being kept from daylight. Sometimes, she would go to the window and
look at the houses opposite across which the sun cast its golden rays.
When Mme Raquin sold her business and retired to the little house by the water, Thérèse felt secret
shivers of joy run through her. Her aunt had so often told her: ‘Don’t make a fuss, keep quiet,’ that she
carefully kept all her natural impulses concealed deep inside. She had an immense capacity for
coolness and an appearance of calm that hid violent fits of passion. She felt herself to be constantly in
her cousin’s room, beside this dying child; she had the gentle manner, stillness, placidity and
stammering voice of an old woman. When she saw the garden, the pale river and the huge green
slopes rising up on the horizon, she had a mad impulse to run around, shouting. She felt her heart beat
furiously in her breast; but not a muscle moved on her face and she merely smiled when her aunt
asked her whether she liked this new home.
So life improved for her. She had the same suppleness of movement, the same calm and indifferent
Page 33

expression: she was still the child brought up in the bed of an invalid. But inside, she lived an ardent
and passionate existence. When she was alone, in the long grass by the river, she lay flat on her
stomach like an animal, her eyes dark and wide, her body flexed, ready to pounce. And she would
stay there for hours on end, thinking of nothing, with the sun burning into her, delighted at being able
to dig her fingers into the earth. She had wild dreams; she would look defiantly at the river as it
rumbled past and imagine that the water was going to leap out and attack her; so she stiffened and
prepared to defend herself, wondering angrily how to overcome the waves.
In the evening, Thérèse, now calm and silent, would sew beside her aunt; her face seemed to be
dozing in the light that oozed softly from under the shade of the lamp. Camille, slumped in an
armchair, thought about his sums. Only the occasional word, spoken in a low voice, would disturb the
tranquillity of this sleepy scene.
Mme Raquin contemplated her children with serene goodwill. She had decided to marry them to
each other. She still considered her son to be on the point of death and was terrified by the thought
that she would one day die, leaving him alone and ill. So she was counting on Thérèse, telling herself
that the girl would keep good watch over Camille. There were no limits to the confidence she felt in
her niece, with her quiet manners and silent devotion. She had seen her at work, and she wanted to
give her to Camille as a guardian angel. The marriage was decided upon, a foregone conclusion.
The children had long known that they were to marry one day. They had grown up in the idea, so it
had become quite natural and familiar to them. In the family, the alliance was spoken of as something
necessary, inevitable. Mme Raquin had said: ‘We’ll wait until Thérèse is twenty-one.’ And they
waited, patiently, without shame or eagerness.
Camille’s blood had been impoverished by illness and he felt none of the urgent desires of
adolescence. With his cousin, he remained a little boy, kissing her as he would kiss his mother, as a
matter of habit, abandoning none of his egotistical composure. He saw her as an obliging companion
who prevented him from getting too bored and who, from time to time, made him a herbal tea. When
he played with her or held her in his arms, he felt as though he were holding a boy; not a shudder
passed through him. And it never occurred to him on such occasions to kiss Thérèse’s hot lips as she
struggled free with a nervous laugh.
The girl, too, seemed to remain cold and indifferent. Sometimes she would fix her large eyes on
Camille and watch him for several minutes with a supremely untroubled stare. Only her lips made
slight, barely perceptible movements. There was nothing to be read on this closed face, kept ever
sweet and attentive by her implacable will. When there was talk of her marriage, Thérèse took on a
serious look and merely nodded approval of everything that Mme Raquin said. Camille fell asleep.
In the evening, in summer, the two young people would make off to the river. Camille was irritated
by his mother’s constant attentions; he had moments of rebellion, he wanted to run about, make
himself ill, escape from all the petting that nauseated him. So he would drag Thérèse along with him,
provoke her to wrestling bouts and rolling around in the grass. One day, he pushed his cousin and she
fell over. She leaped up in a single bound, like a wild animal, her face blazing and her eyes red, and
rushed at him with both fists raised. Camille slumped to the ground. He was afraid of her.
Months and years went by. The day fixed for the wedding arrived. Mme Raquin took Thérèse
Page 34

aside, spoke to her about her father and mother, and told her the story of her birth. The young woman
listened to her aunt, then kissed her without saying a word.
That night, instead of going to her own bedroom on the left of the staircase, Thérèse went to her
cousin’s, on the right. This was the only alteration that took place in her life that day. The next
morning, when the young couple came down, Camille still had his sickly languor and his saintly, self-
centred calm, while Thérèse retained her mild indifference and her restrained expression, terrifying
in her impassivity.
Page 35

III
A week after his wedding, Camille stated plainly to his mother that he intended to leave Vernon and
go to live in Paris. Mme Raquin protested: she had arranged her life for herself and did not want to
change a single thing in it. Her son threw a tantrum and threatened to fall ill if she did not give in to
his whim.
‘I’ve never got in the way of your plans,’ he told her. ‘I’ve married my cousin, I’ve taken all the
medicines you gave me. Now, the least you can do is to allow me one wish and see it from my point
of view … We’ll leave at the end of the month.’
Mme Raquin did not sleep that night. Camille’s decision was turning her life upside down and she
tried desperately to see how she could right it. Little by little, she calmed down. She told herself that
the young couple might have children and that, if that happened, her small capital would not be
enough. She had to make more money, go back into business, find a lucrative employment for Thérèse.
By the next morning, she had grown accustomed to the idea of leaving and drawn up her plans for a
new life.
Over breakfast, she was quite merry.
‘Here’s what we’ll do,’ she told her children. ‘I’ll go to Paris tomorrow. I’ll look for a little
haberdasher’s business and Thérèse and I will go back to selling needles and thread. It will keep us
occupied. As for you, Camille, you can do what you like: you can stroll around in the sunshine, or
find yourself a job.’
‘I’ll find a job,’ the young man replied.
The truth was that only a silly ambition had driven Camille to leave Vernon. He wanted to be an
employee in a large department; he blushed with pleasure when he imagined himself in the middle of
a huge office, with glazed cotton sleeves and a pen behind his ear.
Thérèse was not consulted. She had always shown such passive obedience that her aunt and her
husband no longer bothered to ask her opinion. She went where they went, she did what they did,
without complaint, without reproach, without even seeming to realize that anything had altered.
Mme Raquin came to Paris and went directly to the Passage du Pont-Neuf. An old spinster in
Vernon had directed her to a relative who had a haberdashery business in the arcade which she
wanted to dispose of. Being an experienced haberdasher, Mme Raquin found the shop rather small
and a bit dark; but as she was crossing Paris, she had been horrified by the noise in the streets and the
richness of the window displays, while this narrow passage with its modest shop fronts reminded her
of her old shop, which had been so quiet and so peaceful. She could imagine herself still in the
provinces; she breathed again, thinking that her dear children would be happy in this backwater. The
cheapness of the business decided her; it was on offer for two thousand francs. The rent of the shop
and the first floor was only twelve hundred francs. Mme Raquin, who had nearly four thousand francs
in savings, calculated that she could pay the purchase price and the first year’s rent without breaking
into her capital. Camille’s wages and the profits from the haberdashery would be enough, she thought,
Page 36

to cover everyday expenses. In that way she would not draw any further on her income and would
allow the capital to grow for the benefit of her grandchildren.
She returned to Vernon radiant, saying that she had found a pearl, a charming corner in the centre of
Paris. Little by little, after a few days, as she chatted about it in the evening, the damp, dark shop in
the arcade became a palace; in memory, she saw it as spacious, wide and quiet, full of a thousand
inestimable qualities.
‘Oh, my dear Thérèse!’ she said. ‘You see how happy we shall be in that spot! There are three fine
rooms upstairs … The arcade is full of people … We’ll create some delightful displays … Be sure of
it, we won’t get bored.’
There was no end to it. All her business instincts were reawakened and she prepared Thérèse with
advice on selling, buying and all the little tricks of the retail trade. At length, the family left its house
on the banks of the Seine and the same evening settled into the Passage du Pont-Neuf.
When Thérèse entered the shop where she was to spend her life from then on, she felt as though she
were going down into the clammy earth of a pit. She shuddered with fear and a feeling of nausea rose
in her throat. She looked at the damp, dirty passageway, toured the shop, went up to the first floor and
examined each room; these bare rooms, without furniture, were terrifyingly lonely and decrepit. The
young woman could not make a gesture or speak a word. She was rigid. When her aunt and her
husband had gone downstairs, she sat down on a trunk, her hands stiff and her throat full of sobs,
though she could not weep.
Confronted with the reality, Mme Raquin was embarrassed, ashamed of her dreams. She tried to
defend her purchase. She found an answer to every new drawback as it appeared, explaining the
darkness by the fact that the weather was dull, and summed up by saying that all that was needed was
a good sweep.
‘Huh!’ Camille replied. ‘It’s all quite satisfactory. In any case, we’ll only come up here in the
evenings. I won’t be home before five or six o’clock. The two of you will have each other for
company, so you won’t get bored.’
The young man would never have agreed to live in such a hovel if he had not been counting on the
cosy comfort of his office. He told himself that he would be warm all day in his department and that,
in the evenings, he could go to bed early.
For a whole week, the shop and living quarters remained in disorder. From the first day onwards,
Thérèse sat behind the counter and did not move from her place. Mme Raquin was astonished by this
attitude of resignation. She had imagined that the young woman would try to beautify her home, put
flowers on the window-sills and ask for new wallpaper, curtains and carpets. When she suggested
some improvement or a repair, her niece just replied calmly:
‘What’s the use? We’re very well as we are, we don’t need any luxuries.’
It was Mme Raquin who had to arrange the bedrooms and put some order into the shop. Eventually,
Thérèse got tired of seeing her constantly moving around the place; she hired a cleaner and forced her
aunt to come and sit beside her.
It was a month before Camille found a job. He spent as little time as possible in the shop,
Page 37

wandering the streets all day long. He became so bored that he even spoke of going back to Vernon.
Finally, he got a place in the offices of the Orléans Railway Company, 1 where he earned a hundred
francs a month. He had realized his dream.
In the morning, he left at eight. He went down the Rue Guénégaud and arrived on the banks of the
river. Then, walking along slowly with his hands in his pockets, he followed the Seine from the
Institut to the Jardin des Plantes.2 This long walk, which he took twice a day, never bored him. He
watched the river flow by and paused to see a string of barges going along it. His mind was blank. He
would often station himself opposite Notre-Dame and stare at the scaffolding around the church,
which was then being restored; these huge timbers amused him, though he did not know why. Then, as
he went on, he glanced into the Port aux Vins3 and counted the number of cabs coming from the
station. In the evening, worn out and with his head full of some silly story he had heard at the office,
he went through the Jardin des Plantes and had a look at the bears, if he was not in too much of a
hurry. He would stay there for half an hour, leaning over the pit and watching the bears as they
ambled heavily around. It amused him to see how these big creatures walked. He stared at them, with
his jaw hanging, wide-eyed, like an idiot enjoying the sight of them as they moved about. Finally, he
would make up his mind to go home, dragging his feet and taking in the passers-by, the carriages and
the shops.
When he got home, he would eat and then start to read. He had bought the works of Buffon4 and
every evening he would set himself the task of reading twenty or thirty pages, even though it bored
him. He would also read the History of the Consulate and the Empire by Thiers and Lamartine’s
History of the Girondins,5 which he got in parts at ten centimes each, or else some work of popular
science. He thought he was improving himself. Sometimes, he would force his wife to listen as he
read a few pages or told a particular story out of them. He was very surprised that Thérèse could
remain thoughtful and silent for a whole evening, without being tempted to pick up a book. When it
came down to it, he decided that his wife was none too clever.
Thérèse impatiently rejected his books. She preferred to remain idle, staring, her thoughts vaguely
wandering. Meanwhile, she remained even-tempered and easygoing; all her will was bent on the
effort to make herself into a passive instrument, supremely compliant and self-denying.
Business was slow. The profits remained steadily the same every month. The clientele was made
up of women who worked in the district. Every five minutes, a young woman would come in and buy
a few sous’ worth of goods. Thérèse served the customers always with the same words and a
mechanical smile on her lips. Mme Raquin was more flexible and talkative; and, to tell the truth, she
was the one who attracted and kept the customers.
For three years, the days went on, one like the next. Camille was not absent from his office for a
single day; his mother and his wife hardly left the shop. Thérèse, living in this dank darkness, in this
dreary, depressing silence, would see life stretching in front of her, quite empty, bringing her each
evening to the same cold bed and each morning to the same featureless day.
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IV
Once a week, on Thursday evenings, the Raquin family received guests. They would light a big lamp
in the dining room and put a kettle on to make tea. It was a whole palaver. This evening stood out
from all the rest; it had become one of the family customs – a madly jolly (though respectable) orgy.
They would go to bed at eleven.
In Paris Mme Raquin met up with one of her old friends, police commissioner Michaud, who had
been in the force in Vernon for twenty years and lived in the same house as her. So they had got to
know one another very well; then, when the widow sold up to go and live in her house by the river,
they gradually lost sight of one another. Michaud came up from the provinces a few months later, to
enjoy the fifteen hundred francs of his pension peacefully in Paris, in the Rue de Seine. One rainy day,
he met his old friend in the Passage du Pont-Neuf and that very same evening, he went round for a
meal at the Raquins.
This was the start of their Thursdays. The retired police commissioner got in the habit of coming
regularly once a week. After a while, he brought his son, Olivier, a tall lad of thirty, dry and thin, who
had married a rather small, slow, sickly woman. Olivier had a job with a salary of three thousand
francs at the Prefecture de Police, which made Camille exceptionally jealous; he was head clerk in
the department of security and order. From the very first, Thérèse hated this stiff, cold young man who
felt he was honouring the shop in the arcade by bringing along the dryness of his lanky body and the
weakness of his poor little wife.
Camille introduced another guest, a veteran employee of the Orléans Railway. Grivet had served
there for twenty years; he was head clerk and earned two thousand one hundred francs. He was the
one who handed out the work in Camille’s office and the younger man showed him a degree of
respect. In his dreams, he imagined that Grivet would die some day and that he might replace him,
after ten years. Grivet was delighted with the welcome Mme Raquin gave him and would come back
every week without fail. Six months later, his Thursday visit had become a duty and he would go to
the Passage du Pont-Neuf as he went every morning to the office, mechanically, with the instinct of an
animal.
From that time on, the gatherings became delightful. At seven o‘clock, Mme Raquin would light the
fire, put the lamp in the middle of the table, place a set of dominoes beside it and wipe the tea service
which stood on the dresser. At eight o’clock precisely, Old Michaud and Grivet met in front of the
shop, one coming from the Rue de Seine, the other from the Rue Mazarine. They used to come in and
the whole family would go up to the first floor. They sat down around the table, waiting for Olivier
Michaud and his wife, who always arrived late. When everyone was there, Mme Raquin poured out
the tea, Camille emptied the box of dominoes on the oiled tablecloth and everyone settled into the
game. Not a sound was heard except the click of dominoes. After each game, the players argued for
two or three minutes, then silence fell once more, broken by sharp clicks.
Thérèse played with an unconcern that irritated Camille. She used to pick up François, the big
tabby cat that Mme Raquin had brought with her from Vernon, and stroke him with one hand while
Page 39

putting down her dominoes with the other. Thursday evenings were torture for her and she often
complained of not feeling well, of having a bad headache, in order to avoid playing, so that she could
sit by idly and half asleep. With one elbow on the table and her cheek resting on the palm of her hand,
she would watch her aunt’s and her husband’s guests, seeing them through a kind of smoky yellow
mist that came out of the lamp. All these faces drove her crazy. She looked from one to the other with
feelings of profound disgust and dull irritation. Old Michaud had a pallid complexion with red
blotches: the dead face of an old man in his second childhood. Grivet had the narrow mask, round
eyes and thin lips of a halfwit. Olivier, whose cheekbones protruded, gravely bore a stiff,
insignificant head on his ridiculous body. As for Suzanne, Olivier’s wife, she was quite pale, with
dull eyes, white lips and a soft face. And Thérèse could not see a single human, not a living creature,
among these grotesque and sinister beings with whom she was shut up. At times she would suffer
hallucinations, thinking that she was buried in a vault together with mechanical bodies whose heads
moved and whose arms and legs waved when their strings were pulled. The heavy atmosphere of the
dining room stifled her, and the eerie silence and yellowish glow of the lamp filled her with a vague
sense of terror, an inexpressible feeling of anxiety.
Downstairs, on the front door, they had put a bell which gave a high-pitched tinkle as customers
came in. Thérèse kept her ears open and when the bell rang she would hurry down, relieved and
happy to get out of the dining room. She took her time serving the customer. When she was alone
again, she would sit behind the counter and stay there for as long as possible, apprehensive of going
back upstairs and feeling real joy at not having Grivet and Olivier in front of her. The damp air of the
shop calmed the fever that burned her hands, and she slipped back into the solemn reverie that was
her habitual state of being.
But she could not stay like this for long. Camille would be annoyed by her absence. He could not
understand how anyone might prefer the shop to the dining room on a Thursday evening, so he would
lean over the banisters and look around for his wife.
‘Hey, there!’ he would shout. ‘What are you doing? Why don’t you come back up? Grivet is having
the devil’s own luck. He’s just won again.’
The young woman would get up painfully and return to her place opposite Old Michaud, whose
drooping lips would form into a repulsive smile. And from then until eleven o’clock, she used to stay
slumped in her chair, looking at Francois as he lay in her arms, so as not to see these paper dolls
grimacing around her.
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V
One Thursday, when he got home from the office, Camille brought with him a tall, square-shouldered
young fellow, whom he pushed into the shop with a familiar pat on the back.
‘Mother,’ he asked Mme Raquin, showing the lad to her, ‘do you recognize this gentleman?’
The old shopkeeper looked at the tall fellow and rummaged around in her memory, but found
nothing. Thérèse observed the scene placidly.
‘What!’ Camille continued. ‘You don’t recognize Laurent, little Laurent, the son of Old Laurent,
who has those fine fields of wheat over near Jeufosse?1 Don’t you remember? I used to go to school
with him. He’d come to fetch me in the morning, as he left the house of his uncle, our neighbour, and
you would give him bread and jam.’
Mme Raquin suddenly remembered little Laurent, who seemed to her to have grown up
considerably; it was at least twenty years since she had seen him last. She tried to make up for her
astonishment with a flood of memories and some quite maternal endearments. Laurent had sat down
and was smiling serenely. He spoke out clearly and examined his surroundings with a calm and
relaxed expression.
‘Just imagine,’ Camille said, ‘this joker has been working at the Orléans Railway Station for
eighteen months, and it was not until this evening that we met and recognized one another. That’s how
big and important the office is!’
The young man said this wide-eyed, pursing his lips, so proud was he to be a humble cog in such a
huge mechanism. He went on, shaking his head:
‘Oh, but he’s well off, this one. He’s done his studies and he’s earning fifteen hundred francs
already. His father sent him to boarding school where he did law and learned how to paint. Isn’t that
right, Laurent? You must stay for dinner …’
‘I’d be delighted,’ Laurent said, without further ado.
He took off his hat and settled down in the shop. Mme Raquin hurried away to attend to her
saucepans. Thérèse, who had not spoken a word, was looking at the newcomer. She had never before
seen a real man. Laurent amazed her: he was tall, strong and fresh-faced. She looked with a kind of
awe at his low forehead with its rough black hair, at his plump cheeks, his red lips and his regular
features with their sanguine beauty.2 Her gaze paused for a moment on his neck, a broad, short neck,
thick and powerful. Then she became absorbed in the contemplation of the large hands resting on his
knees; their fingers were squared off and the closed fist, which must be huge, could have stunned a
bull. Laurent came of true peasant stock, with a somewhat heavy manner, rounded back, slow, studied
movements and a calm, stubborn look about him. You could sense the swelling, well-developed
muscles beneath his clothes, and the whole body, with its thick, firm flesh. Thérèse examined him
curiously from his hands to his face, feeling a little shudder pass through her when she reached his
bull’s neck.
Page 41

Camille got out his volumes of Buffon and his ten-centime instalments, to show his friend that he,
too, was working. Then, as though replying to a question that he had been asking himself for a few
minutes, he said: ‘But, Laurent, you must know my wife? Don’t you remember the little cousin who
used to play with us, in Vernon?’
‘I recognized Madame straight away,’ Laurent replied, staring Thérèse in the eyes.
The young woman felt somehow uneasy beneath this direct gaze, which seemed to penetrate right
inside her. She gave a forced smile and exchanged a few words with Laurent and her husband, then
hurried off to join her aunt. She was not comfortable.
They sat down to dinner. From the soup onwards, Camille thought he should look after his friend.
‘How is your father?’ he asked.
‘I really don’t know,’ Laurent replied. ‘We fell out. We haven’t written to one another for five
years.’
‘Well, I never!’ the clerk exclaimed, amazed by this monstrous behaviour.
‘Yes, the dear man has his own ideas about things … As he is always in dispute with his
neighbours, he sent me off to boarding school, imagining that he would later have me as a lawyer who
could win all his suits for him. Oh, Old Laurent only has useful ambitions! He wants to take advantage
of every notion, however idiotic!’
‘But didn’t you want to be a lawyer?’ Camille asked, still more amazed.
‘Good Lord, no,’ his friend answered, with a laugh. ‘For two years, I pretended to be attending
lectures so that I could collect the grant of twelve hundred francs that my father was giving me. I lived
with one of my friends from school who’s a painter and I started to paint as well. It was fun; it’s a
jolly business, not too tiring. We used to smoke and lark around all day long.’
The Raquin family stared in astonishment.
‘Unfortunately,’ Laurent went on, ‘it couldn’t last. The old man learned that I had been lying to him
and stopped my hundred francs a month just like that, telling me to come back and till the earth like
him. So I tried to paint religious pictures, but it’s not a good market. When it became clear to me that I
would starve to death, I said to hell with art and looked for a job … My father’s sure to die one of
these days, and I’m waiting until he does so that I can live without working.’
Laurent spoke quite calmly. In a few words, he had just made a quite typical statement that entirely
summed up his character. Underneath, he was lazy, with strong appetites and a well-defined urge to
seek easy, lasting pleasures. His great, powerful body asked for nothing better than to lie idle,
wallowing in constant indolence and gratification. He would have liked to eat well, sleep long and
fully satisfy his desires, without moving from the spot or running the risk of exhausting himself in any
way.
He had been appalled at the prospect of becoming a lawyer and shuddered at the idea of tilling the
soil. He had thrown himself into art, hoping to find it a profession for the idle: the brush seemed a
light tool to handle and he also believed that success would come easily. He dreamed of a life of
fleshly pleasures, cheaply purchased, a life full of women, of resting on sofas, eating and getting
Page 42

drunk. The dream lasted as long as Old Laurent kept on supplying the readies; but when the young
man, who was thirty by then, saw poverty looming, he started to think. He had no stomach for
privation; he would not have gone through a single day without food for the greater glory of art. As he
said, he let painting go to hell as soon as he realized that it would never satisfy his large appetites.
His first attempts had been worse than mediocre: his peasant’s eye observed Nature as awkward and
dirty; his canvases, muddy, badly composed and grimacing, were beneath criticism. In any event, his
artistic ambition did not extend far and he was not too depressed when he had to put down his
brushes. His only real regret was at leaving his schoolfriend’s studio, a huge studio in which he had
lounged about so self-indulgently for four or five years. He did still miss the women who came there
to pose, whose favours were within reach of his purse. This world of animal pleasures had left him
with urgent lusts. None the less, he did enjoy his job as a clerk; where his basic needs were
concerned, he lived very well, liking the routine work which took little out of him and lulled his
mind. Only two things got on his nerves: the lack of women and the food in eighteen-sou restaurants
which did not satisfy the cravings of his greedy stomach.
Camille listened to him and looked at him with naïve astonishment. This feeble boy, whose soft,
prostrate body had never felt a shudder of desire, childishly imagined the studio life that his friend
was describing. He conjured up the spectacle of those women exhibiting their naked flesh. He
questioned Laurent about it.
‘So,’ he asked, ‘were there really women who took off their blouses in front of you like that?’
‘Certainly there were,’ Laurent replied, with a smile, looking at Thérèse, who had gone quite pale.
‘It must give you an odd feeling,’ Camille went on, with a childish titter. ‘I’d be embarrassed. The
first time, you must have wondered where to look.’
Laurent had opened up one of his large hands and was looking closely at the palm. His fingers
trembled slightly and a flush of red rose to his cheeks.
‘The first time,’ he repeated, as though talking to himself, ‘I think I found it quite natural … It’s
great fun, that art game; just a pity it doesn’t pay … As my model I had a redhead who was quite
adorable: firm, gleaming flesh, superb bosom and hips as wide — ’
Laurent looked up and saw Thérèse in front of him, silent and motionless. The young woman was
staring at him intently. Her eyes, dull black, looked like two bottomless pits, and there were glimpses
of pinkness shining in her mouth through half-open lips. She seemed to be hunched and gathered into
herself; she was listening.
Laurent looked alternately from Thérèse to Camille. The former painter suppressed a smile. He
concluded his sentence with a gesture, a wide, voluptuous gesture that the young woman followed
with her eyes. They were at the dessert and Mme Raquin had gone downstairs to attend to a customer.
When the table had been cleared, Laurent, who had been thoughtful for a moment or two, suddenly
turned to Camille.
‘I’ll tell you what,’ he said. ‘I must paint your portrait.’
Mme Raquin and her son were delighted by this idea. Thérèse remained silent.
Page 43

‘It’s summer,’ Laurent went on. ‘So, as we get out of the office at four, I’ll come here and you can
pose for me for two hours, in the evening. It will take a week.’
‘That’s it!’ said Camille, blushing with pleasure. ‘You can have dinner with us. I’ll have my hair
curled and put on a black topcoat.’
The clock struck eight. Grivet and Michaud arrived. Olivier and Suzanne came behind them.
Camille introduced his friend to the company. Grivet pursed his lips. He disliked Laurent, because
in his view he had been promoted too fast. In any case, it was no trivial matter bringing in a new
guest. The Raquins’ circle could not make way for a newcomer without a little show of disapproval.
Laurent behaved himself. He understood the situation and wanted to be liked, to be accepted at
once. He told stories, cheered them all up with his loud laugh and even won over Grivet himself.
That evening, Thérèse made no attempt to go down to the shop. She stayed on her chair until
eleven, playing and chatting, avoiding Laurent’s eye; anyway, he took no notice of her. The young
man’s sanguine nature, his resonant voice, his hearty laughter and the sharp, strong smells that he
emitted disturbed the young woman and plunged her into a kind of nervous anxiety.
Page 44

VII
From the start, the lovers considered their relationship to be necessary, inevitable and entirely
natural. At their first meeting, they called each other ‘tu’ 1 and kissed without awkwardness or
blushing, as though they had been intimate for several years. They settled easily into their new
situation, quite calmly and shamelessly.
They arranged meetings. Since Thérèse could not go out, it was decided that Laurent would go to
her. In a precise, self-assured voice, the young woman explained what she had worked out. They
would meet in the couple’s bedroom. The lover would arrive through the alleyway that led into the
arcade and Thérèse would open the staircase door to him. In the meantime, Camille would be in his
office and Mme Raquin down below in the shop. It was a bold plan and bound to succeed.
Laurent agreed. In his prudence, there was a kind of brutal temerity, the temerity of a man with
large fists. His mistress’s calm and solemn manner induced him to come and taste the passion so
boldly offered. He found an excuse, obtained two hours’ leave from his boss and hurried round to the
Passage du Pont-Neuf.
As soon as he got into the arcade, he felt the pangs of desire. The woman who sold costume
jewellery was sitting right opposite the entrance; he had to wait for her to be busy, for a young shop
girl to come and buy a ring or some copper earrings from her. Then, quickly, he slipped into the
alleyway and climbed the dark, narrow staircase, steadying himself against walls that were oozing
damp. His feet knocked on the stone stairs; at the sound of each step, he felt a burning pain across his
chest. A door opened. On the threshold, in a patch of white light, he saw Thérèse in her camisole and
petticoat, shining, with her hair tied tightly behind her head. She shut the door and put her arms around
him. She exuded a warm smell, a smell of white linen and freshly washed flesh.
Laurent was amazed at finding his mistress beautiful. He had never seen this woman. Thérèse was
lithe and strong; she grasped him, throwing her head back, while burning lights and passionate smiles
flickered across her face. This lover’s face seemed transfigured; she had a look at once mad and
tender; she was radiant, with moist lips and gleaming eyes. The young woman, sinuous and twisting,
possessed a strange beauty, an utter abandon. It was as though her face had been lit from inside and
flames were leaping from her flesh. And around her, her burning blood and taut nerves released hot
waves of passion, a penetrating, acrid fever in the air.
With the first kiss, she revealed the instincts of a courtesan. Her thirsting body gave itself wildly up
to lust. It was as though she were awakening from a dream and being born to passion. She went from
the feeble arms of Camille to the vigorous arms of Laurent, and the approach of a potent man gave her
a shake that woke her flesh from its slumber. All the instincts of a highly-strung woman burst forth
with exceptional violence. Her mother’s blood, that African blood burning in her veins, began to flow
and pound furiously in her thin, still almost virginal body. She opened up and offered herself with a
sovereign lack of shame. From head to toe, she was shaken by long shudders of desire.
Laurent had never known such a woman. He was astonished, uneasy. Normally, his mistresses did
not welcome him with such ardour; he was used to cold, indifferent kisses and to languid, sated
Page 45

loving. Thérèse’s sobs and fits almost scared him, even as they excited his voluptuous curiosity.
When he left her, he would be staggering like a drunken man. The following day, when he recovered
his sly mood of calm caution, he wondered if he should go back to this lover, whose kisses inflamed
him. At first, he firmly decided to stay at home. Then he wavered. He tried to forget, not to see
Thérèse, naked, with her soft, urgent caresses; but she was always there, relentless, holding out her
arms. The physical pain that he felt from this spectacle became intolerable.
He gave in, made a new arrangement to meet her and went back to the Passage du Pont-Neuf.
From that day onwards, Thérèse became part of his life. He did not yet accept her, but he gave in to
her. He experienced hours of terror and moments of caution; and, in brief, the liaison disturbed him
considerably; but his fears and uneasiness ceded to his desires. Their meetings multiplied, one after
another.
Thérèse had no such doubts. She gave herself to him without reserve, going directly where her
passions drove her. This woman, who had bowed to circumstances, was now standing up to reveal
her whole being, to lay her life bare.
Sometimes she would put her arms round Laurent’s neck, rest her head against his chest and say, in
a voice still breathless:
‘If only you knew how I’ve suffered! I was brought up in the damp warmth of a sickroom. I used to
sleep beside Camille; in the night, I would move away from him, disgusted by the musty smell of his
body. He was spiteful and stubborn. He wouldn’t take any medicine unless I shared it with him, so to
please my aunt I had to drink all sorts of potions … I don’t know why I didn’t die … They made me
ugly, my poor dear, they stole everything I had, and you can’t love me as I love you.’
She cried, she kissed Laurent and she continued, speaking with an undertone of hatred in her voice:
‘I don’t wish them any harm. They brought me up, they took me in and protected me from poverty.
But I would rather have been abandoned than endure their welcome. I had a ravenous hunger for fresh
air; even when I was small, I dreamed of wandering the roads, barefoot in the dust, begging and living
like a gypsy. They told me my mother was the daughter of a tribal chief in Africa. I have often thought
about her. I realize that I belong to her in my blood and my instincts, I used to wish I had never left
her, but was crossing the deserts, slung on her back … Oh, what a childhood I had! I still feel
revulsion and outrage when I remember the long days I spent in that room with Camille gasping away
… I had to crouch in front of the fire, watching like an idiot as his herb tea boiled and feeling the
cramp in my limbs. But I couldn’t move, because my aunt would scold me if I made a noise … Later
on, I was terribly happy, in the little house by the river, but I was already stupefied, I could hardly
walk and I fell over if I ran. Then they buried me alive in this vile shop.’
Thérèse was breathing heavily and hugging her lover tightly; she was getting her revenge. Her thin,
supple nostrils gave little nervous twitches.
‘You wouldn’t believe how bad they made me,’ she continued. ‘They turned me into a hypocrite
and a liar. They stifled me with their bourgeois comfort and I don’t understand why there is any red
blood left in my veins. I would lower my eyes and put on a sad, imbecilic face like them, leading the
same dead life. When you first met me, huh, didn’t I look like a fool? I was earnest, I was crushed, I
Page 46

was like an idiot. I no longer hoped for anything, I used to think about throwing myself into the Seine
one day … But before I got to that point, you don’t know how many nights I spent in fury! There, in
Vernon, in my cold room, I would bite my pillow to stifle my cries, I would hit myself and call myself
a coward. My blood was boiling, I could have torn myself apart. Twice, I thought of running away,
just walking away, anywhere, in the sunlight. But I couldn’t do it: they had turned me into a docile
creature with their weak kindness and their repulsive tenderness. So I lied, I kept on lying. I stayed
there, sweet and silent, dreaming about how I could hit and bite.’
The young woman stopped, wiping her damp lips on Laurent’s neck. Then, after a pause:
‘I can’t remember why I agreed to marry Camille. I didn’t refuse, out of a sort of contemptuous
indifference. I felt sorry for the boy. When I played with him, I could feel my fingers sink into his
arms as though into clay. I took him, because my aunt offered him to me and I thought I would never
have to bother about him … And I found a husband who was no different from the ailing little boy I
used to sleep with when I was six. He was just as frail, as whining, and he still had that smell of a
sick child that used to disgust me so much in the old days. I’m telling you all this so that you won’t be
jealous … A sort of nausea would rise in my throat, I thought of all the medicines I’d taken and I
shrank from him; I spent dreadful nights … But you, you …’
Thérèse sat upright and bent over backwards, her fingers caught in Laurent’s large hands, looking
at his broad shoulders and his huge neck …
‘I love you. I’ve loved you from the moment when Camille pushed you into the shop … Perhaps you
don’t respect me, because I gave myself to you, entirely, all at once … It’s true, I don’t know how it
happened. I’m proud, I got carried away. I wanted to hit you, that first day when you kissed me and
threw me on the ground in this room. I don’t know how I loved you; if anything, I hated you. The sight
of you upset me, it hurt to look at you. When you were there my nerves were at breaking-point, my
mind went blank and a red film floated before my eyes. Oh, how much I suffered! And I looked for
that suffering, I used to wait for you to come, I would walk round your chair so that I could pick up
your breath and rub my clothes against yours. It was as though your blood was sending waves of heat
towards me as I went by, and this sort of burning mist that wrapped around you drew me and kept me
beside you, much as I tried, inside me, to break away … Do you remember when you were painting
here? An irresistible force drew me to your side and I breathed in your atmosphere, feeling a cruel
delight. I knew that I seemed to be begging for kisses and I was ashamed of my slavery, feeling that I
would fall if you so much as touched me. But I gave in to my cowardice and shook with cold as I
waited for you to deign to take me in your arms.’
At this, Thérèse paused, shivering, as though proud and avenged. She was intoxicated, holding
Laurent against her breast; and the bare, icy room witnessed scenes of burning ardour and sinister
brutality. Each new meeting between them brought still more passionate ecstasies.
The young woman seemed to enjoy her daring and impudence. She had no misgivings, no fear. She
was throwing herself into adultery with a kind of urgent candour, careless of danger, feeling a sort of
pride in taking risks. When her lover was due, her only precaution would be to tell her aunt that she
was going upstairs for a rest. And while he was there, she walked around, talked and acted
unheedingly, without ever thinking about the noise. At the start, it would sometimes worry Laurent.
Page 47

‘For heaven’s sake!’ he would whisper to Thérèse. ‘Don’t make such a racket. Mme Raquin will
come up.’
‘Pooh!’ she would reply, with a laugh. ‘You’re always scared. She’s stuck behind the counter,
what would she be coming up here for? She’d be too afraid that someone would rob her. Anyway, let
her come if she wants. You can hide … I don’t give a damn about her. I love you.’
Laurent did not find this speech the least bit reassuring. Passion had not yet subdued his sly peasant
caution. But soon habit induced him, without too much anxiety, to accept the boldness of these
meetings in broad daylight, in Camille’s room, just feet away from the old haberdasher. His mistress
kept telling him that danger spared those who confronted it directly, and she was right. The lovers
could never have found a safer place than this room where no one thought to look for them. There,
they would satisfy their desires, amazingly undisturbed.
One day, however, Mme Raquin did come up, concerned that her niece might be ill. The young
woman had been upstairs for almost three hours. She was foolhardy enough not even to bolt the door
which led off the dining room to the bedroom.
When Laurent heard the old woman’s heavy footsteps coming up the wooden staircase, he panicked
and hurriedly looked for his waistcoat and hat. Thérèse started to laugh at the funny face he was
making. She seized his arm and thrust him down, into a corner at the foot of the bed, telling him in a
quiet, calm voice:
‘Stay there and don’t move.’
She threw the man’s clothing that was lying around over him and on top of it all spread a white
petticoat that she had taken off herself. All this she did with measured, careful gestures, not losing any
of her calm. Then she lay down in the bed, her hair untidy, half naked, still flushed and shaking.
Mme Raquin gently opened the door and came over to the bed, walking as softly as she could. The
younger woman pretended to be asleep. Laurent was sweating under the white petticoat.
‘Thérèse, are you ill, child?’ the haberdasher asked, in a voice full of concern.
Thérèse opened her eyes, yawned, turned round and replied in a pained voice that she had a
terrible migraine. She begged her aunt to let her sleep. The old woman left as she had come, without a
sound.
The two lovers, laughing silently, kissed with violent passion.
‘You see!’ Thérèse said triumphantly. ‘We’ve nothing to fear here. All these people are blind.
They are not in love.’
Another day, the young woman had an odd idea. Sometimes she would rave, behaving as though
she were mad.
The tabby cat, François, was sitting on his bottom right in the middle of the room. Solemn and
motionless, he was looking at the two lovers with wide-open eyes. He seemed to be examining them
carefully, without blinking, lost in a sort of diabolical trance.2
‘Look at François,’ Thérèse said to Laurent. ‘You’d think he understood and that he was going to
Page 48

tell Camille everything this evening. Why, wouldn’t it be odd if he were to start speaking in the shop
one of these days? He could tell some fine stories about us.’
The young woman was exceptionally amused by the idea that François might speak. Laurent looked
at the cat’s large green eyes and felt a shudder run through him.
‘Here’s what he’d do,’ Thérèse went on. ‘He’d stand up and, pointing at me with one paw and at
you with the other, he’d exclaim: “Monsieur and Madame here were kissing one another very hard in
the bedroom; they didn’t bother about me, but since their criminal affair disgusts me, I beg you to have
both of them thrown into gaol, and then they won’t disturb my afternoon sleep again.”’
Thérèse joked like a child, miming the cat, extending her hands like claws and moving her
shoulders with a feline undulation. François, sitting still as a rock, kept on looking at her. Only his
eyes seemed to be alive and, in the corners of his mouth, there were two deep folds that made this
stuffed animal’s face seem to break out laughing.
Laurent felt a chill in his bones. He found Thérèse’s joke ridiculous. He got up and put the cat out
of the door. In fact, he was afraid. Thérèse was not yet entirely mistress of him. Deep inside, he felt a
little of the unease that he had experienced from the young woman’s first embrace.
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VIII
In the evenings, in the shop, Laurent was perfectly happy. Normally, he came back from the office
with Camille. Mme Raquin had conceived a maternal affection for him; she knew that he was not well
off, that he ate poorly and slept in an attic, so she told him once and for all that there would always be
a place for him at their table. She liked the boy with that effusive love that old women have for
people from their own part of the world who carry with them memories of the past.
The young man took full advantage of this hospitality. On leaving the office, before coming back, he
would take a bit of a walk with Camille along the river. Both of them appreciated this friendship; they
suffered less from boredom and chatted as they went. Then they would agree to go and eat Mme
Raquin’s supper. Laurent opened the door of the shop as though he owned it. He sat himself down,
astride his chair, smoking and spitting, just as though he were at home.
He was not at all bothered by the presence of Thérèse. He treated the young woman with a friendly
lack of formality, teasing her and paying her routine compliments, without a hint of a smile. Camille
laughed and, since his wife would reply to his friend only in monosyllables, he was quite convinced
that they hated each other. One day, he even reproached Thérèse with what he called her coldness
towards Laurent.
Laurent had been right: he had become the wife’s lover, the husband’s friend and the mother’s
spoiled child. Never had his appetites been so well satisfied. He luxuriated in the infinite pleasures
provided for him by the Raquin family. In any case, his position in this family seemed quite natural to
him. He was on intimate terms with Camille, but felt no anger or remorse towards him. He was not
even cautious about what he did or said, so certain was he of his prudence and composure; the
egotism with which he enjoyed this happiness protected him against any feeling of sin. In the shop, his
mistress became a woman like any other, whom he might not kiss and who did not exist for him. The
reason he did not kiss her in front of everyone was that he was afraid of not being allowed to come
back. This was the only thing that stopped him. Otherwise, he would not have cared at all about the
feelings of Camille and his mother. He was blissfully unaware of any consequences that the discovery
of his affair might bring. He thought that he was acting naturally, as anyone would have done in his
place, being a poor and hungry man. Hence his smug complacency, his prudent daring and his
mocking attitude of unconcern.
Thérèse, who was more nervous and anxious, was obliged to play a part. She did so to perfection,
thanks to the training in hypocrisy that she owed to her upbringing. She had lied for more than fifteen
years, repressing her passions and applying her implacable will to appear dull and listless. She had
no difficulty in freezing her features behind a dead mask. When Laurent arrived, she appeared to him
serious, grumpy, her nose longer and her lips thinner. She was ugly, surly and unapproachable. In
reality, she was not putting it on; she was simply playing her old self, without attracting attention by
exaggerating her brusqueness. As far as she was concerned, she felt a bitter pleasure in fooling
Camille and Mme Raquin. She was not like Laurent, wallowing in a state of dull contentment at the
satisfaction of his desires and oblivious of duty. She knew that what she was doing was wrong, and
she had violent urges to leap up from the table and kiss Laurent full on the mouth, to show her husband
Page 50

and her aunt that she was not an animal, and that she had a lover.
At times, warm feelings of joy rose within her and, accomplished actress though she was, she
could not refrain from singing, when her lover was not there and she was not afraid of giving herself
away. These sudden outbursts of merriment delighted Mme Raquin, who used to accuse her niece of
being too solemn. The young woman bought pots of flowers and arranged them on the window sills of
her room. Then she had new wallpaper put up; she wanted a carpet, curtains, new rosewood furniture.
All this luxury was for Laurent’s benefit.
Nature and circumstances seemed to have made this man for this woman, and to have driven them
towards one another. Together, the woman, nervous and dissembling, the man, lustful, living like an
animal, they made a strongly united couple. They complemented one another, they protected one
another. In the evening, at table, in the pale light of the lamp, you could feel the strength of the bond
between them, seeing Laurent’s heavy, smiling face and the silent, impenetrable mask of Thérèse.
These were sweet and tranquil evenings. In the silence, in the warm, transparent half-light, friendly
words passed between those pressed around the table; after dessert they spoke about the dozens of
trivial events of the day, their memories of the past and their hopes for the future. Camille loved
Laurent as much as such a self-satisfied egotist could love, and Laurent seemed to have an equal
affection for him; they would exchange expressions of devotion, considerate gestures and looks of
concern. Mme Raquin observed them with placid features, imbued the very air that they breathed with
tranquillity, spreading her peace around her children. It looked like a reunion of old acquaintances
who knew each other’s inmost thoughts and had total confidence in their friendship.
Thérèse, as still and peaceful as the rest, would study these bourgeois joys and this complacent
indolence. And, in her inner depths, she laughed, savagely. Her whole being mocked, while her face
retained its cold rigidity. She felt an exquisite pleasure in telling herself that, only a few hours earlier,
she had been in the room next door, half naked, her hair loose, lying on Laurent’s chest; she
remembered everything about her afternoon of insane desire, went through each detail in her mind’s
eye and compared that passionate scene with the lifeless one before her eyes. Oh, how she was
deceiving these good folk! And how happy she was to deceive them with such triumphal impudence!
It was there, a few feet away, behind that thin partition, that she would greet her man; it was there that
she would writhe in the grim throes of adultery. And, for that moment, her lover would become a
stranger to her, a friend and colleague of her husband, a kind of imbecile, an intruder who did not
have to concern her. This frightful play-acting, this life of deception and this contrast between the
burning kisses of daytime and the feigned indifference of evening, made the young woman’s heart
pound with new ardour.
When Mme Raquin and Camille went downstairs, for some reason or other, Thérèse would leap up
and silently, with savage force, press her lips against those of her lover and stay like that, panting,
suffocating, until she heard the wooden stairs creak. Then, with an agile movement, she went back to
her place and resumed her grudging scowl. In a calm voice, Laurent carried on the chat he had been
having with Camille. It was like a lightning flash of passion, swift, blinding, across a leaden sky.
On Thursdays, the evening would be a little more lively. Laurent was mortally bored on that day of
the week and made sure that he did not miss a single meeting; he thought it prudent to be known and
respected by Camille’s friends. He had to listen to the ramblings of Grivet and Old Michaud.
Page 51

Michaud would always tell the same stories of murder and theft, while Grivet spoke at the same time
about his workmates, his bosses and his department. The young man would take refuge with Olivier
and Suzanne, whose brand of idiocy he found less boring. In any case, he was not slow to suggest a
game of dominoes.
It was on Thursday evening that Thérèse would settle the day and time of their meetings. In the
confusion at the end, when Mme Raquin and Camille were taking their guests to the front door, the
young woman would go up to Laurent and whisper to him, squeezing his hand. Sometimes, when
everyone’s back was turned, she would even kiss him, from a kind of bravado.
This life of alternating storm and calm lasted for eight months. The lovers lived in a state of
complete beatitude. Thérèse was no longer bored and no longer desired anything, while Laurent,
sated, cosseted and even plumper, feared nothing except the end of this delightful existence.
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IX
One afternoon, when Laurent was about to leave work and hurry off to see Thérèse, who was
expecting him, his boss called him in and informed him that in future he was forbidden to go out of the
office. He had been having too much time off and the management had decided to sack him if he was
away one more time.
Tied to his desk, he was in desperation until the evening. He had to earn his living, he could not
afford to lose his job. When evening came, Thérèse’s wrathful look was a torture for him. He had no
idea how to explain to his mistress why he had failed in his promise. While Camille was shutting up
shop, he quickly went over to the young woman.
‘We can’t see one another any more,’ he whispered. ‘My boss won’t let me out again.’
Camille came back and Laurent had to go without any further explanation, leaving Thérèse stunned
by this abrupt remark. In exasperation, refusing to admit that her pleasure could be denied, she spent a
sleepless night devising ridiculous plans for them to meet. The following Thursday, she talked to
Laurent for a minute longer. Their anxiety was increased by the fact that they did not even know
where to meet so that they could talk it over. The young woman gave her lover a new rendezvous
which, for the second time, he failed to keep. From then on, she had only one idea in her mind, which
was to see him at all costs.
For a fortnight, Laurent had not been able to go near Thérèse, and he realized how essential the
woman had become to him. Indulging his lusts had created new appetites in him, which urgently
demanded satisfaction. He no longer felt any awkwardness at his mistress’s love-making, but sought it
with the determination of a starving animal. A raging of the blood had infected his flesh and now that
his mistress was being taken away from him, his passion burst out with blind fury; he loved her to
distraction. Everything in the blossoming of this animal being seemed unconscious: he was obeying
his instincts, letting himself be driven by the will of his body. If anyone had told him, a year earlier,
that he would be enslaved by a woman, to the point of destroying his peace of mind, he would have
burst out laughing. Desire had been working silently inside him, without his realizing it, and had
eventually cast him, bound hand and foot, into the savage embraces of Thérèse. Now he was afraid of
stepping beyond the bounds of prudence and did not dare come to the Passage du Pont-Neuf in the
evenings, fearful that he might do something crazy. He was no longer his own master; his mistress,
with her feline sinuosity and nervous flexibility, had gradually insinuated herself into every fibre of
his body. He needed that woman to live as one needs to eat and drink.
He would surely have done something foolish had he not received a letter from Thérèse telling him
to stay at home the next day. His mistress promised to come and see him at around eight o’clock in the
evening.
On leaving the office, he got rid of Camille by saying that he was tired and wanted to go back to
bed straight away. After dinner, Thérèse also played a part; she said something about a customer who
had left without paying, pretended to be a resolute creditor and announced that she was going to claim
her money. The customer lived at Batignolles. Mme Raquin and Camille thought it was a long way to
Page 53

go and that the outcome was uncertain, but they were not excessively surprised and let Thérèse leave
quietly.
She hurried to the Port aux Vins, slipping on the greasy pavements and bumping into people on the
street in her haste. Her face was damp with sweat and her hands were burning; she was like a drunken
woman. She quickly ran up the stairs in the lodging house. On the sixth floor, breathless, through
blurred eyes, she saw Laurent leaning over the banisters, waiting for her.
She came into the garret. The space was so small that her wide skirts could hardly fit inside it. She
tore off her hat with one hand and leaned against the bed, swooning …
The skylight was wide open and poured the cool of the evening on to the burning heat of the bed.
The lovers stayed for a long time in this hovel, as though at the bottom of a hole. Suddenly, Thérèse
heard the clock on La Pitié1 strike ten. She wished she had been deaf. She raised herself painfully off
the bed and looked round the garret, which she had not yet examined. She looked for her hat, tied the
ribbons and sat down again, saying in a measured voice:
‘I have to go.’
Laurent had come over and was kneeling in front of her. He took her hands.
‘Goodbye,’ she said, without moving.
‘Don’t just say goodbye,’ he insisted. ‘That’s too vague. When will you come back?’
She looked straight in his eyes.
‘Do you want the truth?’ she said. ‘Well, the truth is that I don’t think I shall come back. I don’t
have any excuse, I can’t invent one.’
‘So we must say farewell, for good?’
‘No! I don’t want to!’
She spoke the words with a mixture of fury and terror. Then, without knowing what she was saying
and without getting up, she added in a quieter voice:
‘I’m leaving.’
Laurent thought. His mind turned to Camille.
‘I’ve got nothing against him,’ he said finally, without saying the man’s name. ‘But he really is too
much of a nuisance. Couldn’t you get rid of him for us, send him on a journey somewhere, a long way
off?’
‘Oh, yes! Send him on a journey!’ she replied, shaking her head. ‘Do you think a man like that
would agree to go on a journey? There’s only one journey from which no one returns … But he will
bury the lot of us. All those types with one foot in the grave never seem to die.’
There was a pause. Laurent remained on his knees, pressed against his mistress, his head leaning
on her breast.
‘I had a dream,’ he said. ‘I wanted to spend a whole night with you, to go to sleep in your arms and
wake up the next morning to your kisses. I want to be your husband … Do you understand?’
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‘Yes, yes,’ Thérèse answered, trembling.
She suddenly leaned over Laurent’s face, covering it with kisses. The laces on her hat caught on the
young man’s rough beard; she had forgotten that she was dressed and that she would crease her
clothes. She was sobbing, panting as she murmured between her tears.
‘Don’t say such things,’ she said. ‘Don’t say such things, because I won’t have the strength to leave
you, I’ll stay here … You should give me courage. Tell me that we’ll see one another again. It’s true,
isn’t it: you do need me? One day we’ll find a way of living together, won’t we?’
‘So come back, come back tomorrow,’ Laurent insisted, his trembling hands stroking her waist.
‘But I can’t come back … I told you, I don’t have any excuse.’
She was wringing her hands. She continued:
‘It’s not the scandal that bothers me! If you like, when I get home, I’ll tell Camille that you are my
lover and I’ll come back here to sleep … I’m worried about you. I don’t want to upset your life, I
want to make you happy.’
The young man’s instinctive caution came to the fore.
‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘We mustn’t behave like children. Now, if your husband were to die …’
‘If my husband were to die,’ Thérèse repeated slowly.
‘We would get married, we wouldn’t fear a thing, we would revel in our love … What a good,
sweet life it would be!’
She was sitting up now, her cheeks pale, looking with dark eyes at her lover. Her lips were
twitching.
‘People do die sometimes,’ she murmured, at length. ‘Only, it’s dangerous for those who survive.’
Laurent said nothing.
‘You see,’ she went on, ‘all the usual methods are no good.’
‘I didn’t mean that,’ he said calmly. ‘I’m not a fool, I want to love you in peace. I was just thinking
that accidents do happen every day, that a foot can slip or a tile fall off the roof … Do you understand?
In that last case, only the wind is to blame.’
His voice was strange. He gave a smile and added, in a caressing tone:
‘Now then, don’t worry, we’ll love one another, we shall live together happily … Since you can’t
come here, I’ll arrange it somehow … If we should stay without seeing one another for several
months, don’t forget me, but know that I am working for our happiness.’
He put his arms around Thérèse as she was opening the door to go.
‘You are mine, aren’t you?’ he went on. ‘Swear to me that you will give yourself to me entirely, at
any time, whenever I want — ’
‘Yes!’ she cried. ‘I belong to you. Do what you wish with me.’
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They stayed there for a moment, fierce, wild and silent. Then Thérèse roughly tore herself away
from him and, without turning round, left the attic and went down the stairs. Laurent listened to the
sound of her receding footsteps.
When the sound had died away, he went back into his little room and lay down. The bedclothes
were warm. He felt suffocated in this narrow cage, which Thérèse had left full of the heat of her
passion. He seemed to be still breathing something of her, she had been there, leaving behind a
pervasive scent of herself, a smell of violets; but now all he had to press in his arms was his
mistress’s intangible ghost, present all around him; he was in a fever of reviving, unsatisfied desire.
He did not close the window, but lay on his back, his arms bare and his hands unclenched, drinking in
the cool air, while pondering it all as he gazed at the square of dark blue outlined above him by the
skylight.
Until daybreak, he turned the same idea over in his mind. Before Thérèse came, he had not
considered the murder of Camille. It was under pressure of events, annoyed at the idea of not seeing
his mistress again, that he had spoken about the man’s death. And, at that, a new corner of his
unconscious being had come to light. In the passion of adultery, he had begun to dream about killing.
Now, calmer, alone in the peace of night, he was reviewing the notion of murder. The idea of
death, uttered in desperation between two kisses, came back keenly, relentlessly. Driven by insomnia,
aroused by the pungent scents that Thérèse had left behind, he devised traps, working out what could
go wrong and enumerating all the benefits to be derived from becoming a murderer.
He had everything to gain from the crime. He told himself that his father, the peasant in Jeufosse,
was never going to die; he might have to spend another ten years working in the department, eating in
cheap restaurants and living, without a wife, in an attic. The idea infuriated him. On the other hand,
with Camille dead, he would marry Thérèse, become the heir to Mme Raquin, resign from his job and
stroll around in the sunshine. It pleased him to imagine this lazy existence; he could already see
himself as a man of leisure, eating and sleeping, waiting patiently for his father to die. And when
reality invaded his dream, he bumped into Camille and clenched his fists, as though to strike him
down.
Laurent wanted Thérèse. He wanted her for himself alone, always within reach. If he did not get rid
of the husband, the wife would elude him. She had told him that she could not come back. He would
happily have kidnapped her and carried her off somewhere, but then they would both die of hunger.
There was less risk in killing the husband. There would be no scandal, he would just push a man out
of the way in order to take his place. With his brutal peasant reasoning, he considered this solution
both an excellent and a natural one. It was in fact his innate prudence that suggested adopting this
quick expedient.
He lay sprawling on his bed, flat on his belly, pressing his damp face into the pillow where
Thérèse’s chignon had spread. He grasped the material between his dry lips and drank in the faint
scents still clinging to it; and he stayed there, breathless, panting, watching strips of fire cross his
closed eyelids. He was wondering how he could kill Camille. Then, when he was out of breath, he
would suddenly turn round until he was lying on his back, eyes wide open, with the cold air from the
window full on his face, as he stared up at the stars and at the bluish square of sky, seeking for advice
on murder, a plan for how to kill.
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Nothing came to him. As he had told his mistress, he was not a child or an idiot. He did not want to
use a dagger or poison. He needed a sly, cunning sort of crime, one that involved no danger, a kind of
sinister snuffing out, without screams or terror — a simple disappearance. Even though he was
shaken and driven forward by passion, his whole being imperiously demanded caution. He was too
much of a coward, too much of a sensualist, to risk his own tranquillity. He was killing in order to
live in peace and happiness.
Little by little, sleep overcame him. The cold air had driven the warm, sweet-smelling ghost of
Thérèse out of the attic. Exhausted, calmed, Laurent allowed a kind of vague, gentle numbness to
sweep over him. As he was falling asleep, he decided to wait for a suitable opportunity, and his
mind, growing drowsier and drowsier, cradled him with the thought: ‘I shall kill him, I shall kill
him.’ In five minutes, he was at rest, breathing with untroubled regularity.
Thérèse had got home at eleven. She arrived at the Passage du Pont-Neuf, her head burning and her
mind racing, without any knowledge of the journey she had taken. Her ears were so full of the words
she had heard that she felt as though she had just come down the stairs from Laurent’s room. She
found Mme Raquin and Camille anxious and full of concern. She answered all their questions curtly,
telling them that she had had a useless journey and stayed for an hour waiting for an omnibus.
When she got into bed, the clothes felt cold and damp. Her limbs, still burning, shivered in
repulsion. Camille soon went to sleep and for a long time Thérèse looked at the pale face idiotically
resting on the pillow, with its mouth open. She moved away from him and felt an urge to stick her
clenched fist into that mouth.
Page 57

X
Almost three weeks went by. Laurent came back to the shop every evening. He seemed weary, as
though sick. There was a faint, bluish circle around his eyes, while his lips were pale and cracked.
But otherwise, he still had his usual heavy passivity about him; he looked Camille straight in the face
and behaved in the same open, friendly way. Mme Raquin spoiled the family friend even more, seeing
him relapse into a sort of dull fever.
Thérèse had resumed her dumb, sullen look. She was more unmoving, more impenetrable and more
passive than ever. It seemed that Laurent did not exist for her; she hardly glanced at him, spoke to him
only occasionally and treated him with utter indifference. Mme Raquin, whose good nature was
pained by this attitude, would sometimes tell the young man: ‘Take no notice of my niece’s coldness.
Her face looks unfriendly, I know, but her heart is warm with every kind of affection and devotion.’
The two lovers no longer made any assignations. Since the day at the Rue Saint-Victor, they had not
once met alone. In the evening, when they were face to face, apparently calm and indifferent to one
another, waves of passion, terror and desire seethed beneath the unruffled surfaces of their faces. And
inside Thérèse there were moments of fury, baseness and cruel sneering, while in Laurent there was
dark brutality and anguished indecision. They themselves did not dare to look into the depths of their
beings, to plumb this feverish unrest that filled their brains with a kind of thick, acrid vapour.
When they could, behind a door, without saying a word, they would exchange a brief, rough grasp
of hands. They would have liked to carry off shreds of the other’s flesh clinging to their fingers. There
was only this hand squeeze to quench their desire; they put their whole bodies into it. They asked for
nothing else from one another. They were waiting.
One Thursday evening, before they started their game, Mme Raquin’s guests, as usual, had a bit of
a chat. One of the main subjects of conversation was talking to Old Michaud about his former job and
asking him about the strange and sinister happenings in which he had supposedly been involved.
Grivet and Camille would listen to the police commissioner’s tales with the scared, open-mouthed
expressions of little children hearing Bluebeard or Tom Thumb. They were terrified and entertained
at the same time.
That particular day, Michaud, who had just told them about a frightful murder, the details of which
had sent shivers up their spines, added with a shake of the head: ‘And we don’t know everything …
How many crimes remain undetected! How many murderers escape justice!’
‘What!’ exclaimed Grivet, in astonishment. ‘Do you think that there are villains, like that, in the
streets, who have killed people and not been arrested?’
Olivier gave a pitying look and smiled.
‘My dear sir,’ he replied, curtly, ‘if they have not been arrested, that is because no one knows that
they have killed someone.’
This argument did not seem to convince Grivet. Camille came to his assistance.
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‘I’m of one and the same opinion as Monsieur Grivet,’ he said, with ridiculous pomposity. ‘I need
to believe that the police is doing its job and that I shall never rub shoulders with a murderer in the
street.’
Olivier took these words as a personal affront.
‘Of course the police does its job!’ he exclaimed, in an irritated voice. ‘But we can’t achieve the
impossible. There are scoundrels who got their education in crime at the Devil’s own school; they
would elude God Himself … Isn’t that right, Father?’
‘Yes, yes,’ Old Michaud agreed. ‘Now, when I was in Vernon — you may remember this, Madame
Raquin — a carter was murdered on the highway. The body was found cut in pieces at the bottom of a
ditch. We never did manage to get our hands on the guilty party. He may still be alive today, he could
be our next-door neighbour … and Monsieur Grivet might even meet him on his way home.’
Grivet went as white as a sheet. He did not dare turn round: he thought that the carter’s murderer
was right behind him. Despite that, he was delighted at feeling this fear.
‘No, no,’ he stammered, without knowing quite what he was saying. ‘Well, no, I really can’t bring
myself to believe that … I have a story of my own. Once upon a time there was a servant girl who was
thrown into prison for stealing a silver knife and fork from her masters. Two months later, when they
were cutting down a tree, they found the silver in a magpie’s nest. The bird was the thief. The servant
was released … so you see, the guilty party is always punished.’
Grivet was triumphant. Olivier tittered.
‘So, you’re saying they put the magpie in prison?’
‘That’s not what Monsieur Grivet meant,’ Camille said, not wanting to see his boss made to look a
fool. ‘Mother, give us the dominoes.’
While Mme Raquin went to get the box, the young man continued, talking to Michaud:
‘So you admit that the police is powerless? There are murderers walking around in the full light of
day?’
‘I’m sorry to say there are,’ the commissioner replied.
‘It’s immoral,’ Grivet concluded.
Thérèse and Laurent had said nothing during this conversation. They did not even smile at Grivet’s
stupidity. Both leaning on their elbows on the table, they listened, with a distant look on their rather
pale faces. For a moment, their eyes met, dark and burning. Little beads of sweat shone at the roots of
Thérèse’s hair and a chill draught made Laurent’s skin shiver imperceptibly.
Page 59

XI
Sometimes, on Sundays, when it was fine, Camille obliged Thérèse to go out with him and take a
short walk down the Champs-Elysées. The young woman would have preferred to stay in the damp
shadows of the shop; it tired her and bored her being on her husband’s arm as he strolled along the
pavement, stopping in front of the shop windows, with the astonishment, the remarks and the silences
of an imbecile. But Camille insisted. He liked to show off his wife, and when he met one of his
colleagues, especially one of his superiors, he would be so proud to exchange greetings in the
company of Madame. In any case, he would walk for the sake of walking, almost without saying a
word, stiff and misshapen in his Sunday best, dragging his feet, dim-witted and vain. It pained
Thérèse to have a man like that on her arm.
On days when they went out for a walk, Mme Raquin would accompany the children to the end of
the arcade. She kissed them as though they were leaving on a journey, giving endless instructions and
expressing earnest wishes.
‘Above all,’ she would tell them, ‘beware of accidents. There is so much traffic in Paris! Promise
me you won’t go among crowds.’
Eventually, she would let them go, looking after them until they disappeared. Then she went back
into the shop. Her legs were getting heavy and she could not walk any great distance.
At other times, though less often, the couple would escape from Paris; they would go to Saint-Ouen
or Asnières,1 and eat a fried meal in one of the restaurants by the Seine. These were real occasions,
talked about for a month in advance. Thérèse agreed more readily — almost with joy — to such
outings, which would keep her out in the open air until ten or eleven at night. Saint-Ouen, with its
green islands, reminded her of Vernon; there, all the wild affection that she had felt for the river when
she was a girl revived in her. She would sit down on the bank, dipping her hands in the water and
feeling truly alive in the heat of the sun, moderated by the cool breeze in the shade of the trees. While
she was tearing and dirtying her dress on the pebbles and the muddy ground, Camille would carefully
spread out his handkerchief and crouch down beside her, taking a dozen different precautionary
measures. Recently, the young couple had almost always taken Laurent with them; he would brighten
up the walk with his jokes and his peasant vigour.
One Sunday, Camille, Thérèse and Laurent set out for Saint-Ouen at about eleven o’clock, after
lunch. They had planned the trip for a long time and it was to be their last that season. Autumn was
coming and cold gusts were starting to freeze the evening air.
That morning, however, the sky was still blue and serene. It was hot in the sun and warm under the
shade. They decided that they should take advantage of the last fine day.
The three trippers took a cab, pursued by the old haberdasher’s anxious outpourings and
lamentations. They crossed Paris and left the cab at the fortifications,2 carrying on to Saint-Ouen on
foot. It was midday. The road, brightly lit by the sun and covered in dust, had the dazzling brightness
of snow. The air was thick, acrid and scorching. Thérèse walked along on Camille’s arm, with little
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steps, protected by his sunshade, while he mopped his brow with a huge handkerchief. Behind them
came Laurent, with the sun beating down on the back of his neck, though he showed no sign of feeling
it. He was whistling, knocking aside the pebbles with his foot and, from time to time, glancing at the
swaying of his mistress’s hips with a fierce glint in his eye.
As soon as they got to Saint-Ouen, they set about finding a clump of trees with a carpet of green
grass in the shade. They crossed over to an island and pushed their way into the undergrowth. The
fallen leaves lay on the ground in a reddish layer, which snapped under their feet with a dry crackling
sound. The tree trunks were standing upright, numberless, like clusters of Gothic columns, and the
branches dipped right down to their foreheads, so that their only horizon was the bronze vault of
dying leaves and the black-and-white shafts of the aspens and oaks.3 The walkers were in a
wilderness, a melancholy pit in the silence and cool of a narrow clearing. All around, they could hear
the Seine rumbling by.
Camille had chosen a dry spot and sat down, lifting up the skirts of his coat. Thérèse had just
dropped on to the leaves with a lot of noise from her rustling skirts; she was half smothered by the
folds of her dress billowing out around her and uncovering one of her legs up to the knee. Laurent,
lying face down with his chin on the ground, was looking at this leg and listening to his friend railing
against the government, saying that all the islands in the Seine should be changed into English
gardens, with benches, sanded paths and pruned trees, as in the Tuileries.4
They spent nearly three hours in the clearing, waiting for the sun to cool before going for a walk in
the country, then dinner. Camille talked about his office and told them silly stories; then he got tired,
flopped down and went off to sleep. He had placed his hat over his eyes. Thérèse, with her eyes
closed, had been pretending to snooze for a long time.
At this, Laurent slipped quietly over to the young woman; he kissed her shoe, then her ankle. The
leather and the white stocking burned his mouth as he kissed them. The bitter scent of the earth
mingled with the light perfume of Thérèse and seeped into him, heating his blood and arousing his
lust. For the past month, he had been living in a state of resentful celibacy. Now, the walk in the sun
on the road to Saint-Ouen had aroused him. He was there, in this isolated pit, surrounded by the great
voluptuous stillness and shade, and he could not clasp his arms around this woman who belonged to
him. The husband might wake up and see him, which would mean that all his caution had been
wasted. That man was a constant obstacle. The lover, lying flat on the ground, hidden by her skirts,
trembling and eager, placed his silent kisses on the shoe and the white stocking. Thérèse lay
absolutely still. Laurent thought that she was asleep.
He got up, his back aching and leaned against a tree. Then he saw that the young woman was
staring upwards with her eyes shining and wide open. Her face, between her raised arms, was dull
and pale, cold and stiff. Thérèse was thinking. Her staring eyes were like a deep abyss which held
only darkness. She did not move or look towards Laurent, who was standing behind her.
Her lover stared at her, almost fearful at seeing her so still and so unresponsive to his caresses.
This head, white and lifeless, sunk in the folds of her skirts, aroused in him a sort of terror, shot
through with chafing lusts. He would have liked to bend down and close those great open eyes with a
kiss. But, almost in the same skirts, Camille, too, was sleeping. This poor creature, with his thin,
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twisted body, was snoring lightly and under the hat half covering his face you could see his mouth
open, deformed by sleep, gaping in a foolish grimace. Little reddish hairs were scattered around his
skinny chin, staining the pallid flesh and, now that his head was thrown back, you could see his thin,
wrinkled neck, in the middle of which the Adam’s apple stood out, brick red, rising with each snore.
Sprawled out like this, Camille was an undignified and irksome sight.
Looking at him, Laurent swiftly lifted up his foot. He was about to crush the face with a single
blow.
Thérèse stifled a cry. She paled and closed her eyes, turning her head away, as though to avoid the
splash of blood.
And Laurent, for a few seconds, stayed there, his foot raised, poised above the sleeping Camille’s
face. Then he slowly withdrew his leg and walked a few steps away. It occurred to him that this
would be a stupid murder: the crushed head would bring the whole police force down on him. The
only reason he wanted to do away with Camille was to live with Thérèse. After committing the crime,
he wanted a life of pleasure, like the person who killed the carter in the story that Old Michaud had
told them.
He went over to the river bank and watched the water flowing past, with a mindless look. Then,
suddenly, he went back into the undergrowth. He had finally devised a plan, worked out a murder that
would be convenient and without risk to himself.
So he woke the sleeping man by tickling his nose with a straw. Camille sneezed and got up,
thinking it a very good trick. He liked Laurent because of such jokes, which made him laugh. Then he
shook his wife, who had her eyes closed. When Thérèse had got up and shaken her skirts, which were
crumpled and covered in dry leaves, the three of them left the clearing, breaking the small branches in
their path.
They left the island and walked along the roads, down paths full of groups of people in their
Sunday best. Between the hedges, girls were running along in brightly coloured dresses; a team of
oarsmen went by, singing; lines of bourgeois couples, old folk and employees with their wives, were
strolling, beside the ditches. Every path seemed like a populous, noisy street. Only the sun remained
aloof and calm. It was declining towards the horizon, casting vast expanses of pale light over the
reddening trees and white roads. A sharp chill was starting to descend from the shimmering sky.
Camille was no longer giving Thérèse his arm. He was talking to Laurent, laughing at his friend’s
jokes and tricks as he jumped over the ditches and lifted up heavy stones. The young woman, on the
other side of the road, was walking on, her head lowered, bending down from time to time to pick a
blade of grass. When she had fallen behind, she stopped and looked at her lover and her husband in
the distance.
‘Hey! Aren’t you hungry?’ Camille shouted, eventually.
‘Yes,’ she replied.
‘Well, come on then!’
Thérèse was not hungry, but she was weary and uneasy. She was not sure what Laurent had in mind
and her legs were trembling beneath her with anxiety.
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The three of them came back to the river’s edge and looked around for a restaurant. They sat down
on a sort of wooden terrace at a cheap eating-house that stank of grease and wine. The place was full
of shouting, songs and the clink of dishes. In every alcove, in every private room, there were groups
talking in loud voices and the thin walls vibrated, magnifying the din. The staircase shook as the
waiters went up and down.
Up on the terrace, the smell of grease was dispelled by the river breeze. Thérèse, leaning against
the balustrade, looked out over the landing stage. A double row of cafés and fairground stalls
stretched off to right and left. Under the arbours, between a few yellow vine leaves, there were
glimpses of white table-cloths, the black patches of men’s jackets and women’s bright skirts. People
were coming and going, bareheaded, running and laughing; and the dreary tunes of barrel organs
mingled with the loud voices of the crowd. A smell of frying oil and dust hung on the still air.
Below Thérèse, some whores from the Latin Quarter were dancing round on a worn piece of lawn,
singing a childish ditty. Their hats had fallen on to their shoulders and their hair was loose; they were
holding hands and playing like little girls. Their voices had recaptured a hint of childish freshness and
their pale faces, stamped with brutal kisses, were blushing tenderly with a virginal pinkness. Their
wide, unchaste eyes were clouded with sentimental tears. Some students, smoking clay pipes, were
watching them as they danced and shouting crude jokes at them.
Meanwhile, beyond, on the Seine, on the hillsides, the quiet of evening was falling, a vague, blue
atmosphere wrapping the trees in a transparent mist.
‘Hey, there, waiter!’ said Laurent, leaning over the banisters. ‘What about our dinner?’
Then, as if changing his mind, he went on:
‘I say, Camille, how about going for a boat trip before we eat? That would give them time to roast
our chicken. We’ll get bored if we have to wait for an hour.’
‘As you like,’ said Camille, not caring one way or the other. ‘But Thérèse is hungry.’
‘No, no, I can wait,’ said the young woman quickly, seeing that Laurent was staring at her.
All three of them went down. As they passed the counter, they booked a table, ordered their meal
and said that they would be back in an hour. Since the owner hired out boats, they asked him to come
and untie one for them. Laurent chose a narrow skiff, so light that it scared Camille.
‘Dammit,’ he said, ‘we’d better not move around in that. We’d get a right soaking.’
The fact is that he was terribly afraid of water. In Vernon, his sickly state had meant that as a boy
he had not been able to splash around in the Seine. When his schoolmates were running down to leap
in the river, he would be tucked up between warm blankets. Laurent had become a fearless swimmer
and indefatigable rower, while Camille had never lost the dread of deep water felt by women and
children. He tested the bottom of the skiff with his foot as though to make sure it was firm.
‘Come on, in you go,’ said Laurent, laughing. ‘You’re always such a scaredy cat.’
Camille stepped over the edge and went unsteadily to take a seat in the stern. Feeling the boards
under his feet, he was reassured and made a joke, to show he was not afraid.
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Thérèse had stayed on the bank, serious and not moving, beside her lover, who was holding the
painter. He bent down and quickly whispered to her:
‘Look out … I’m going to push him in … Do as I say … I’ll look after everything.’
The young woman went dreadfully pale and stayed as though pinned to the ground. She stiffened,
her eyes staring wide.
‘Get in the boat, then,’ Laurent muttered to her again.
She did not move. A frightful struggle was going on inside her. She had to use all her strength to
control herself, because she was afraid she would burst into tears and fall in the water.
‘Ah! Look!’ Camille shouted. ‘Laurent, look at Thérèse, now … She’s the one who’s scared! Will
she, won’t she, get in …’
He was sprawled on the rear bench, with his two elbows on the sides of the skiff, lolling around
and showing off. Thérèse gave him an odd look; the jeers of this poor creature were like the crack of
a whip stinging her and driving her on. She suddenly jumped into the boat, staying at the bow. Laurent
took the oars. The skiff left the bank and proceeded gently towards the islands.
Dusk was coming. Great shadows fell from the trees and the water was black at the edge. In the
middle of the river, there were wide streaks of pale silver. Soon, the boat was in the middle of the
Seine. Here, all the sounds from the banks were muted: the shouts and singing were vague and
melancholy as they drifted across, with sad, languid notes. The smells of fried food and dust had
gone. There was a chill in the air. It was cold.
Laurent stopped rowing and let the boat drift with the current.
Rising opposite them was the great reddish mass of the islands. The two banks, dark brown in
colour, flecked with grey, were like two broad bands meeting at the horizon. The sky and the water
seemed to have been cut out of the same whitish material. Nothing is more painfully calm than dusk in
autumn. The daylight pales in the quivering air and the ageing leaves fall from the trees. The
countryside, scorched by the burning sun of summer, feels death approaching with the first cold
winds; and, in the sky, there are plaintive murmurs of despair. Night falls, bringing shrouds in its
shadows.
The three trippers fell silent. Sitting in the boat as it drifted along with the current, they were
watching the last glimmers of light leave the tops of the trees. They were getting closer to the islands.
The great reddish masses were darkening and the whole landscape was simplified by the dusk: the
Seine, the sky, the islands and the hills were now only brown and grey smudges, merging into a milky
fog.
Camille, who had ended up lying flat with his head over the water, dipped his hands in the river.
‘Crikey, it’s cold!’ he exclaimed. ‘It wouldn’t be much fun to take a dive into that stuff!’
Laurent said nothing. For a while, he had been looking anxiously at both banks. He was sliding his
large hands down towards his knees, clenching his teeth. Thérèse, stiff and motionless, her head tilted
back a little, waited.
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The boat was about to enter a little channel, dark and narrow, which ran between two islands.
From behind one of these, you could hear the muffled singing of a boating party that must have been
coming back up the Seine. Beyond that, upstream, the river was clear.
Then Laurent got up and grasped Camille around the waist. The clerk started to laugh.
‘No, don’t! You’re tickling me,’ he said. ‘Stop messing around … Seriously, you’ll make me fall.’
Laurent grasped him harder and shook him. Camille turned and saw the terrifying, contorted face of
his friend. He could not understand what was going on, but was gripped by a vague sense of terror.
He tried to cry out and felt a rough hand around his throat. With the instinct of a struggling animal, he
got up on his knees and gripped the side of the boat. For a few seconds, he struggled like that.
‘Thérèse! Thérèse!’ he called, in a whistling, half-suffocated voice.
The young woman watched, gripping a bench in the skiff with both hands as it creaked and swayed
on the river. She could not shut her eyes. A terrifying contraction kept them wide open, staring at the
dreadful scene of struggle. She was silent and rigid.
‘Thérèse! Thérèse!’ the unfortunate victim cried, croaking.
At this final plea, Thérèse burst into tears. Her nerves broke and the crisis that she had been
anticipating threw her shaking into the bottom of the boat. There she stayed, bent double, swooning,
lifeless.
Laurent was still shaking Camille, with one hand gripped around his throat. Eventually, he managed
to prise him away from the side of the boat with his other hand. He held him up like a child in his
powerful arms. As he bent his head forward, leaving his neck uncovered, his victim, mad with fear
and fury, twisted round, bared his teeth and dug them into the neck. And when the murderer, choking
back a cry of pain, briskly threw Camille into the river, his teeth took away a piece of flesh.
He fell into the water with a scream. He came back to the surface two or three more times, giving
increasingly muffled cries.
Laurent did not waste a second. He turned up the collar of his jacket to hide the wound. Then he
grasped the swooning Thérèse, turned the skiff over with a kick and let himself fall into the Seine
with his mistress in his arms. He supported her in the water, calling for help in a pathetic voice.
The oarsmen, whose singing they had heard behind the island, rowed swiftly towards them. They
realized that a disaster had taken place: they set about rescuing Thérèse, lying her down on a bench,
and Laurent, who began to lament the death of his friend. He jumped back in the water, looked for
Camille in places where he could not be, came back weeping, wringing his hands and tearing out his
hair. The oarsmen tried to calm him and console him.
‘It’s my fault,’ he cried. ‘I shouldn’t have let the poor lad dance around and shake the boat as he
did … Suddenly, we were all three of us on the same side, and we capsized. As he was falling, he
called out to me to save his wife …’
As always happens, there were two or three young people among the oarsmen who claimed to have
witnessed the accident.
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‘We saw it clearly,’ they said. ‘Heavens, you know, a boat is not as solid as a dance floor … Oh,
this poor little woman, it’ll be frightful for her when she comes round!’
They picked up their oars, took the skiff in tow and brought Thérèse and Laurent to the restaurant,
where the dinner was waiting. In a few minutes, all of Saint-Ouen knew about the accident. The
oarsmen described it as though they were eyewitnesses. A sympathetic crowd gathered around the
cabaret.
The restaurant owner and his wife were good people, who made some spare clothes available to
the shipwrecked pair. When Thérèse revived, she had a nervous crisis and burst into terrible sobs.
She had to be put to bed. Nature was assisting in the sinister piece of play-acting that had just taken
place.
When the young woman was calmer, Laurent entrusted her to the care of the restaurant owners. He
wanted to go back to Paris alone, to tell Mme Raquin the dreadful news, softening the blow as much
as possible. The truth was that he was mistrustful of Thérèse’s nervous excitement. He wanted to give
her time to think things over and learn her part.
It was the oarsmen who ate Camille’s dinner.
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XII
In the dark corner of the public omnibus taking him back to Paris, Laurent put the final touches to his
plan. He was almost certain of getting away with it. He was filled with a heavy, anxious feeling of
joy, joy at having accomplished the crime. When they got to the Barrière de Clichy, he took a cab and
told the driver to take him to Old Michaud’s house in the Rue de Seine. It was nine o’clock in the
evening.
He found the retired police commissioner at dinner, together with Olivier and Suzanne. He had
come here in order to cover himself, in the event of anyone suspecting him, and to avoid having to
announce the frightful news to Mme Raquin alone. He found the idea of doing that oddly repugnant; he
was expecting such despair that he was afraid he could not produce enough tears for his part; and
then, the mother’s grief weighed on him, though when it came down to it, he was not much concerned.
When Michaud saw him come in wearing coarse clothes a few sizes too small, he looked
questioningly at him. Laurent told him what had happened, in a breaking voice, as though breathless
with grief and tiredness.
‘I came to you,’ he said, in the end, ‘because I didn’t know what to do about those two poor women
who have suffered such a cruel blow. I didn’t dare to go to the mother by myself. I beg you, come
with me.’
As he spoke, Olivier was staring hard at him, with a directness that he found very disconcerting.
The murderer had plunged, head first, among these policemen, in a bold move that ought to save him.
But he could not help shuddering as he felt their eyes fixed on him; where there was only amazement
and pity, he saw suspicion. Suzanne, the most frail and palest of them, was on the point of swooning.
Olivier, terrified by the idea of death, though his heart was in fact quite indifferent, made a pained
grimace of surprise as he examined Laurent’s face, though without the slightest suspicion of the
sinister truth. As for Old Michaud, he gave exclamations of horror, commiseration and amazement; he
twisted around on his chair, clasped his hands and raised his eyes heavenwards.
‘Oh, my God!’ he said, in a strangled voice. ‘Oh, my God, what a dreadful thing! You go out and
you die, like that, all at once. It’s frightful … And that poor Madame Raquin, the mother, what are we
to tell her? You were quite right to come and fetch us … We’ll go with you.’
He got up, walked about the room, shuffling as he looked for his cane and his hat; then, as he
hurried around, got Laurent to repeat the full story of the disaster, punctuating each remark with an
exclamation.
All four of them went downstairs. At the entrance to the Passage du Pont-Neuf, Michaud stopped
Laurent.
‘Don’t come in,’ he said. ‘Your presence would be a kind of brutal announcement — just what we
want to avoid … The poor mother would suspect something wrong and force the truth out of us sooner
than we would like. Wait here for us.’
The murderer was relieved by this arrangement: he had been trembling at the idea of going inside
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the shop. Calm descended on him and he began to step on and off the pavement, walking easily
backwards and forwards. At times, he forgot what was going on and looked in the shop windows,
hummed to himself and turned round to stare after women as they went past. He stayed for a full half-
hour like this in the street, his nerve returning more and more.
He had not eaten since the morning. He had a sudden feeling of hunger, went into a pastry shop and
stuffed himself with cakes.
In the shop in the arcade, a heart-rending scene was taking place. Even though Old Michaud did his
best, with friendly words, making every attempt to soften the blow, there came a moment when Mme
Raquin realized that something dreadful had happened to her son, whereupon she demanded to know
the truth, in a fury of despair, a violent fit of tears and cries that overcame her old friend’s resistance.
When she did learn the truth, her grief was tragic. She heaved with sobs, great shudders threw her
body backwards and she suffered a mad seizure of horror and anguish. She remained gasping for
breath, from time to time giving out a piercing cry in the aching depths of her sorrow. She would have
thrown herself on the ground, if Suzanne had not seized her by the waist and wept on her knees,
looking up towards her with her pale face. Olivier and his father remained standing, irritated and
silent, turning away from this spectacle which affected them in a way unpleasantly threatening to their
self-esteem.
The poor mother saw her son tumbled along in the murky waters of the Seine, his body stiff and
horribly swollen; and, at the same time, she saw him as a little baby in his cot, when she used to
defend him from death as it tried to claim him. She had brought him into the world more than ten times
and she loved him for all the love she had shown him in the previous thirty years. And now he had
died far away from her, all of a sudden, in cold, dirty water, like a dog. She remembered the warm
blankets that she used to wrap around him. How much care, what a warm childhood, how many
endearments and expressions of affection — all this, only to see him one day miserably drowned! At
this thought, Mme Raquin felt her throat tightening and hoped that she was about to die, stifled by so
much grief.
Old Michaud hurried out. He left Suzanne with the haberdasher and went back with Olivier to look
for Laurent, so that they could go directly to Saint-Ouen.
On the way, they barely exchanged a couple of words. Each had retreated into a corner of the cab
which was shaking them along over the cobbles. They stayed silent and unmoving in the depth of the
shadows that filled the carriage. From time to time, the swift ray of a gas lamp threw a flash of light
across their faces. The dreadful event that had brought them together enveloped them in a sort of
melancholy dejection.
When they finally reached the restaurant on the river bank, they found Thérèse lying down, her
hands and head burning with fever. The café owner told them quietly that the young lady was running
a high temperature. The truth was that Thérèse, feeling weak and cowardly, was afraid that she would
have a fit and confess to the murder, so she had decided to fall ill. She remained fiercely mute,
keeping her lips and eyelids tight closed and refusing to see anyone, because she was afraid to speak.
With the bedclothes up to her chin and her face half buried in the pillow, she curled up like a baby
and listened anxiously to everything that was being said around her. And, in the reddish light that
filtered through her closed eyelids, she could still see Camille and Laurent struggling at the edge of
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the boat and her husband, pale, frightful, taller than life, rising straight up out of the muddy water.
This inescapable vision fuelled the fever in her blood.
Old Michaud tried to talk to her, to console her. She shrugged him off, turned round and started to
sob again.
‘Leave her, Monsieur,’ said the restaurant owner. ‘She shivers at the slightest noise. What she
surely needs, you see, is rest.’
Downstairs, in the dining room, a policeman was taking statements about the accident. Michaud
and his son came down, followed by Laurent. Once Olivier let it be known that he was an important
official at the Prefecture, everything was over in ten minutes. The oarsmen were still there, giving
minute details of the drowning, describing how the three trippers had fallen in and claiming to be
eyewitnesses. If Olivier and his father had had the slightest suspicion, it would have disappeared as
soon as they heard these statements. But they had not for a moment doubted Laurent’s honesty. On the
contrary, they described him to the policeman as the victim’s best friend, and they were at pains to
insist that the official report should include the fact that the young man had jumped into the water to
save Camille Raquin. The following day, the newspapers described the event with a wealth of
details: the despairing mother, the inconsolable widow, the noble, courageous friend … it was all
there, in the report which did the rounds of the Parisian papers, then finally got buried in the
provincial press.
When the taking of the statements was finished, Laurent felt a wave of warm joy filling his flesh
with new life. From the time when the victim had buried his teeth into his neck, it was as though he
had been stiffened, acting mechanically, according to a plan laid down long in advance. He was
possessed by the sole instinct of self-preservation which dictated his words and advised him how to
act. Now, with the certainty that he would get away with it, the blood started to flow through his veins
with sweet tranquillity. The police had gone past his crime and seen nothing; they were fooled, they
had just acquitted him. He was saved. At this thought, he felt a sweat of pleasure along the length of
his body, and a warmth that restored free movement to his limbs and to his mind. He continued in his
role as the grieving friend with incomparable skill and self-assurance. Underneath, he felt an animal
satisfaction; he thought of Thérèse, lying in the room upstairs.
‘We can’t leave that poor young woman here,’ he said to Michaud. ‘She may be in danger of
serious illness, we really must take her back to Paris … Come on, we’ll persuade her to come with
us.’
Upstairs, he himself spoke to Thérèse, begging her to get up and let them take her to the Passage du
Pont-Neuf. When she heard the sound of his voice, she shuddered, opened her eyes wide and looked
at him. She was haggard and trembling. Painfully and without answering, she sat up. The men left the
room, leaving her alone with the restaurant owner’s wife. When she was dressed, she came
unsteadily down the stairs and got into the cab, supported by Olivier.
No one spoke during the journey. Laurent, with supreme daring and insolence, slid one hand along
the young woman’s skirts and grasped her fingers. He was sitting opposite her, in the shifting
shadows. He could not see her face, which she kept sunk on her breast. When he had taken her hand,
he pressed it strongly and kept it in his until they reached Rue Mazarine. He felt her hand tremble, but
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she did not take it away; on the contrary, she squeezed his quickly a few times. And, one held in the
other, the hands burned, the damp palms stuck together and the clenched fingers bruised one another
whenever the cab shook. It seemed to Laurent and Thérèse that the blood of the other was flowing into
their chests through their joined hands; their fists became the burning hearth on which their life
seethed. Wrapped in the darkness and the desolate silence around them, this furious squeezing of
hands was like a crushing weight bearing down on Camille’s head to keep it under the water.
When the cab stopped, Michaud and his son were the first to get down. Laurent leaned over
towards his mistress and softly murmured: ‘Be strong, Thérèse. We have a long time to wait.
Remember…’
The young woman had still not spoken. She opened her lips for the first time since her husband’s
death.
‘Oh, I’ll remember!’ she said, trembling, in a voice as soft as a sigh.
Olivier gave her his hand, to help her down. This time, Laurent went as far as the shop. Mme
Raquin was lying down, in the throes of delirium. Thérèse dragged herself to her own bed and
Suzanne hardly had time to undress her. Feeling reassured and seeing that everything was working out
as he hoped, Laurent left. He went slowly back to his dingy attic in the Rue Saint-Victor.
It was after midnight. A cool breeze was blowing down the silent, empty streets. The young man
could hear nothing but the regular sound of his footsteps on the stone pavements. The cool air filled
him with a sense of well-being, while the silence and the dark gave him brief sensations of pleasure.
He strolled along …
At last, he was done with his crime. He had killed Camille. All that was finished business and
would not be spoken about again. He would live quietly and wait until he could take possession of
Thérèse. He had sometimes found the idea of the murder oppressive; but now that the murder was
accomplished, his chest felt lighter, he breathed freely and he was cured of the sufferings imposed by
hesitation and fear.
In reality, he was slightly dazed, his body and thoughts weighed down with tiredness. He got home
and slept deeply. As he slept, little nervous twitches flicked across his face.
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XIII
The next day, Laurent woke up feeling bright and cheerful. He had slept well. The cold air coming
through the window sent the sluggish blood coursing in his veins. His could hardly remember what
had happened the previous evening. Had it not been for the burning sensation on his neck, he might
have thought that he had gone to bed at ten o’clock after a calm evening. Camille’s bite was like a hot
iron on his skin; when he considered the pain that this injury was causing him, he deeply resented it. It
was as though a dozen pins were gradually piercing his flesh.
He turned down his shirt collar and looked at the wound in a tawdry, fifteen-sou mirror hanging on
the wall. The wound was a red hole, as wide as a small coin. The skin had been torn off and the flesh
was visible, pinkish, with black patches. Trails of blood had run down as far as the shoulder in
slender threads, congealing as they went. The bite stood out on the white neck in dull, powerful
brown; it was on the right, below the ear. Leaning back and craning his neck, Laurent looked, as the
greenish mirror gave his face a frightful grimace.
He splashed water over it, pleased with the results of his examination, telling himself that the
wound would heal over in a few days. Then he dressed and went to his office, calmly, as usual. He
described the accident in a voice full of feeling. When his colleagues read the account in the press, he
became a real hero. For a week, this was the only subject of conversation for the staff of the Orléans
Railway: they were quite proud that one of their fellow workers had been drowned. Grivet held forth
at length on the folly of venturing into the midst of the river when you can so easily watch the Seine go
by as you cross one of its bridges.
Laurent had one vague source of unease. It had not been possible to confirm Camille’s death
officially. Thérèse’s husband was certainly dead, but his murderer would like his body to have been
recovered so that a formal certificate could be made out. They had looked in vain for the drowned
man’s corpse on the day after the accident; it was considered that it must have gone down into one of
the holes under the banks of the islands. Scavengers were already actively searching the river in
order to collect the bounty.
Laurent made it his business to go by the Morgue1 every morning on his way to the office. He had
sworn to look after everything himself. Despite a revulsion that made him feel sick and despite the
shudders that would sometimes pass through him, he went regularly for more than a week to examine
the faces of all the drowned people laid out on the slabs.
When he went in, he was sickened by a stale smell, a smell of washed flesh, and cold draughts
blew across his skin. His clothes hung against his shoulders, as though weighed down by the humidity
of the walls. He would go directly to the window that separates the spectators from the bodies, and
press his pale face against the glass, looking. In front of him were the ranks of grey slabs on which,
here and there, naked bodies stood out as patches of green and yellow, white and red. Some bodies
kept their virginal flesh in the rigidity of death, while others seemed like heaps of bloody, rotten meat.
At the end, against the wall, hung pitiful rags: skirts and trousers, grimacing against the bare plaster.
At first, Laurent saw only the general greyness of stones and walls, spotted with red and black from
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the clothes and the corpses. There was a tinkling of running water.
Bit by bit he could distinguish the bodies. He proceeded from one to the next. Only drowned men
interested him; when there were several bodies swollen and blue from the water, he looked eagerly at
them, trying to recognize Camille. Often the flesh was peeling off their faces in shreds, the bones had
broken through the drenched skin and the face seemed to have been boiled and boned. Laurent found it
hard to be certain; he examined the bodies and tried to identify his victim’s skinny frame. But all
drowned bodies are fat; he saw huge bellies, puffy thighs, arms round and strong. He couldn’t tell for
sure, so he remained shivering and staring at these greenish rag dolls whose frightful grimaces
seemed to mock him.
One morning, he got a real fright. For some minutes, he had been looking at a drowned man, short
in stature and horribly disfigured. The flesh of this body was so soft and decayed that the water
running over it was taking it away bit by bit. The stream pouring on the face was making a hole to the
left of the nose. Then, suddenly, the nose collapsed and the lips fell off, revealing white teeth. The
drowned man’s head broke into a laugh.
Every time he thought he recognized Camille, Laurent felt a burning sensation in his heart. He
desperately wanted to find his victim’s body, yet he was overcome with cowardice when he thought
that he saw it in front of him. His visits to the Morgue filled him with nightmares and shudders that
left him panting. He shook off his fears, called himself a child and tried to be strong, but in spite of
that his flesh rebelled, and feelings of disgust and horror seized him as soon as he came into the
humidity and the stale smell of the hall.
When there were no drowned men on the last row of slabs, he breathed more easily and felt less
disgust. Then he became a simple, curious onlooker, taking a strange pleasure in staring violent death
in the face, in its dolefully peculiar and grotesque shapes. He enjoyed the spectacle, especially when
there were women showing their naked busts. These brutal, outstretched naked bodies, spotted with
blood, pierced in places, attracted him and held his gaze. Once, he saw a young woman of twenty, a
working-class girl, strong, heavily built, who seemed to be sleeping on the stone. Her fresh, plump
body was paling with very delicate variations of tint; she was half smiling, her head slightly to one
side, offering her bosom in a provocative manner. You would have taken her for a courtesan lying on
a bed if there had not been a black stripe on her neck, like a necklace of shadow:2 the girl had just
hanged herself because of a disappointment in love. Laurent looked at her for a long time, studying
her flesh, absorbed in a kind of fearful lust.
Every morning, while he was there, he heard people coming and going behind him as they entered
and left.
The Morgue is a show that anyone can afford, which poor and rich passers-by get for free. The
door is open, anyone can come in. There are connoisseurs who go out of their way not to miss one of
these spectacles of death. When the slabs are empty, people go out disappointed, robbed, muttering
under their breath. When the slabs are well filled, and when there is a fine display of human flesh, the
visitors crowd in, getting a cheap thrill, horrified, joking, applauding or whistling, as in the theatre,
and go away contented, announcing that the Morgue has been a success that day.
Laurent soon came to know the regulars who attended the place, a mixed, diverse group of people
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who came to sympathize with one another or snigger together. Some workmen would come in on their
way to their jobs, with a loaf of bread and some tools under their arms; they found death amusing.
Among them were jokers who would play to the gallery by making a facetious remark about the
expression on each body’s face. They nicknamed the victims of fires ‘coalmen’, while those who had
been hanged, murdered or drowned, and bodies that had been wounded or crushed, excited their
ridicule; and their voices, which trembled a little, stammered out comic remarks in the shivering
silence of the hall. Then came the lower-middle classes, thin, dry old men, and casual passers-by
who came in here because they had nothing better to do, looking at the bodies with the blank eyes and
distasteful expressions of men of sensitive feelings and placid natures. Women came in great
numbers: pink, young working girls, with white blouses and clean skirts, who went briskly from one
end of the window to the other, attentive and wide-eyed, as though looking at the display in a fashion
store; there were working-class women, too, haggard, with doleful expressions, and well-dressed
ladies, nonchalant, trailing their silk dresses.
One day, Laurent saw one of these ladies standing a few paces back from the window, pressing a
cambric handkerchief to her nostrils. She was wearing a delightful grey silk skirt with a large, black
lace mantelet. She had a veil over her face and her gloved hands seemed quite small and delicate.
There was a gentle scent of violets around her. She was looking at a corpse. On a slab, a short
distance away, was the body of a hefty lad, a builder who had died instantly when he fell off some
scaffolding. He had a barrel chest, short, thick muscles and greasy, white flesh; death had made a
marble statue of him. The lady was examining him, turning him round, as it were, with her eyes,
weighing him up, engrossed by the sight of this man. She raised a corner of her veil, took another
look, and left.
From time to time, gangs of kids would come in, children aged between twelve and fifteen, running
along the window and stopping only by women’s bodies. They would put their hands on the glass and
stare impudently at the naked breasts. They would nudge one another and make crude remarks,
learning about vice in the school of death. It is in the Morgue that young street urchins have their first
mistress.
After a week of this, Laurent was sickened by it. At night, he would dream about the bodies he had
seen that morning. This daily dose of suffering and disgust that he imposed on himself eventually
disturbed him so much that he decided to make only two more visits. The next day, on coming into the
Morgue, he felt a vicious blow in his chest: opposite him, on a slab, Camille was staring at him, lying
on his back with his head raised and his eyes half open.
The murderer slowly went over to the window as though drawn by a magnet, unable to take his
eyes off his victim. He was not in pain, but he did feel a great inner chill and a slight tingling on his
skin. He would have expected to shake more. He stayed motionless for five whole minutes, lost in
unconscious contemplation, involuntarily marking in the depths of his memory all the frightful lines
and foul colours of the scene before his eyes.
Camille was hideous. He had spent a fortnight in the water. His face still seemed firm and stiff, the
features were preserved, but the skin had taken on a muddy, yellowish tint. The head, thin and bony,
slightly puffy, was twisted into a grimace; it was leaning a bit to one side, the hair stuck to the
temples, the eyelids raised, revealing the pallid globe of the eyes; the lips were twisted, drawn to one
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side of the mouth, giving a horrible sneer; the blackish tip of the tongue was visible between the
whiteness of the teeth. This head, tanned and stretched, was even more terrifying in its pain and
horror since it retained an appearance of humanity. The body seemed like a heap of decayed flesh; it
had been horribly battered. You could tell that the arms were no longer joined to it; the shoulder
blades were breaking through the skin. The ribs stood out on the greenish chest as black lines. The left
side, open and broken, had a gaping hole surrounded by dark-red strips. The whole torso was
decayed; the legs were more solid, stretched out, spotted with repulsive blotches. The feet were
falling off.
Laurent looked at Camille. He had never seen such a horrifying drowned body. More than that: the
corpse had a skimped look, a shrunken, mean appearance; it was huddled up in its own decay; it
amounted to just a small heap. You might have guessed that this was a clerk on twelve hundred francs,
sickly and stupid, whose mother had fed him on herbal teas. This meagre body, which had grown up
between warm blankets, was shivering on its cold marble.
When Laurent did manage to tear himself away from the poignant curiosity that kept him there,
motionless and gaping, he went out and began to walk quickly along the river bank. And as he went,
he repeated: ‘That’s what I’ve made of him. He’s repulsive.’ He felt as though a pungent odour were
following him around, the odour that this putrefying corpse must be giving off.
He went to see Old Michaud and told him that he had just recognized Camille on a slab in the
Morgue. The formalities were completed, the drowned man was buried and a death certificate made
out. Laurent, with nothing to worry about now, threw himself with delight into forgetting his crime and
the annoying, distressing scenes that had followed the murder.
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XIV
The shop in the Passage du Pont-Neuf stayed closed for three days. When it reopened, it seemed
darker and damper. The window display, yellow with dust, appeared to be wearing the family’s
mourning; everything was scattered haphazardly in the dirty windows. Behind the linen bonnets
hanging from rusted hooks, the pallor of Thérèse’s face was duller and more earthy. Its immobility
took on a sinister calm.
All the old wives in the arcade were full of sympathy. The woman who sold costume jewellery
pointed out the young woman’s emaciated profile to each of her customers as an interesting and
regrettable object of curiosity.
For three days, Mme Raquin and Thérèse stayed in their beds without speaking or even seeing one
another. The old haberdasher was propped upright on her pillows, staring vacantly in front of her
with the gaze of an idiot. Her son’s death had given her a massive blow to the head and she fell as
though bludgeoned. For hours on end she remained, calm and motionless, swallowed up by the
bottomless gulf of her despair; then, at times, a crisis seized her and she wept and cried out in
delirium. Thérèse, in the next room, seemed to be asleep; she had turned her head to the wall and
drawn the blanket over her face; and she lay there, stiff and silent, not one sob moving her body or the
sheet that covered it. It was as though she were hiding the thoughts that kept her pinned, rigid, in the
darkness of the alcove. Suzanne, who looked after the two women, went softly from one to the other,
shuffling her feet, but she could not get Thérèse to turn round, only to react with sudden movements of
irritation, nor could she console Mme Raquin, whose tears started to flow as soon as a voice roused
her in her despondency.
On the third day, Thérèse threw back the blanket and sat up in bed, swiftly, with a sort of feverish
resolve. She brushed her hair aside and held her hands against her temples, staying like that for a
moment, with her hands up and her eyes staring, as though still reflecting. Then she jumped down on
to the carpet. Her limbs were shivering and red with fever; there were broad, livid patches on her
skin, which was wrinkled in places, as though it had no flesh under it. She had aged.
Suzanne, just coming into the room, was quite surprised to find her up. In a placid, drawling voice,
she advised her to get back into bed and rest some more. Thérèse took no notice; she was looking for
her clothes and putting them on with hurried, trembling hands. When she was dressed, she went to
examine herself in a mirror, rubbed her eyes and ran her hands across her face, as though to obliterate
something. Then, without a word, she walked quickly across the dining room and into Mme Raquin’s
room.
The older woman was temporarily in a state of stunned calm. When Thérèse came in, she turned
her head and looked at the young widow as she came across and stood in front of her, silent and
depressed. The two stared at one another for a few seconds, the niece with growing anxiety and the
aunt making a painful effort of memory. At last it came back to her and she held out her trembling
arms, hugging Thérèse around the neck and saying:
‘My poor child! My poor Camille!’
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She was weeping and the tears dried on the burning skin of the young woman, who was hiding her
face in the folds of the sheet. Thérèse stayed there, bending over, letting the mother weep out her
tears. Ever since the murder, she had been dreading this first conversation, and she had stayed in bed
so that she could delay the moment and have time to consider the terrible part she had to play.
When she saw that Mme Raquin was calmer, she started to fuss around her, advising her to get up
and come down into the shop. The old haberdasher had almost reverted to childhood. The sudden
appearance of her niece had brought about a positive crisis in her which had restored her memory and
awareness of the people and things around her. She thanked Suzanne for caring for her, speaking in a
weak voice, but no longer delirious, full of a sadness that sometimes stifled her. She watched Thérèse
walking about, giving in to sudden fits of weeping. On such occasions she would call her over, kiss
her, still sobbing, and tell her in a choking voice that she had nothing but her left in the world.
That evening, she agreed to get up and try to eat. When she did so, Thérèse saw what a dreadful
blow her aunt had suffered. The poor old woman’s legs had grown heavy, she needed a stick to drag
herself into the dining room and it seemed to her that the walls were shaking around her.
However, the next day she already wanted them to reopen the shop. She was afraid of going mad if
she stayed alone in her room. She walked heavily down the wooden stairs, stopping with both feet at
each one, and went to sit down behind the counter. From that day on, she remained fixed there in a
passive state of grief.
Beside her, Thérèse waited and thought. The shop was once more quiet and dark.
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XV
Laurent would sometimes come back in the evening, every two or three days. He stayed in the shop,
talking to Mme Raquin for half an hour. Then he would leave, without having looked Thérèse directly
in the face. The old haberdasher considered him as the man who had saved her niece, a noble soul
who had done everything he could to bring her son back to her. She welcomed him with affectionate
goodwill.
One Thursday evening, Laurent was there when Old Michaud and Grivet came in. Eight o’clock
was striking. The office worker and the former police chief had each decided separately that they
could resume their old routine without appearing to intrude, and they arrived at the same minute, as
though driven by a single mechanism. Behind them, Olivier and Suzanne also made their appearance.
They went up to the dining room. Mme Raquin, who was not expecting anyone, hurried to light the
lamp and make some tea. When everyone was seated around the table, each in front of his or her cup,
and when the box of dominoes had been emptied out, the poor mother was suddenly transported back
into the past and burst into tears. One place was empty: her son’s.
This grief threw a pall over the proceedings and made them feel awkward. Every face had a look
of egotistical self-satisfaction. These people were embarrassed, none of them having in their minds
the slightest living memory of Camille.
‘Come, come, dear lady,’ Michaud exclaimed, with a hint of impatience. ‘You mustn’t give way to
it like that. You’ll make yourself ill.’
‘We’re all mortal,’ Grivet remarked.
‘Your tears will not bring back your son,’ said Olivier, sententiously.
‘Please,’ said Suzanne, ‘don’t upset all of us.’
And since Mme Raquin was sobbing all the more, unable to hold back her tears, Michaud
continued:
‘Now, then, come on, be brave. You must realize that we’ve come here to take your mind off it. So,
darn it all, let’s not be miserable; let’s try to forget … We’ll play for two sous a game. There! What
do you say?’
With a supreme effort, the haberdasher swallowed her tears. Perhaps she was aware of the fatuous
egotism of her guests. She wiped her eyes, still very upset. The dominoes shook in her poor hands and
she could not see through the tears that remained just behind her eyelids.
They played.
Laurent and Thérèse had watched this brief scene with a serious and impassive air. The young man
was delighted to see their Thursday evenings revived. He eagerly wanted them to take place, knowing
that he would need these meetings to reach his goal. And, then, without wondering why, he felt more
at ease among these few people that he knew and so dared to look directly at Thérèse.
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The young woman, dressed in black, pale and thoughtful, possessed a beauty that he had not
previously seen in her. He was happy to meet her eyes and to see them stop and gaze at his with
unblinking courage. Thérèse still belonged to him, body and soul.
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XVI
Fifteen months went by. The anguish of the first moments was mitigated, and every day brought
greater peace and relaxation. Life resumed its course with weary languor, taking on that state of
monotonous lethargy that follows a great crisis. And, at the start, Laurent and Thérèse allowed
themselves to be carried along by this new life as it transformed them, working away secretly inside
them in a way that will have to be analysed very minutely if one is to establish all its phases.
Soon Laurent was coming back every evening to the shop, as in the past. But he no longer dined
there or settled down for a whole evening. He would arrive at half past nine and leave after closing
the shop. It appeared as though he was fulfilling a duty by coming in to help the two women. If he
neglected this task for one day, he would apologize the next as humbly as a servant. On Thursday, he
helped Mme Raquin to light the fire and welcome her guests. He was quietly attentive in a way that
charmed the old woman.
Thérèse would calmly watch him fussing around her. Her face had lost its pallor and she seemed
more well, more cheerful and more gentle. Only very occasionally did her mouth twist in a nervous
contraction, making two deep lines that gave her a strange expression of pain and terror.
The two lovers did not try to see one another alone. Neither of them ever asked the other for a
meeting and they never exchanged a furtive kiss. It was as though the murder had, for the time being,
calmed the lustful fever of their flesh and, in killing Camille, they had managed to assuage the raging
and insatiable desire that they had been unable to satisfy in one another’s arms. They experienced in
their crime a sensation of gratification so intense that it sickened them and made their embraces
repulsive.
None the less, they could have had a thousand opportunities to lead the very life of free love that
they had dreamed about and which had driven them to murder. Mme Raquin, confused and debilitated,
was not an obstacle. The house was theirs; they could leave it and go wherever they wished. But love
no longer appealed to them, their appetite had faded, and they stayed there, calmly chatting, looking at
one another without blushing, without trembling, having apparently forgotten the wild embraces that
had bruised their flesh and made their bones crack. They even avoided being alone together; when
they were, they could find nothing to say and each of them was afraid of appearing too cold towards
the other. When they shook hands, they felt a kind of unease at the touch of their skin.
Anyway, they both thought they could explain what made them so indifferent and fearful towards
one another. They put their coldness down to caution. In their view, this calm and abstinence were the
fruit of great wisdom. They claimed that the passivity of their flesh and the sleep in their hearts were
voluntary. Moreover, they considered the repugnance and anxiety that they felt as a vague, lingering
fear of punishment. Sometimes they would force themselves to hope, trying to recover the ardent
dreams of former times, only to be quite amazed when they found that their imaginations were empty.
So they clung to the idea of their forthcoming marriage. Once they had reached their goal, with nothing
more to fear, belonging to one another, they would rediscover their passion and enjoy the delights that
they had imagined. This hope soothed them and prevented them from plumbing the depths of the void
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that had opened up inside them. They persuaded themselves that they loved one another as they had
done in the past and awaited the moment that would make them perfectly happy by uniting them for
ever.
Never had Thérèse known such peace of mind. She was certainly a better person: all the
implacable willpower in her being was relaxed.
At night, alone in her bed, she felt happy. She could no longer sense the thin face and puny body of
Camille beside her, inflaming her flesh and plaguing her with unsatisfied desires. For herself, she
became a little girl again, a virgin under her white curtains, peaceful amid the silence and the
darkness. She liked her huge, rather cold room, with its high ceiling, its dark corners and its scents of
the cloister. She had even come to like the great black wall outside her window; one whole summer,
every evening, she would stay looking for hours on end at the grey stones of this wall and the narrow
slivers of starry sky outlined by the chimneys and the roofs. She would think of Laurent only when a
nightmare woke her up with a start; and then, sitting bolt upright, shaking and with staring eyes, she
would wrap her nightdress around her and tell herself that she would not suffer from these sudden
terrors if she had a man lying beside her. She thought of her lover as being like a dog that would
guard and protect her. Her cool, calm skin felt no shudder of desire.
By day, in the shop, she took an interest in things around her; she came out of herself, no longer
living in a state of dumb rebellion, wrapped up in thoughts of hatred and vengeance. She was bored
by day-dreaming; she needed to act and to see. From morning to night, she watched the people who
went through the arcade, entertained by the noise and the comings and goings. She became inquisitive
and chatty, in short, a woman, for up to then she had only ever acted and thought like a man.
From her observations, she noticed a young man, a student, who lived in rented accommodation
near by and came past the shop several times a day. He had a pale beauty, with the long hair of a poet
and an officer’s moustache. Thérèse thought him distinguished. She was in love with him for a week,
like a boarding-school girl. She read novels and compared this young man to Laurent, finding the
latter quite coarse and heavy. Reading novels opened horizons that were new to her; until now, she
had loved only with her blood and her nerves; now she started to love with her head. Then, one day,
the student vanished; no doubt, he had moved house. Thérèse forgot him in a matter of hours.
She subscribed to a lending library and became passionately fond of all the heroes of the stories
that she read. This sudden love of reading had a considerable influence on her temperament. 1 She
acquired a nervous sensibility which made her laugh or cry for no reason. The equilibrium that had
started to be achieved inside her was shattered. She fell into a sort of vague reverie. At times, she
was shaken by thoughts of Camille and she remembered Laurent with new desire, but full of fear and
misgiving. So she relapsed into her mood of anxiety; sometimes she tried to find some way of
marrying her lover that very moment, at others she thought of running away or never seeing him again.
When novels talked to her about chastity and honour, they set up a kind of barrier between her
instincts and her will. She was still the unmanageable creature that wanted to wrestle with the Seine
and had thrown herself head first into adultery; but she became aware of goodness and gentleness, she
understood the soft features and lifeless attitude of Olivier’s wife, and she knew that she could not
kill her husband and be happy. As a result, she could no longer see clearly inside herself and she
lived in a state of cruel uncertainty.
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Laurent, for his part, went through various phases of calm and excitement. At first, he enjoyed a
feeling of profound tranquillity, as though he had been relieved of a huge weight. At times, he would
wonder in astonishment: it was as though he had had a bad dream and he asked himself whether it
was really true that he had thrown Camille into the water and seen his corpse on a slab in the Morgue.
He was uncommonly surprised by the memory of his crime. Never would he have considered himself
capable of a murder. All his caution and his cowardice shuddered when it occurred to him that his
crime might have been discovered and he might have been guillotined. He felt the cold edge of the
blade on his neck. While he was doing it, he had gone straight ahead, with the obstinacy and blindness
of an animal. Now he turned round and, seeing the abyss that he had crossed, was seized by a dizzying
sense of terror.
‘I must certainly have been drunk,’ he thought. ‘That woman intoxicated me with her caresses.
Good Lord, what an idiot, what a madman I was! I was risking the scaffold by doing that … Well, in
the end it turned out all right; but if I had the time again, I’d never do it.’
Laurent lapsed into inactivity, becoming more feeble, more cowardly and more cautious than ever.
He got fat and lazy. No one who looked at this great body, slumped in on itself, seeming to have no
bones or nerves, would have thought to accuse him of violence and cruelty.
He went back to his old ways. For several months, he was a model employee, carrying out his
duties in a perfectly mechanical way. In the evenings, he dined in an eating-house in the Rue Saint-
Victor, cutting his bread into small slices, chewing slowly, dragging out his meal as long as possible.
Then he pushed his chair back, leaned against the wall and smoked his pipe. He looked like some fat
married man. In the daytime, he thought about nothing; at night, he slept a deep and dreamless sleep.
With his face pink and plump, his belly full and his head empty, he was happy.
His flesh seemed dead and his mind hardly ever turned to Thérèse. At times he did think about her
as one thinks about a woman whom one is to marry later on, in some indeterminate future. He waited
patiently for the time of his marriage, forgetting the woman, but dreaming of the new position he
would then acquire. He would leave the office, he would do some amateur painting and he would
stroll around. Every evening, such thoughts brought him back to the shop in the arcade, despite the
vague sense of unease that he felt as he went in.
One Sunday, feeling bored and not knowing what to do, he went round to see his old schoolfriend,
the young painter with whom he had shared a room for a long time. The artist was working on a
painting that he intended to send to the Salon:2 it showed a naked Bacchante3 stretched out on a piece
of drapery. At the back of the studio, the model, a woman, was lying, her head bent back, her upper
body twisted and her hip raised. Now and then, she would laugh, sticking out her chest, extending her
arms and stretching, to relieve the stiffness. Laurent, sitting opposite her, watched her, smoking and
talking to his friend. The sight made his heart pound and set his nerves on edge. He stayed until
evening and took the woman home with him. He kept her as his mistress for nearly a year. The poor
girl began to love him, considering him a handsome fellow. In the morning, she would leave, go and
model all day, then come back regularly every evening at the same time. With the money that she
earned, she would feed, dress and maintain herself, so she did not cost Laurent a penny, and he was
not bothered where she came from or what she might have done. This woman brought a further
element of balance into his life; he took her for granted, as a useful and necessary object that kept his
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body quiet and healthy. He never knew whether he loved her and it never occurred to him that he was
being unfaithful to Thérèse. He just felt more fat and contented. That was all.
Meanwhile, Thérèse’s period of mourning was over. The young woman would put on bright
dresses and one evening Laurent happened to find her younger-looking and prettier. But he still felt a
certain uneasiness with her; for some time she had seemed excitable and full of strange whims,
laughing or becoming sad for no reason. When he saw her wavering, it worried him, because he
partly guessed her inner turmoil. He started to hesitate, horribly afraid that he would upset his tranquil
existence: he was living peacefully, sensibly catering for his needs, and he was scared to risk this
balance by tying himself to a woman whose passion had already driven him mad. In any case, he did
not reason these things out, he instinctively felt the upheaval that it would create in him if he were to
have Thérèse.
The first shock that struck him, shaking him out of his complacency, was the idea that he would at
last have to think about marriage. It was now almost fifteen months since Camille died. For a short
while, Laurent considered not marrying at all, dumping Thérèse and keeping the model, whose
undemanding and inexpensive love was quite enough for him. Then, it occurred to him that he could
not have killed a man for nothing; when he recalled his crime and the dreadful effort that he had made
to gain sole possession of this woman who now disturbed him so much, he felt that the murder would
become useless and horrible if he did not marry her. It seemed ludicrous to him to throw a man in the
water so that you could steal his widow, to wait fifteen months, and after that to make up one’s mind
to live with some girl who hawked her body round all the artists’ studios … He smiled at the notion.
In any event, was he not bound to Thérèse by ties of blood and horror? He felt her somehow crying
out and twisting inside him, he belonged to her. He was afraid of his accomplice; perhaps, if he did
not marry her, she would go and confess everything to the Law, for revenge and out of jealousy. These
ideas were pounding in his head. Once again, he was stricken with fever.
Meanwhile, the model left him abruptly. One Sunday, she failed to return; no doubt she had found
warmer and more comfortable digs. Laurent was only mildly put out, but he had grown accustomed to
having a woman lying beside him at night and he suddenly felt there was a gap in his life. A week
later, his nerves could bear it no longer. He went back to the shop in the arcade for whole evenings
on end, once more looking at Thérèse with eyes that glinted occasionally. The young woman, who
was excited by long hours with her books, returned his gaze with languid and surrendering eyes.
In this way, both of them found their way back to anguish and desire, after a long year of waiting in
a state of disgust and indifference. One evening as he was closing the shop, Laurent stopped Thérèse
in the passageway.
‘Would you like me to come to your room this evening?’ he asked, in a passionate voice.
The young woman threw up her hands in horror.
‘No, no, let’s wait,’ she said. ‘We must be careful.’
‘I’ve been waiting long enough, I think,’ said Laurent. ‘I’m fed up, I want you.’
Thérèse looked at him wildly. The blood rushed to her hands and to her face. She seemed to
hesitate, then said abruptly:
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‘Let’s get married. I’ll be yours.’
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XVII
Laurent left the Passage, anxious in his mind and uneasy in his body. Thérèse’s warm breath and her
compliance had brought back all the keen urges of earlier times. He went down to the river and
walked along with his hat in his hand, so that he could get the full benefit of the fresh air on his face.
When he reached Rue Saint-Victor, he paused at the entrance to his lodgings, afraid to go up, afraid
of being alone. An inexplicable, childish terror made him dread that he might find a man hiding in his
garret. He had never suffered from such faint-heartedness. He did not even try to argue against the
strange fit of trembling that came over him. He went into a wine shop and stayed there for an hour,
mechanically drinking large glasses of wine. He thought of Thérèse and felt cross with the young
woman because she had not wanted to have him that same night in her room and it occurred to him
that he would not have been afraid had he been with her.
They closed the wine shop and showed him the door. He came back to ask for some matches. The
concierge in his house was on the first floor. Laurent had a long alleyway to go down and a few steps
to go up before he could take his candle. This alleyway and small flight of stairs, horribly black,
appalled him. Normally, he went through the darkness here quite happily. This evening, he did not
dare ring; he thought that there might be some murderers, hiding in a particular recess formed by the
entrance to the cellar, who would suddenly leap out at his throat as he went by. Finally, he rang, lit a
match and made up his mind to venture into the alleyway. The match went out. He stayed motionless,
panting, not daring to run, striking the matches on the damp wall so nervously that his hand shook. He
thought he could hear voices and the sound of footsteps in front of him. The matches broke in his
fingers. He managed to light one. The sulphur began to boil and catch on the wood, but so slowly that
it increased Laurent’s terror: in the pale, bluish light from the sulphur, in the lights flickering around,
he imagined he could see monstrous shapes. Then the match fizzed, and the light became white and
clear. Relieved, Laurent went forward cautiously, taking care not to let the light go out. When he
should have walked past the cellar, he pressed against the opposite wall; the cellar was a mass of
darkness that scared him. Then he went quickly up the few steps to the concierge’s lodge and thought
he was saved when he had his candle. He went more slowly up the other floors, holding his candle
high and lighting every corner that he had to walk past. Those huge, strange shapes that come and go
when you are in a staircase with a light filled him with a vague sense of unease as they swiftly rose
up and disappeared in front of him.
When he got upstairs, he opened his door and quickly shut himself inside. The first thing he did was
to look under his bed and to search the room thoroughly, to make sure that no one was hidden in it. He
closed the skylight, thinking that someone could easily come down through there. When he had taken
these precautions, he felt calmer and got undressed, amazed at his own faint-heartedness. Eventually,
he smiled, calling himself a baby. He had never been timid and could not explain this sudden rush of
fear.
He went to bed. Once he was in the warmth of the sheets, he thought again of Thérèse, whom his
anxieties had made him forget. Keeping his eyes obstinately closed and trying to go to sleep, he found
that his thoughts were working involuntarily, forcing themselves on him and connecting with one
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another to show him the advantages that he would get by marrying as soon as possible. Sometimes, he
would turn round and tell himself: ‘Don’t think any more, let’s sleep; I have to be up at eight o’clock
tomorrow to go to the office.’ And he made an effort to slide off into sleep. But, one by one, the ideas
would return and his mind would resume its silent inner debate. Soon he found himself in a sort of
anxious reverie, which listed at the back of his brain the reasons why he should marry, and the
alternate arguments that lust and caution gave for and against possessing Thérèse.
So, realizing that he could not sleep, that insomnia was keeping his body in a state of irritation, he
turned over on to his back, opened his eyes wide and let his mind fill with the memory of the young
woman. The balance was upset and the hot fever of earlier times shook him once more. He thought of
getting up and going back to the Passage du Pont-Neuf. He would have the outer gate opened for him,
he would knock on the little door of the staircase and Thérèse would welcome him in. At this idea,
the blood rushed to his neck.
His daydream was astonishingly clear. He saw himself in the street, walking quickly beside the
houses and saying to himself: ‘I’m taking this boulevard, crossing this crossroads, to get there
sooner.’ Then the gate to the arcade grated on its hinges and he went down the narrow passage, dark
and empty, congratulating himself on the fact that he could go to Thérèse without being seen by the
woman who sold costume jewellery; then he imagined being in the alleyway and going up the little
staircase as he had so often done. Once there, he felt again the searing delight that he used to feel; he
recalled the delicious fears and voluptuous charms of adultery. His memories became a reality that
impregnated his every sense: he could smell the musty odour of the corridor, touch the slimy walls
and see the grimy shadows that lingered there. And he went up every step, panting, straining his ears
and already satisfying his desires in this fearful approach to the woman he desired. Finally, he was
scratching on the door and the door opened: Thérèse was there, waiting for him, in her petticoat, all
white …
He could really watch his thoughts as they unfolded in front of him. With his eyes focused on the
gloom, he could actually see. When, after running through the streets, entering the arcade and going up
the little staircase, he imagined he could make out Thérèse, eager and pale, he jumped quickly out of
bed, muttering: ‘I must go, she’s waiting for me.’ His sudden movement dispelled the vision. He felt
the cold of the floor and was afraid. For a moment, he stayed without moving, barefoot, listening. He
thought he could hear a noise outside. If he went to see Thérèse, he would once again have to go past
the cellar door downstairs, and this idea sent a great cold shudder up his back. Once again, he felt
terrified, with a stupid, overwhelming dread. He looked defiantly round his room and saw some
whitish streaks of light; and so, gently, cautiously, but at the same time with anxious haste, he got back
into bed and curled up, hiding himself under the blanket, as though getting out of the way of a weapon,
a knife that was threatening him.
The blood had rushed suddenly to his neck and his neck was burning. He put a hand to it, feeling
the scar from Camille’s bite beneath his fingers. He had almost forgotten the bite, and now he was
terrified to find it on his skin. He imagined it eating into his flesh. He quickly pulled his hand away so
that he would not have to feel it, but he did feel it still, pressing in, devouring his neck. So he tried to
scratch it gently, with the end of a nail, but the dreadful burning increased. To prevent himself from
tearing off his skin, he pressed his hands between his knees, which were drawn up under him. And
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there he remained, stiff, on edge, his neck burning and his teeth chattering with fear.
Now his mind became fixed on Camille, with terrifying intensity. Until then, the drowned man had
not troubled Laurent’s sleep. But now the thought of Thérèse brought with it the spectre of her
husband. The murderer did not dare reopen his eyes: he was afraid of seeing the victim in a corner of
the room. At one point, he thought that his bed was shaking in some odd way; he imagined Camille
hiding under it and shaking it like that, so that Laurent would fall out and he could bite him. Crazed
with fear, his hair standing on end, he grasped his mattress, imagining that the shaking was getting
stronger and stronger.
Then he perceived that the bed was not moving. This brought about a reaction in him. He sat up, lit
his candle and called himself an idiot. To calm his fever, he drank a large glass of water.
‘I was wrong to drink at that wine shop,’ he thought. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me tonight.
It’s silly. I’ll be knocked out later on in the office. I should have gone to sleep straight away when I
got into bed, and not thought about a load of things. That’s what’s keeping me awake … Now let’s go
to sleep.’
He blew out the light again and put his head into the pillow, slightly cooler and fully determined
not to think any more or be afraid. Tiredness began to relax his nerves.
He did not sleep his usual, heavily weighted sleep. He slipped gradually into a sort of drowsiness.
He was like someone merely numbed, plunged in a sweet, voluptuous state of insensibility. He could
feel his drowsing body and, in his insensate flesh, his mind remained awake. He had chased away the
ideas in his head and struggled against wakefulness, and now that he was numbed, when he had no
strength and no willpower, the ideas slowly came back, one by one, to take possession of his
weakened self. His daydreams began again. He went back over the journey between himself and
Thérèse: he went downstairs, ran past the cellar and found himself outside. He walked down all the
streets he had already taken earlier, when he was day-dreaming with open eyes. He went into the
Passage du Pont-Neuf, climbed the little staircase and knocked on the door. But instead of Thérèse,
instead of the young woman in a petticoat with her breasts naked, it was Camille who opened to him,
Camille as he had seen him in the Morgue, greenish and horribly disfigured. The corpse held out its
arms to him with a ghastly laugh, showing the tip of a blackened tongue between the whiteness of its
teeth.
Laurent gave a cry and woke up with a start. He was bathed in a cold sweat. He pulled the blanket
over his eyes, cursing and angry with himself. He wanted to go back to sleep.
He fell asleep as before, slowly, and the same heaviness seized him, so that when his will had
once again been relaxed in the languor of half-sleep, he started to walk once more, returning to the
place where his obsession led him: he hurried to see Thérèse. And once more it was the drowned
man who opened the door.
In terror, the wretch sat up in bed. The thing he most wanted in the world was to drive away this
unrelenting dream. He longed for a leaden sleep that would crush his thoughts. Provided he was
awake, he had enough energy to drive away the ghost of his victim, but as soon as he was no longer in
control of his mind, even while his mind was leading him to pleasure, it led him on to horror.
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He tried to sleep once again. There followed a succession of sensual drowsings and sudden,
agonized awakenings. In his furious obstinacy, he kept on going towards Thérèse and kept on coming
up against Camille’s corpse. More than ten times, he went along the same path, starting out with his
flesh ablaze with desire, followed the same route, experienced the same feelings, performed the same
actions, with minute precision; and more than ten times, it was the drowned man that he saw waiting
for his embrace when he reached out to grasp and hug his mistress. His desire was not lessened by
this same sinister ending that woke him up every time; a few minutes later, as soon as he went back to
sleep, his desire forgot the ghastly corpse that awaited him, and hurried once more to find the lithe,
warm body of a woman. For an hour, Laurent lived through this series of nightmares, this bad dream
constantly repeated, continually unforeseen, which, at every shocked awakening, left him shattered by
an ever sharper sense of terror.
One shock, the last, was so violent and painful that he decided to get up and stop struggling. Dawn
was coming. A dismal grey light filtered through the attic window, which marked out a whitish square
against the sky, the colour of ashes.
Laurent got dressed slowly, with a dull feeling of annoyance. He was irritated at not having slept
and at having given way to a fear that he now considered childish. As he was putting on his trousers,
he stretched, rubbed his limbs and felt his face, beaten and puffy from a feverish night. And he kept
saying:
‘I wouldn’t have thought of all that. I would have slept and then I’d be fresh and ready for anything
by now … Oh, if only Thérèse had wanted to, yesterday evening, if only Thérèse had slept with me!’
This idea — that Thérèse would have prevented him from being afraid — calmed him a little.
Underneath lay the fear of having to spend other nights like the one that he had just endured.
He threw some water on his face and gave his hair a comb. This simple wash cleared his head and
drove away his last fears. He was reasoning clearly and now felt only a great sense of tiredness in all
his limbs.
‘I’m not a coward, though,’ he thought, as he finished dressing. ‘I really don’t give a damn about
Camille. It’s quite ridiculous to think that the poor devil is under my bed. Now perhaps I’m going to
be thinking that every night. I really do have to get married as soon as I can. When Thérèse is holding
me in her arms, I won’t think about Camille. She will kiss my neck and I won’t feel that frightful
burning sensation. Now, then, let’s look at that bite.’
He went over to his mirror, stretched his neck and looked. The scar was light pink. As Laurent was
making out his victim’s tooth marks, he felt quite moved by it and the blood rushed to his head. It was
then that he noticed something odd. The scar was turned purple by the rising flow; it became bright
and blood-filled, standing out red against the plump white neck. At the same time, Laurent felt sharp
pricks, as though someone were sticking pins into the wound. He quickly turned up his shirt collar.
‘Pooh!’ he said. ‘Thérèse will cure that … A few kisses will be all it takes. How stupid I am to
think about such things!’
He put on his hat and went downstairs. He needed to get some fresh air, to walk around. As he
went past the cellar door, he smiled; but at the same time he tested the strength of the hook that kept
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the door shut. Outside, he walked slowly in the fresh morning air on the empty pavements. It was
about five o’clock.
Laurent spent a dreadful day. He had to fight against an overwhelming urge to sleep that overtook
him in the afternoon in his office. His head was aching and heavy. He could not stop it falling
forward, so that he had to jerk it upright when he heard one of his bosses coming along the corridor.
The struggle with these sudden movements left his body completely exhausted and caused him a lot of
anxiety.
That evening, tired as he was, he wanted to go and see Thérèse. He found her as feverish, as
dejected and as weary as he was.
‘Poor Thérèse had a bad night,’ said Mme Raquin, when he had sat down. ‘It appears that she had
nightmares and frightful insomnia. I heard her cry out several times and this morning she was quite
ill.’
While her aunt was speaking, Thérèse was staring at Laurent. Each of them doubtless guessed the
terror they had shared, because the same nervous shudder passed across both their faces. They stayed
looking at each other until ten o’clock, exchanging commonplaces, but understanding one another and
both conspiring through their looks to hasten the moment when they could unite against the drowned
man.
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XVIII
Thérèse, too, had been visited by the ghost of Camille in that night of fever.
She had been suddenly aroused by Laurent’s ardent plea for them to meet, after more than a year of
indifference. Her flesh began to ache when, lying in bed alone, she considered that the wedding was
soon to take place. And then, struggling in the throes of insomnia, she saw the drowned man rise up in
front of her. Like Laurent, she had twisted around in a frenzy of desire and horror and, like him, told
herself that she would no longer be afraid, no longer experience such suffering, when she held her
lover between her arms.
At the same moment, this man and this woman had felt a kind of failing of the nerves, which brought
them back, gasping and terrified, to their terrible love. An affinity of blood and lust had been
established between them. They shuddered the same shudders, and their hearts, in a sort of agonizing
fellowship, ached with the same terror. From then on, they had only one body and one soul to feel
pleasure and pain. This community, this mutual interpenetration, is a psychological and physiological
fact that often occurs between those who are thrown violently together by great nervous shocks.
For more than a year, Thérèse and Laurent carried the chain lightly that was clamped to their limbs,
binding them together. In the mental collapse that followed the acute crisis of the murder, in the
feelings of disgust and the need for calm and forgetting that came after that, the two prisoners could
imagine that they were free and that no iron link bound them together. The chain lay slack on the
ground, while they rested, stricken with a kind of happy stupor, and tried to find love elsewhere, to
lead sensibly balanced lives. But on the day when circumstances drove them once more to exchange
words of desire, the chain suddenly tightened and they experienced such a shock that they felt attached
to one another for ever.
The very next day, Thérèse started her campaign, working away in secret to bring about her
marriage to Laurent. The task was a difficult one, fraught with danger. The lovers were afraid that
they might do something rash and awake suspicion by revealing too suddenly what they had had to
gain from Camille’s death. Realizing that they could not talk about marriage, they devised a very
sensible plan that consisted in getting Mme Raquin and the Thursday evening guests to offer them
what they dare not ask for themselves. Their one idea from now on was to get the idea of Thérèse’s
remarriage into the heads of these good people and above all to make them think that the idea
originated with themselves and was theirs alone.
The play-acting involved was long and delicate. Both Thérèse and Laurent had taken on the role
that suited them and they went forward with extreme caution, weighing every little word and gesture.
Underneath, they were consumed by an impatience that wore and stretched their nerves. They lived in
a state of continual irritation; only their terror of the consequences kept them smiling and calm.
They were in a hurry to get it over with, because they could no longer remain alone and separate.
Every night, the drowned man came to them, while insomnia kept them lying on a bed of burning
coals, and turned them over and over with iron pincers. Every evening, the state of nervous agony in
which they lived drove up the fever in their blood, raising frightful spectres before them. When
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evening came, Thérèse no longer dared go up to her room. She experienced strong waves of terror at
the idea of locking herself up until morning in that great room which was filled with strange
glimmerings and peopled by ghosts as soon as the light went out. Eventually, she would leave her
candle alight, not even wanting to go to sleep, so that it kept her eyes wide open. And when tiredness
made her eyelids close, she saw Camille in the darkness and would reopen them with a start. In the
morning, she would drag herself around in the daylight, shattered, after only a few hours’ sleep. As
for Laurent, he had become quite timorous since the evening when he had been afraid while walking
in front of the cellar door. Before that, he had lived with the self-confidence of an animal, but now he
shook and went pale at the slightest noise, like a little boy. A shudder of fear had suddenly run
through him and it had not left him since. At night, he suffered even more than Thérèse did: fear
profoundly ravaged this great, soft, cowardly body, and he watched the close of day with a cruel
sense of unease. Quite often he found that he did not want to go home and would spend whole nights
walking through the deserted streets. Once, he remained until morning under a bridge in the pouring
rain, and there, crouching down, freezing cold, not daring to get up and return to the embankment, he
watched the dirty water flowing past in the pale shadows for almost six hours, during which his
terrors would sometimes flatten him against the damp ground. He imagined he could see long lines of
drowned people carried along with the current under the arch of the bridge. When exhaustion finally
drove him home, he double-locked the door, and tossed and turned until dawn, a prey to frightful
attacks of fever. The same nightmare would persistently return: he thought he was falling out of the
hot, passionate arms of Thérèse into the cold and slimy arms of Camille. He dreamed that his mistress
was stifling him in her warm embrace and then that the drowned man was pressing him to his rotting
chest in an icy hug. These sudden, alternating sensations of desire and disgust, the successive touch of
flesh burning with love and of cold flesh softened by the mud, made him pant and shudder, gasping in
horror.
And, every day, the two lovers’ panic grew, every day their nightmares crushed and appalled them
more. Each now believed that nothing but the other’s kisses would ever kill their insomnia. Out of
prudence, they did not dare to meet, but waited for the day when they got married as a day of
salvation that would be followed by a happy night.
In this way they longed for their union with all the desire they felt within them to have a night’s
tranquil sleep. During the period of indifference, they had wavered, each forgetting the arguments of
selfishness and desire which had, as it were, faded, after having driven the two of them to murder.
Now the fever was burning them again and, behind their desire and their selfishness, they
rediscovered the reasons that had originally made them decide to kill Camille, in order to taste the
joys that, to their minds, a legitimate marriage would surely procure them. And yet, it was with a
feeling of vague despair that they took the final decision to get married openly. Deep inside, they
were scared. Their desire trembled. They leaned over one another, so to speak, as over an abyss that
held a horrible fascination for them; each of them bent above the other’s being, clinging on silently,
while sharp, delicious waves of vertigo relaxed their grip and gave them the urge to let go. But
confronted with the present moment, with their anxious waiting and their fearful desires, they felt an
overwhelming need to close their eyes and dream of a future of affectionate happiness and quiet
pleasures. The more they trembled at the sight of one another, the more they guessed the horror of the
chasm into which they were about to plunge, the more they tried also to make promises of happiness
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to themselves and set out the unavoidable arguments that were leading them, inevitably, to marry.
Thérèse wanted to get married solely because she was afraid and her organism demanded
Laurent’s violent embrace.1 She was suffering from a nervous crisis that made her almost mad. In
truth, she was not thinking reasonably, but flinging herself into passion, her mind distracted by the
romances that she had been reading and her flesh aroused by the cruel nights of insomnia that had
been keeping her awake for several weeks now.
Laurent, whose temperament was more stolid, tried to rationalize his decision, even as he was
giving way to his terrors and his desires. To prove that his marriage really was necessary and that he
would finally be quite happy, and to dispel the vague fears that were getting a grip on him, he
reworked all his earlier arguments. His father, the peasant in Jeufosse, obstinately refused to die, so
he told himself that the inheritance could be a long time in coming. He was even afraid that this
inheritance might escape him altogether and end up in the pockets of one of his cousins, a large lad
who farmed the land, much to the satisfaction of Old Laurent. In which case, he would remain poor
and live without a wife, in a garret, sleeping badly and eating worse still. In any case, he was
counting on not having to work all his life. He was starting to get singularly bored with his office,
where even the light duties assigned to him became a heavy burden on his laziness. Whenever he
thought about it, he came to the conclusion that the supreme happiness was to do nothing. Then he
recalled that he had drowned Camille in order to marry Thérèse and then do nothing afterwards.
Certainly, the desire to have his mistress to himself alone had played a large part in the idea of his
crime, but he had perhaps been led to murder still more by the hope of putting himself in Camille’s
place, of being looked after as he was and enjoying unending bliss. If he had been driven by passion
alone, he would not have shown such cowardice and caution. The truth was that, through this killing,
he had sought to guarantee a tranquil and idle life for himself and the satisfaction of all his appetites.
All these ideas, whether he was conscious of them or not, came back into his mind. To encourage
himself, he kept thinking that it was now time to profit from Camille’s death as he had planned. He set
out in his mind the advantages and pleasures of his future life: he would leave his office, and live in a
state of delightful idleness; he would eat, drink and sleep to his heart’s content; he would have
constantly at hand a passionate woman who would restore the balance of his blood and his nerves; he
would soon inherit Mme Raquin’s forty or so thousand francs, because the poor old soul was dying a
little day by day; and finally, he would create for himself the life of a contented animal and forget all
the rest. Constantly, once Thérèse and he had decided to get married, Laurent told himself these
things. He expected still further benefits and he was happy as anything when he thought he had found a
new argument, based on his own selfish interests, that would oblige him to marry the drowned man’s
widow. But much as he forced himself to hope and much as he dreamed of a future oozing with
idleness and the pleasures of the flesh, he still felt a sudden icy shudder chill his flesh and still, from
time to time, was seized with a feeling of anxiety that seemed to stifle the joy in his throat.
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XIX
Meanwhile, Thérèse and Laurent’s secret campaign was bringing results. Thérèse had adopted an
attitude of despair and melancholy, which started, after a few days, to disturb Mme Raquin. The old
haberdasher wanted to know what was making her niece so sad. At this, the young woman played to
perfection her part as the inconsolable widow; she spoke vaguely of boredom, listlessness and
nervous pain, without mentioning anything specific. When her aunt pressed her on it, she replied that
she was well, that she did not know what was making her so depressed, but that she kept crying
without knowing why. Then there was her constant sighing, her pale, pathetic smiles, and those
silences, oppressive in their emptiness and despondency. Eventually, faced with this young woman
who had retreated into herself and seemed to be dying slowly of some unknown sickness, Mme
Raquin became seriously alarmed. She had no one left in the world except her niece and she prayed
God every night to preserve this child so that there would be someone to close her eyes. There was a
bit of egotism in this last love of her old age. She felt she would be deprived of the few meagre
consolations that still helped her to live when it occurred to her that she might lose Thérèse and die
alone at the back of the damp shop in the arcade. From then on, she kept her eyes constantly on her
niece and was appalled to observe the young woman’s sorrows, wondering what she could do to cure
her of these silent feelings of despair.
The situation being so grave, she thought she should consult her old friend Michaud. One Thursday
evening, she kept him behind in the shop and confided her fears in him.
‘Good heavens, don’t you see?’ the old man said, with the brutal frankness that came from his
former occupation. ‘It’s been clear to me for a long time that Thérèse was in a sulk and I know very
well why her face is all yellow and downcast like that.’
‘You know why?’ said Mme Raquin. ‘Tell me quickly. If only we could make her better.’
‘Pooh! The treatment’s easy,’ Michaud went on, with a laugh. ‘Your niece is unhappy because
she’s been alone every night in her room for almost two years now. She needs a husband. You can see
it in her eyes.’
The old police chief’s straight talking hurt Mme Raquin deeply. She thought that the wound which
had been constantly bleeding in her since the frightful accident at Saint-Ouen burned as sharply and as
cruelly in the heart of the young widow. With her son dead, she thought that there could not possibly
be another man for her niece. And now Michaud, with his coarse laugh, was saying that Thérèse was
sick because she needed a husband.
‘Marry her off as quick as you can,’ he said as he left. ‘Unless you want to see her dry up
altogether. That’s my opinion, dear lady, and believe me, I’m right.’
Mme Raquin could not at first get used to the idea that her son had been forgotten already. Old
Michaud had not even spoken Camille’s name and he had started to joke when talking about
Thérèse’s supposed illness. The poor mother realized that she alone kept the memory of her dear
child alive in the depths of her being. She wept and felt as though Camille had just died a second
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time. Then, when she had had a good cry, when she was tired out from grief, she thought despite
herself about what Michaud had said and got used to the idea of purchasing a little happiness at the
cost of a marriage that, according to the fine scruples of her memory, would kill her son a second
time. She lost her nerve when she found herself confronted with Thérèse, weighed down with misery,
in the icy silence of the shop. She was not one of those stiff, dry creatures who take a bitter joy at
living in eternal despair. She was demonstrative, capable of flexibility and devotion, with her
chubby, affable, good woman’s temperament which impelled her to express her affection. Since her
niece had stopped speaking and remained there, pale and weak, life had become intolerable for her
and the shop seemed like a tomb. She wanted warm feelings about her, life, caresses, something soft
and merry that would help her to await death with equanimity. These unconscious desires made her
accept the idea of remarrying Thérèse and she even forgot about her son a little. She experienced
something like a rebirth in the dead existence that she led, with a new will to act and new things to
occupy her mind. She was looking for a husband for her niece and could think of nothing else. This
choice of a husband was an important matter and the poor old woman was considering herself rather
than Thérèse: she wanted to marry her off in a way that would ensure her own happiness and was
desperately afraid that the young woman’s new husband would upset the last moments of her old age.
She was terrified by the idea that she was going to bring a stranger into her everyday life. The thought
itself gave her pause and prevented her from speaking openly about marriage to her niece.
While Thérèse, with the perfect hypocrisy that she owed to her upbringing, was playing at boredom
and depression, Laurent took the part of the sensitive and obliging man. He catered to the little needs
of the two women, especially Mme Raquin, on whom he showered delicate little marks of his
consideration. Little by little, he became indispensable around the shop and he was the only one to
bring a touch of merriment to this dark hole. When he was not there, in the evenings, the old lady
would look around her uneasily, as though something was missing, almost afraid to find herself alone
with Thérèse and her misery. In fact, Laurent would stay away for the occasional evening only in
order to reinforce his power. He came to the shop every day after leaving work and stayed until the
arcade closed. He ran errands and he would fetch any little thing that Mme Raquin needed, as she
could not walk very easily. Then he would sit down and chat. He had found an actor’s voice, soft and
penetrating, which he used to soothe the good old woman’s ears and heart. Most of all, he seemed
very concerned about Thérèse’s health, as a friend and as a sympathetic man whose own soul suffers
because of the sufferings of others. Several times, he took Mme Raquin aside and terrified her, by
pretending to be himself very worried at the changes and the effects of depression that he claimed to
see on the young woman’s face.
‘We’re going to lose her soon,’ he would mutter with tears in his voice. ‘We can’t hide from
ourselves the fact that she is very ill. Oh, dear! What will happen to our little bit of happiness, our
nice, quiet evenings!’
Mme Raquin listened to him in dismay. Laurent even went as far as to risk talking about Camille.
‘You see,’ he would also tell the old woman, ‘my poor friend’s death was a dreadful blow for her.
She has been dying for the past two years, ever since the fateful day when she lost Camille. Nothing
will console her, nothing will heal her. We must be resigned to it.’
These brazen lies made her weep bitterly. She was upset and blinded by the memory of her son.
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Every time that Camille’s name was spoken, she burst into tears, she let herself go, and she wanted to
embrace the person who mentioned her poor child. Laurent had noticed the way that the name made
her upset and softened her heart. He could get her to cry at will, subjecting her to an emotion that took
away her clear perception of things, and he misused this power in order to keep her constantly
grieving and pliable in his hands. Every evening, even though it gave him a sickening feeling in the pit
of his stomach, he would bring the conversation round to Camille, to his exceptional qualities, warm
heart and sharp wit, extolling his victim with perfect cynicism. Occasionally, when he caught Thérèse
giving him a strange look, he shuddered and eventually himself came to believe all the good things he
was saying about the drowned man. At that, he would fall silent, suddenly gripped with a frightful
feeling of jealousy because he feared that the widow might be in love with the man whom he had
thrown in the water and whom he was now praising with the conviction of a person in the grip of
some hallucination. Throughout the conversation, Mme Raquin was in tears and saw nothing around
her. Even as she wept, she felt that Laurent had a loving and generous heart; he alone remembered her
son, he alone still spoke of him in a voice trembling with emotion. She wiped her tears and looked at
the young man with infinite tenderness, loving him like her own child.
One Thursday evening, Michaud and Grivet were already in the dining room when Laurent came in
and went over to Thérèse, asking her about her health in a voice of gentle concern. For a moment, he
sat down beside her, playing his role of affectionate and worried friend, for the benefit of the
onlookers. As the young people were next to one another, exchanging a few words, Michaud, who
was looking at them, leaned over, pointed at Laurent and said very quietly to the old haberdasher:
‘There you are! That’s the husband your niece wants. Quickly arrange for them to marry. We’ll
help you if necessary.’
He smiled in a suggestive way: in his view Thérèse must be in need of a good, lusty husband. The
idea struck Mme Raquin like a shaft of light and she suddenly noticed all the benefits that would
accrue to her personally from a marriage between Thérèse and Laurent. Such a marriage would only
strengthen the ties that already bound her and her niece to her son’s friend, that kind-hearted being
who came to cheer them up in the evenings. In that way, she would not be bringing a stranger into the
family or risking her own happiness; on the contrary, while providing support for Thérèse, she would
introduce a new joy into her own old age, finding a second son in this young man who had been
showing her such filial love for the past three years. And then, she felt that Thérèse would be less
unfaithful to Camille’s memory if she were to marry Laurent. Religions of the heart make these
strangely nice distinctions. Mme Raquin, who would have wept at the sight of a stranger kissing the
young widow, felt no inner revulsion at the idea of delivering Thérèse to the embraces of her son’s
former colleague. She thought, as they say, that this would keep it in the family.
Throughout the evening, while her guests were playing dominoes, Mme Raquin gave the couple
looks of such tenderness that the young man and the young woman guessed that their play-acting had
succeeded and that the end was in sight. Before leaving, Michaud had a short, whispered
conversation with the old haberdasher and then ostentatiously took Laurent by the arm and announced
that he would accompany him for part of the way. As Laurent left, he exchanged a brief glance with
Thérèse; it was a look full of urgent admonitions.
Michaud had taken it on himself to find out the lie of the land. He found the young man very
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devoted to the ladies, but very surprised by the plan for marriage between himself and Thérèse.
Laurent added, in a broken voice, that he loved the widow of his poor friend like a sister and that he
would feel he was committing a veritable sacrilege if he were to marry her. The retired police
commissioner insisted. He gave a hundred good reasons for him to agree, even speaking of devotion,
and went so far as to tell the young man that his duty obliged him to give Mme Raquin back a son and
Thérèse a husband. Little by little, Laurent allowed himself to be won over. He pretended to give in
to his feelings, to accept the idea of marriage as one that had fallen out of the sky, and was required
by devotion and duty, as Old Michaud was telling him. When the latter had extracted a formal ‘yes’,
he left his companion, rubbing his hands and thinking he had just won a great victory. He
congratulated himself on being the first to have the idea of this marriage which would bring all the
former enjoyment back to their Thursday evenings.
While Michaud was talking with Laurent as they slowly walked along beside the river, Mme
Raquin was having a quite similar conversation with Thérèse. Just as her niece was going to bed,
pale and uneasy on her feet as usual, the old woman kept her back for a moment. She questioned her
in a gentle voice, begging her to be frank and to tell her the reason for the dark mood that was
oppressing her. Then, getting only vague answers, she talked about the void left by widowhood and
gradually worked her way round towards the possibility of a remarriage and finally asked Thérèse
straight out if she did not secretly long to get married again. Thérèse protested, saying that this was
not on her mind and that she would remain faithful to Camille. Mme Raquin began to cry. She argued
against her own belief, suggesting that despair need not be eternal; and finally, in answer to an
exclamation by the young woman that she would not replace Camille, Mme Raquin named Laurent.
After that, she expounded at length, with a flood of words, upon the suitability and advantages of such
a match. She bared her soul and repeated aloud what she had been thinking during the evening. With
unselfconscious egotism, she painted a picture of her last happy days surrounded by her two dear
children. Thérèse listened with bowed head, resigned and docile, ready to satisfy her aunt’s least
desire.
‘I love Laurent like a brother,’ she said, in a pained voice, when her aunt had finished. ‘Since that
is what you want, I shall try to love him as a husband. I want to make you happy … I had hoped that
you would let me mourn in peace, but I shall dry my tears, since your happiness is involved.’
She embraced the old lady, who was surprised and anxious at having been the first to forget her
son. As she got into bed, Mme Raquin wept bitterly, accusing herself of being weaker than Thérèse
and wanting a match out of egotism that the young widow herself would accept for reasons of simple
self-denial.
The following morning, Michaud and his old friend had a brief conversation in the arcade in front
of the shop. They told each other the results of their manoeuvres and agreed to go right ahead,
obliging the young people to get engaged that very evening.
In the evening, at five o’clock, Michaud was already in the shop when Laurent arrived. As soon as
the young man was seated, the retired police commissioner whispered in his ear:
‘She accepts.’
This bald statement was overheard by Thérèse, who went pale, staring shamelessly at Laurent. The
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two lovers looked at one another for a few seconds, as though discussing the matter. Both of them
realized that they had to accept the position without further ado and get it all over with. Laurent got up
and went over to take the hand of Mme Raquin, who was making every effort to hold back her tears.
‘Dear Mother,’ he said with a smile. ‘I talked with Monsieur Michaud yesterday evening about
your future well-being. Your children want to make you happy.’
When the old lady heard herself addressed as ‘dear Mother’, her tears flowed. She grasped
Thérèse’s hand and pressed it into Laurent’s, unable to utter a word.
The two lovers shuddered at each other’s touch. They stayed there, with fingers gripped and
burning, in a nervous embrace. The young man went on in a hesitant voice:
‘Thérèse, would you like us to create a happy, peaceful life for your aunt?’
‘Yes,’ the young woman replied, weakly. ‘We have a duty to fulfil.’
At that, Laurent turned towards Mme Raquin and added, very pale:
‘When Camille fell into the water, he called out to me: “Save my wife, I entrust her to you.” I feel
that I am carrying out his final wish by marrying Thérèse.’
When she heard this, Thérèse let go of Laurent’s hand. It was as though she had received a blow in
the chest. She was overwhelmed by her lover’s effrontery. She stared at him with haggard eyes while
Mme Raquin, choking with sobs, stammered out:
‘Yes, yes, my dear, marry her, make her happy; my son will thank you from the depths of his
grave.’
Laurent felt that he was weakening, and leaned against the back of a chair. Michaud, also moved to
tears, pushed him towards Thérèse, saying:
‘Kiss one another. This will be your engagement.’
The young man had a strange feeling as he put his lips on the widow’s cheeks, and she shrank back
as though burned by the two kisses that her lover had given here. This was the first time that the man
had kissed her before witnesses. The blood rushed to her face and she felt hot and uncomfortable —
though she had no feelings of shame and had never blushed at the intimacies of their love-making.
After this crisis was over, the two murderers relaxed. Their marriage was fixed and they were at
last reaching the goal that they had been pursuing for so long. Everything was agreed upon that very
evening. On the following Thursday, the engagement was announced to Grivet, Olivier and his wife.
Michaud was delighted to relay the news, rubbing his hands and saying again and again:
‘It was my idea, I married them … You see what a fine couple they’ll make!’
Suzanne came over in silence to kiss Thérèse. This poor creature, pale and lifeless, had conceived
a feeling of friendship for the dark, rigid young widow. She loved her as a child might, with a sort of
respectful terror. Olivier complimented the aunt and the niece, while Grivet risked a few vulgar
jokes, which did not go down well. In short, they were all thoroughly delighted and declared that
everything was for the best. To be honest, they already saw themselves at the wedding.
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Thérèse and Laurent maintained an attitude that was restrained and cautious. They demonstrated
feelings for one another that were nothing more than considerate and affectionate. They gave the
impression of carrying out an act of supreme self-sacrifice. Nothing in their appearance betrayed the
terrors and desires that agitated them. Mme Raquin gave them faint smiles, and gentle, grateful looks
of benevolence.
There were a few formalities to complete. Laurent had to write to his father to ask for the old
man’s consent. The peasant of Jeufosse, who had almost forgotten that he had a son in Paris, replied
in four lines that he could marry or get himself hanged if he wished. He let it be known that, since he
had resolved never to give him a penny, he left him to look after himself and authorized him to commit
any act of folly that he wished. Laurent was peculiarly unsettled by this kind of authorization.
After Mme Raquin had read the letter from this unnatural father, she had a surge of generosity that
drove her to do something silly. She settled on her niece the forty-odd thousand francs that she owned,
renouncing everything for the sake of the young couple and entrusting herself to their goodwill,
because she wanted all her happiness to flow from them. Laurent was contributing nothing to their
finances, and even suggested that he would not stick at his job for ever, but might go back to painting.
In any event, the little family’s future was assured: the income from the forty-odd thousand francs,
together with the profits from the haberdashery business, should be enough to let three people live
comfortably. They would have just enough to be happy.
The preparations for the wedding were speeded up. The formalities were reduced to a minimum.
You might have thought that everyone was in a hurry to drive Laurent into Thérèse’s bed. At last the
longed-for day arrived.
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XX
On the morning, Laurent and Thérèse both woke up in their separate rooms with the same profoundly
joyful thought: they told themselves that their last night of terror was over. They would no longer
sleep alone and could protect one another against the drowned man.
Thérèse looked around her and gave a strange smile as she mentally assessed the size of her large
bed. She got up and dressed slowly, while waiting for Suzanne, who was to come and help to get her
ready for her wedding.
Laurent sat upright in bed. He stayed like that for a few minutes, saying farewell to the attic that he
considered so demeaning. At last, he would be leaving this dog’s kennel and have a wife of his own.
It was December. He shuddered and stepped down on the tiled floor, telling himself that he would be
warm that night.
A week earlier, Mme Raquin, knowing that he was broke, had slipped a purse into his hand
containing the sum of five hundred francs, which was all her savings. The young man had accepted it
without demur and fitted himself out in new clothes. The old haberdasher’s money had also allowed
him to give Thérèse the customary gifts.
The black trousers, the tailcoat and white waistcoat, the fine linen shirt and tie, were laid out on
two chairs. Laurent washed and scented his body from a bottle of eau de Cologne, then started to get
dressed with minute care. He wanted to look good. While he was attaching his collar, a high, stiff,
detachable collar, he felt a sharp pain in his neck. The collar stud slipped from his fingers. He got
impatient with it and felt as though the starched material of the collar were cutting into his flesh. He
wanted to look and lifted his chin; and it was then that he saw that Camille’s bite was quite red: the
collar had grazed the scar. Laurent gritted his teeth and went pale. The sight of this blemish standing
out on his neck was upsetting and annoying for him at this particular moment. He screwed up the
collar and picked out another, putting it on very carefully. Then he finished dressing. When he went
downstairs, his new clothes kept him quite stiff, so that he did not dare turn his head, with his neck
imprisoned in starched cloth. At every move he made, a fold in this cloth would pinch the wound that
the drowned man’s teeth had bitten into his flesh. He was enduring this kind of sharp pricking when
he got into the carriage and went to find Thérèse and take her to the town hall and the church.
On the way, he picked up an employee of the Orléans Railway and Old Michaud, who were to be
his witnesses. When they got to the shop, everyone was ready: Grivet and Olivier were there as
Thérèse’s witnesses, and Suzanne, all three of them looking at the bride in the way that little girls
look at the dolls they have just dressed. Mme Raquin, though she could no longer walk, wanted to go
everywhere with her children. They lifted her into a carriage and set off.
Everything went off decently at the town hall and the church. People noticed and approved of the
couple’s calm and modest demeanour. They spoke the sacramental ‘yes’ with such feeling that even
Grivet was touched. They felt as though they were in a dream. While they stayed quietly sitting or
kneeling side by side, wild thoughts were raging through them and tearing them apart. They avoided
looking each other in the eye. When they got back into the carriage, they felt more like strangers
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towards one another than they had before.
It had been decided that the dinner would be a family affair, in a little restaurant on the hills of
Belleville.1 The Michauds and Grivet were the only guests. While waiting for six o’clock, the
wedding party drove along the boulevards before getting into the eating-house, where a table with
seven places had been laid in a yellow-painted room smelling of dust and wine.
The meal was not the jolliest of occasions. The couple were serious and thoughtful. Since that
morning, they had been experiencing odd feelings, which they did not try to explain even to
themselves. They had been stunned, from the beginning, by the speed of the formalities and of the
service that had just united them for ever. Then the long drive along the boulevards had, as it were,
rocked them to sleep. They felt that it had lasted for months on end. They had patiently let themselves
be carried away by the monotony of the streets, looking at the shops and the passers-by with dead
eyes, in the grip of a lethargy which dazed them, though they tried to shake it off with bursts of
laughter. When they came into the restaurant, a crushing weariness weighed them down and they were
overcome with a growing sense of torpor.
Seated opposite one another at table, they smiled awkwardly and kept sinking back into a state of
pensive preoccupation. They ate, answered questions and moved like automata. The same succession
of fleeting thoughts kept returning constantly to both their weary minds. They were married, but they
were profoundly astonished to find that they had no awareness of anything new. They felt that a huge
gulf still separated them and from time to time they wondered how they could cross this gulf. It
seemed as though they were back before the murder, when a material obstacle stood between them.
Then suddenly they remembered that they would sleep together that evening, in a few hours, and they
looked at one another in amazement, not understanding they would be allowed to do that. They did not
feel any union between them. On the contrary, they imagined that they had just been violently pulled
apart and cast far away from each other.
The guests, giggling stupidly around them, wanted to hear them exchange intimacies, say ‘tu’ to
each other, clear away any embarrassment; but they stammered and blushed and could not manage to
behave as lovers towards one another in front of other people.
In the wait, their desires had worn out and all the past had vanished. They were losing their
violent, lustful hunger and even forgetting their joy the same morning, the deep joy that had overtaken
them both at the idea that from now on they would no longer be afraid. They were simply weary and
stunned by everything that had happened; the events of the day were going round and round in their
heads, monstrous and incomprehensible. There they were, silent, smiling, expecting nothing, hoping
for nothing. A dull, anxious pain stirred in the depths of their despondency.
And Laurent, every time he moved his head, felt a sharp, burning sensation eating into his flesh: his
detachable collar was pinching and cutting into Camille’s bite. While the Mayor was reading out the
Code2 and while the priest was speaking about God, throughout this long day, he had felt the drowned
man’s teeth digging into his flesh. At times, he felt as though a trail of blood would run down on to his
chest and stain his white waistcoat red.
In herself, Mme Raquin felt grateful to the couple for their solemnity: the poor mother would have
been hurt by a loud demonstration of happiness. To her mind, her son was there, invisible, entrusting
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Thérèse to Laurent. Grivet did not feel the same. He thought the wedding a bit sad and tried to cheer it
up, despite the looks he got from Michaud and Olivier, which pinned him to his chair every time he
made as though to get on his feet and say something idiotic. However, he did manage to get up once,
to propose a toast.
‘I drink to the children of the bride and groom,’ he said, in a suggestive tone of voice.
They had to clink their glasses. Thérèse and Laurent had gone very pale when they heard Grivet’s
toast. It had not occurred to them that they might have children. The idea shot through them like an icy
shiver. They touched their glasses nervously and looked at one another in surprise, fearful at being
there, face to face.
The company left the table early. The guests wanted to accompany the couple as far as the bridal
chamber. It was barely half past nine when the wedding party came back to the shop in the arcade.
The woman who sold costume jewellery was still sitting in her cubbyhole behind the tray lined with
blue velvet. Out of curiosity, she raised her head and looked at the newlyweds with a smile. They
caught the look and were terrified. What if the old woman knew about their meetings, in the old days,
and had seen Laurent slipping into the little alleyway?
Thérèse went upstairs almost immediately, with Mme Raquin and Suzanne. The men stayed in the
dining room while the bride got ready for bed. Laurent, limp and exhausted, felt not the slightest
impatience; he listened indulgently to the crude jokes made by Old Michaud and Grivet, who told
them without restraint now that the ladies were no longer present. When Suzanne and Mme Raquin
came out of the nuptial chamber and the old haberdasher told him, in a trembling voice, that his bride
was waiting for him, he shuddered and stayed for a moment in a state of terror. Then he feverishly
shook the hands that they held out to him and went in to Thérèse, supporting himself on the doorway,
like a drunken man.
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XXI
Laurent carefully closed the door behind him and remained for a moment leaning against it, looking
into the room with an uneasy, embarrassed manner.
A bright fire was blazing in the grate, casting large patches of yellow light that danced on the
ceiling and the walls, so that the room was lit by a bright, flickering light in which the lamp, standing
on a table, paled by comparison. Mme Raquin had tried to arrange the room prettily, all white and
perfumed, to make a nest for these fresh, young lovers. She had taken a particular pleasure in adding
some bits of lace to the bedclothes and putting large bunches of roses in the vases on the mantelpiece.
Gentle warmth and sweet fragrances hung about the room, where the atmosphere was serene and
peaceful, bathed in a sort of drowsy voluptuousness. The simmering calm was broken only by the
little dry crackling of the fire in the hearth. It was like a fortunate oasis, a forgotten corner, warm and
sweet-smelling, shut off from all extraneous noise, one of those corners designed for sensuality and to
satisfy the needs of the mystery of passionate love.
Thérèse was sitting on a low chair, to the right of the chimney. With her chin on her hand, she was
staring hard at the flames. She did not look round when Laurent came in. In her lace-trimmed petticoat
and bodice, she was a harsh white against the burning light of the fire. Her bodice had slipped and
part of her shoulder was visible, pink and half hidden by a lock of black hair.
Laurent made a few steps into the room without speaking. He took off his coat and waistcoat. When
he was in his shirt-sleeves, he looked again at Thérèse, who had not moved. He appeared to hesitate.
Then he saw the shoulder and bent over, trembling, to put his lips against this piece of naked flesh.
The young woman moved her shoulder away, turning around sharply. She gave Laurent such a strange
look of repulsion and panic that he shrank back, worried and uneasy, as though overtaken himself by
terror and disgust.
He sat down opposite Thérèse on the other side of the hearth. They stayed there in silence, not
moving, for five long minutes. From time to time, a reddish flame would spurt out of the wood and
reflections, the colour of blood, played over the murderers’ faces.
It was almost two years since the lovers had found themselves alone in the same room, with no one
watching, able to give themselves freely to one another. They had not had an amorous meeting since
the day when Thérèse came to the Rue Saint-Victor, bringing Laurent the idea of murder with her.
Caution had kept their flesh apart, and they had barely risked an occasional clasp of the hand or a
furtive kiss. After Camille’s murder, when they once more felt desire for one another, they had
restrained themselves, waiting for the wedding night and the promise of wild passion when they were
safe from punishment. And now, at last, the wedding night had arrived and they were left face to face,
anxious and troubled by a sudden feeling of uncertainty. They had only to reach out and clasp one
another in a passionate embrace; yet their arms were weak, as though already weary and satiated with
love. They felt increasingly weighed down with the pressures of the day. They looked at one another
without desire, with timid embarrassment, pained at their own silence and frigidity. Their ardent
dreams were ending in a strange reality: it was enough for them to have succeeded in killing Camille
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and marrying one another, it was enough for Laurent’s mouth to have brushed against Thérèse’s
shoulder, for their lust to be sated to the point of disgust and horror.
They began to search desperately in themselves for a little of the passion that had consumed them
before. They felt as though their skin was empty of muscles and empty of nerves. Their anxiety and
embarrassment grew; they felt ashamed of remaining silent and sad in each other’s presence. They
longed to find the strength to grasp one another in a crushing embrace, so that they would not have to
consider themselves idiots. What! They belonged together! They had killed a man and acted out a
frightful piece of play-acting so that they could wallow with impunity in constant gratification of their
senses; yet here they were, on either side of the fireplace, rigid, exhausted, their minds troubled and
their bodies dead. This outcome struck them as a horrid, cruel farce. So Laurent tried to speak about
love, to evoke memories of former times, calling on his imagination to revive his feelings of desire.
‘Therese,’ he said, leaning towards her, ‘do you remember our afternoons in this room? I would
come through that door … Today, I came through the other one. We are free, we can love one another
in peace.’
His voice was weak and hesitant. The young woman, crouching on the low chair, kept looking at
the flames, thoughtfully, without listening. Laurent went on:
‘Do you remember? I had this dream: I wanted to spend a whole night with you, to fall asleep in
your arms and to wake up the next morning to your kisses. I am going to accomplish that dream.’
Thérèse started, as though surprised to hear a voice muttering in her ear. She looked up at Laurent,
whose face at that moment was lit up by a broad, reddish glow from the fire. She looked at this
blood-stained face and shuddered.
The young man went on, more uneasy and more anxious:
‘We’ve managed it, Thérèse, we’ve overcome all the obstacles and we belong to one another …
The future is ours, isn’t it? A future of quiet happiness and satisfied love … Camille is gone …’
Laurent paused, his throat dry, choking, unable to continue. Camille’s name had been like a blow in
the stomach for Thérèse. The two murderers looked at each other, pale, haggard and shaking. The
yellow light from the fire was still flickering on the walls and ceiling, the warm scent of roses hung in
the air and the crackling of the firewood broke the silence with its dry little sounds.
Their memories were unleashed. Once Camille’s ghost had been raised, he came to sit between the
two newlyweds, opposite the blazing fire. Thérèse and Laurent could sense the cold, damp smell of
the drowned man in the hot air that they breathed. They felt that there was a corpse beside them and
they looked carefully at each other without daring to move. And now the whole dreadful story of their
crime unfolded in their minds. The victim’s name was enough to fill them with the past and force them
to relive the horror of the killing. They looked at one another without opening their mouths, both
having the same nightmare, at the same time, and both reading the same cruel story in each other’s
eyes. This terrified exchange of looks, and the silent account of the murder that they were about to
give each other, caused them a feeling of acute, intolerable apprehension. Their fraught nerves
threatened to break: they might easily cry out or even come to blows. To drive the memories away,
Laurent violently subdued the horrified fascination that held him in the grasp of Thérèse’s eyes and
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walked a few steps around the room. He took off his boots and put on some slippers. Then he came
back and sat beside the fire, trying to talk about things of no importance.
Thérèse understood what he wanted. She made an effort to answer his questions. They chatted
about this and that. They forced themselves to make idle conversation. Laurent said it was hot in the
room; Thérèse replied that there was, however, a draught coming under the little door to the staircase.
And they suddenly turned towards the little door with a shudder. The man quickly started to talk about
the roses, the fire, anything he could see. The young woman made an effort, answering in
monosyllables, so as not to let the conversation flag. They had drawn away from one another, trying
to forget who they were and to treat each other as strangers brought together by chance.
Yet, despite themselves, by some strange phenomenon, even while they were speaking these empty
words, each of them guessed the thoughts that the other was concealing beneath these commonplaces.
They could not stop thinking about Camille. Their eyes carried on with the story of the past and their
looks held a coherent, silent conversation beneath the aimlessly wandering one that they were
speaking aloud. The words that they randomly uttered did not hang together, but contradicted
themselves; their whole beings were concentrated on the silent exchange of memories. When Laurent
spoke about the roses or the fire, of one thing or another, Thérèse perfectly well understood that he
was reminding her of the struggle in the boat and the dull thud as Camille hit the water; and when
Thérèse replied ‘yes’ or ‘no’ to some insignificant question, Laurent realized that she was telling him
that she did, or did not, recall some detail of the crime. So they talked, unreservedly, without needing
words, while speaking of something else. And since, in any case, they were not aware of the words
that they were speaking, they followed their secret thoughts, sentence by sentence, and could easily
have switched to telling their secret thoughts out loud, without ceasing to understand one another. Bit
by bit, this sort of divination, and the persistence with which their memories constantly presented
them with the image of Camille, started to drive them mad. They realized that they were following
each other’s thoughts, and that if they did not stop, the words would come of their own accord into
their mouths and name the drowned man and describe the murder. So they clenched their teeth and
ceased their conversation.
In the heavy silence that followed, the two murderers kept on discussing their victim. It seemed to
them that their looks were penetrating each other’s flesh and driving in sharp, clear statements. At
times, they thought they could hear one another speaking aloud; their senses were distorted and sight
became a kind of hearing, strange and fine; so clearly could they read their thoughts on the other’s
face, that these thoughts acquired a strange, resonant sound that shook their whole bodies. They could
not have heard one another more clearly had they each screamed in a deafening voice: ‘We killed
Camille and his corpse is lying there between us, turning our limbs to ice.’ And their frightful
confession continued, ever more visible, ever more resounding, in the calm, damp air of the room.
Laurent and Thérèse had begun the silent story on the day of their first meeting in the shop. Then the
memories came one by one, in chronological order: they told each other about the hours of pleasure,
the moments of uncertainty and anger, and the dreadful instant of the murder. This is when they
clenched their teeth and stopped talking about trivial matters, through fear of suddenly naming
Camille without wanting to. But their thoughts did not stop, taking them afterwards into the anxiety
and the fearful time of waiting that followed the murder. So it was that they came to think of the
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drowned man’s body lying on a slab in the Morgue. In his look, Laurent told Thérèse about his horror
and Thérèse, driven to the limit, forced by some iron hand to open her lips, suddenly continued the
conversation aloud:
‘Did you see him in the Morgue?’ she asked Laurent, without naming Camille.
Laurent seemed to be expecting the question. He had read it a moment earlier on the young
woman’s white face.
‘Yes,’ he replied, in a choked voice.
The murderers shuddered. They drew closer to the fire and reached out their hands towards the
flame, as though an icy draught had suddenly passed through the warm room. They stayed there for a
moment in silence, crouching, curled up. Then Thérèse went on softly:
‘Did he seem to have suffered a lot?’
Laurent could not reply. He made a horrified gesture, as though putting aside some ghastly vision.
He got up, went over to the bed, them came back wildly, walking towards Thérèse with his arms
open.
‘Kiss me,’ he said, offering her his neck.
Thérèse had got up, looking pale1 in her nightclothes. She was leaning back, with one elbow
resting on the marble mantelpiece. She looked at Laurent’s neck. She had just noticed a pink patch on
the white skin. A rush of blood to his head made the patch larger and coloured it a fiery red.
‘Kiss me, kiss me,’ Laurent repeated, his face and neck burning.
The young woman bent her head further back, to avoid his kiss, and, putting the end of one finger on
Camille’s bite, asked her husband:
‘What’s this? I didn’t know you had a scar there.’
Laurent felt as though Thérèse’s finger was making a hole in his throat. As it touched him, he
quickly started back, with a soft cry of pain.
‘That …’ he stammered. ‘That…’
He hesitated, but could not lie and told her the truth in spite of himself.
‘Camille bit me, you know, in the boat. It’s nothing, it’s healed … Kiss me, kiss me.’
The wretch held out his burning neck. He wanted Thérèse to kiss him on the scar, counting on the
woman’s kiss to calm the thousand stings piercing his flesh. With his chin up, advancing his neck, he
offered himself. Thérèse, almost lying back on the mantelpiece, made a gesture of extreme distaste
and exclaimed in a pleading voice:
‘Oh, no! Not there! There’s blood on it.’
She fell back into the low chair, trembling and holding her head in her hands. Laurent was stunned.
He lowered his chin and looked vaguely at Thérèse. Then, suddenly, he grasped her head in his large
hands with the ferocity of a wild animal and pressed her lips against his neck, on Camille’s bite. For
a moment, he kept the woman’s head crushed against him. Thérèse did not struggle, but gave dull
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cries, stifling against Laurent’s neck. When she could get away from his grip, she wiped her mouth
savagely and spat into the fireplace. She had not spoken a word.
Ashamed at his brutality, Laurent began to walk slowly, between the bed and the window. Only the
pain, the horrible smarting pain, had made him demand a kiss from Thérèse, and when Thérèse’s lips
had proved to be cold against his burning scar, he suffered even more. This kiss, obtained by
violence, had broken him. The shock had been so painful that nothing in the world would have made
him want another of the same. And he looked at the wife with whom he would have to live, who was
shuddering, bent over the fire, with her back turned towards him. He kept thinking that he no longer
loved this woman and that she no longer loved him. For almost an hour, Thérèse stayed slumped in
her chair while Laurent walked backwards and forwards, in silence. Each of them was admitting, in
terror, that their passion had died, that they had killed their desire for one another when they killed
Camille. The fire gently died down and a great, pink mass of embers glowed in the grate. Little by
little, the heat in the room had become suffocating and the flowers were fading, weighing on the thick
air with their heavy scents.
Suddenly, Laurent thought he experienced a hallucination. As he was turning to go from the window
back to the bed, he saw Camille, in a corner plunged in shadow between the fireplace and the
wardrobe. His victim’s face was greenish in colour and convulsed, as it had been on the slab in the
Morgue. He stayed, rooted to the spot, faint and supporting himself on a piece of furniture. Hearing
his dull moan, Thérèse looked up.
‘There!’ Laurent said in a terrified voice. ‘There!’
He stretched out his hand, pointing to the dark corner in which he could see Camille’s sinister face.
Thérèse, seized with the same terror, came over and pressed herself to him.
‘It’s his portrait,’ she muttered, in a whisper, as though the painted face of her husband could hear
what she was saying.
‘His portrait?’ Laurent said, his hair standing on end.
‘Yes, you know, the painting you did. My aunt was going to have it in her room from today. She
must have forgotten to take it down.’
‘Of course, his portrait …’
For a time, the murderer did not recognize the picture. He was so disturbed by it that he forgot that
he had himself drawn the clumsy outlines of those features and filled in the dirty colours that now
appalled him. Terror made him see the canvas as it really was: crude, badly composed and muddy,
showing the grimacing face of a corpse against its black background. His work astonished him and
crushed him with its atrocious ugliness. Worst of all were the two white eyes swimming in their soft,
yellowish sockets, which precisely reminded him of the decaying eyes of the drowned man in the
Morgue. For a moment, he could not catch his breath, thinking that Thérèse was lying to reassure him.
Then he made out the frame and became a little calmer.
‘Go and take him down,’ he said softly to the young woman.
‘No, no! I’m too afraid!’ she replied, shuddering.
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Laurent himself started to shake again. At times, the frame vanished and all he could see were the
two white eyes staring hard at him.
‘I beg you,’ he said again, imploring her. ‘Go and take him down.’
‘No, no!’
‘We’ll turn him to the wall and then we won’t be afraid.’
‘No, I can’t do it.’
The murderer, cowardly and grovelling, pushed the young woman towards the picture, hiding
behind her so as to escape the drowned man’s gaze. She dodged away and he decided to take the
plunge: he went over to the painting and reached up, feeling for the nail. But the look of the portrait
was so devastating, so foul and so unremitting, that Laurent, after trying to outstare it, had to admit
defeat and shrank back, muttering: ‘No, Thérèse, you’re right. We can’t do it … Your aunt will take it
down tomorrow.’
He went back to walking up and down, hanging his head and feeling that the portrait was watching
him, following him with its eyes. From time to time, he could not resist taking a look towards it, and
then, in the depths of the shadow, he would still see the dead, flat stare of the drowned man. The
thought that Camille was there, in a corner, keeping an eye on him, and present on his wedding night,
examining the two of them, Thérèse and himself, made Laurent completely mad with terror and
despair.
One event, which would have brought a smile to anyone else’s lips, drove him entirely out of his
mind. When he was in front of the fireplace, he heard a sort of scratching noise. The blood drained
from his face: he thought that the scratching was coming from the portrait and that Camille was getting
down out of his frame. Then he realized that the noise was coming from the little door leading to the
staircase. He looked at Thérèse, who was again seized by fear.
‘There’s someone on the stairs,’ he murmured. ‘Who can be coming through there?’
The young woman said nothing. Both of them were thinking about the drowned man and an icy
sweat broke out on their brows. They fled to the back of the room, expecting to see the door open
suddenly and the corpse of Camille fall through it on to the floor. The noise continued, sharper and
less regular, so that it seemed to them that their victim was scratching at the wood with his
fingernails, trying to get in. For more than five minutes, they did not dare move. Finally, there was a
miaow. Laurent went across and saw Mme Raquin’s tabby cat, which had been shut into the bedroom
by mistake and was trying to get out by scraping the little door with its claws. François was afraid of
Laurent. In a bound, he leaped on to a chair, then, his hair on end and paws stiff, he gave his new
master a hard, cruel stare. The young man did not like cats and François almost scared him. In this
moment of fear and anguish, he thought the cat was going to leap at his face, to avenge Camille. The
creature must know everything: there were thoughts behind those round, oddly dilated eyes. Laurent
looked down, away from this animal’s stare. He was about to give François a kick, when Thérèse
shouted:
‘Don’t hurt him!’
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Her cry gave him an odd feeling and a ridiculous idea came into his head:
‘Camille has entered into the cat,’ he thought. ‘I must kill this animal. It looks human.’
He did not kick it, afraid that François would speak to him with Camille’s voice. Then he
remembered how Thérèse had joked, when they were lovers and the cat had seen them kissing; so it
occurred to him that the cat knew too much and had to be thrown out of the window. But he did not
have the courage to carry this through. Franqois was still in an aggressive posture: with his claws out
and his back arched by some vague annoyance, it was following its enemy’s slightest movement with
proud imperturbability. Laurent was upset by the metallic shine of its eyes. He hastily opened the
dining-room door and the cat ran out with a sharp miaow.
Thérèse had sat down again in front of the dead fire. Laurent resumed his pacing from the bed to the
window. And that is how they waited for daylight. They did not think to go to bed together: their flesh
and their hearts were quite dead. They had only one desire: to get out of this room that was stifling
them. They had a real sense of unease at being shut in together, breathing the same air. They would
have liked to have someone else there, to interrupt their tête-à-tête and free them from the cruelly
embarrassing situation of being together without speaking and unable to revive their passion for each
other. The long silences tortured them, silences full of bitter, desperate sighs and unspoken
accusations that they could clearly hear in the still air.
At last, day came, dirty, whitish, bringing a biting cold.
When the room was filled with pale light, Laurent shivered, but felt calmer. He looked straight at
Camille’s portrait and saw it for what it was, ordinary, childish. With a shrug, he took it down,
calling himself an idiot. Thérèse had got up and was undoing the bed, to deceive her aunt and make
her think they had spent a joyful night together.
‘Now then,’ Laurent said roughly. ‘I hope we’re going to get some sleep tonight. This childishness
can’t continue.’
Thérèse gave him a serious, penetrating look.
‘You understand?’ he went on. ‘I didn’t get married so that I would have sleepless nights. We’re
behaving like children. It was you who upset me, with your supernatural airs. Tonight, try to be jolly
and not to put the wind up me.’
He forced a laugh, without knowing why he was laughing.
‘I’ll try,’ Thérèse said, in a dull voice.
That is how Thérèse and Laurent spent their wedding night.
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XXII
The following nights were even more anguished. The murderers had wanted to be together at night, to
ward off the drowned man; yet, by some strange effect, since being together they had feared him even
more. They exasperated one another, they got on each other’s nerves, they suffered ghastly crises of
terror and agony when they exchanged a simple word or a look. At the merest conversation, the
slightest private exchange between them, they saw red, they flew into a rage.
Thérèse’s dry, nervous character had reacted in an odd way with the stolid, sanguine character of
Laurent. Previously, in the days of their passion, this contrast in temperament had made this man and
woman into a powerfully linked couple by establishing a sort of balance between them and, so to
speak, complementing their organisms. The lover contributed his blood and the mistress her nerves,
and so they lived in one another, each needing the other’s kisses to regulate the mechanism of their
being. But the equilibrium had been disturbed and Thérèse’s over-excited nerves had taken control.
Suddenly, Laurent found himself plunged into a state of nervous erethism;1 under the influence of her
fervent nature, his own temperament had gradually become that of a girl suffering from an acute
neurosis. It would be interesting to study the changes that are sometimes produced in certain
organisms as a result of particular circumstances. These changes, which derive from the flesh, are
rapidly communicated to the brain and to the entire being.
Before knowing Thérèse, Laurent had the ponderousness, the prudent calm and sanguine outlook of
a peasant’s son. He slept, ate and drank like an animal. At every moment, in every circumstance of his
daily life, he breathed easily and placidly, content with himself and somewhat dulled by his own
bulk. Hardly at all did he feel the occasional stirring in the depths of his stolid flesh. But Thérèse had
developed those stirrings into frightful shudders. In this great body, soft and flabby, she had nurtured a
nervous system of astonishing sensibility. Laurent had formerly enjoyed life through his blood rather
than his nerves; now his senses became less crude. At his mistress’s first kiss, he had suddenly been
made aware of a life of the emotions that was quite new and moving for him. This life increased his
sensual pleasure tenfold and gave such an intense nature to his joy that at first he was made virtually
mad by it, and abandoned himself wildly to extremes of intoxication that his sanguine temperament
had never given him. Then, he underwent a strange internal process: his nerves developed and came
to dominate the sanguine element in him, this fact by itself changing his character. He lost his calm
and his heaviness, no longer living a half-awake existence. A time came when the nerves and the
blood balanced each other out, and this was a profoundly pleasurable moment, a time of perfect
living.2 Then the nerves dominated and he fell into the paroxysms that rack unbalanced minds and
bodies.
That is why Laurent came to shudder at the sight of a dark corner, like a timorous child. This new
person, the shivering, haggard being that had just emerged in him out of the thick, brutish peasant,
experienced the fears and anxieties of those of nervous temperament. A whole series of events –
Therese’s passionate caresses, the feverish drama of the murder and the fearful expectation of sensual
pleasure – had driven him more or less insane, keying up his senses and striking his nerves with
sudden and repeated blows. Then, inevitably, insomnia had come, bringing with it hallucinations.
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From then on, Laurent had lapsed into the intolerable existence and endless horror in which he was
now entrapped.
His remorse was purely physical.3 Only his body, his tense nerves and his trembling flesh were
afraid of the drowned man. His conscience played no part in his terror: he did not in the slightest
regret having killed Camille. When he was feeling calm and the ghost was not there, he would have
committed the murder all over again, if he had thought that his interests demanded it. In the daytime,
he recovered from his terror, promised himself that he would be strong and upbraided Thérèse,
accusing her of upsetting him. In his view, Thérèse was the one who was scared and it was Thérèse
alone who caused the dreadful scenes at night in the bedroom. As soon as night fell, as soon as he
was shut in with his wife, he came out in a cold sweat and childish terrors assailed him. In this way,
he went through periodic crises, nervous attacks that returned every evening and deranged his senses
by showing him the grotesque green face of his victim. It was like the onset of a terrifying disease, a
sort of hysteria4 of murder: the words ‘illness’ and ‘nervous affliction’ were really the only ones that
could properly describe Laurent’s fears. His face became contorted and his limbs stiffened: you
could see that his nerves were tensing inside. His physical suffering was frightful, but the soul
remained absent. The wretch did not feel a shred of remorse. His passion for Thérèse had infected
him with a dreadful malady, that’s all.
Thérèse, too, was deeply disturbed, but in her it was simply that her original temperament had been
greatly over-stimulated. Since the age of ten, she had suffered from nervous disorders, partly as a
result of the manner in which she had grown up in the over-heated, nauseous air of little Camille’s
sick room. Stormy rages and powerful fluids accumulated within her and were later to erupt as
uncontrollable tempests. Laurent had been for her what she was for Laurent: a kind of violent shock.
From their first love-making, her dry, sensual temperament had developed with savage energy; from
then on, she lived only for passion and, increasingly abandoning herself to the ardent fevers within
her, she arrived at a state of unhealthy stupor. She was overwhelmed by events and driven towards
madness. In her terror, she reacted in a more womanly way than her new husband. She had vague
feelings of remorse and unadmitted regrets. At times, she felt like falling on her knees and pleading
with Camille’s ghost, imploring his pity and swearing to appease him with her repentance. Laurent
may have noticed these moments of weakness in Thérèse. When they were seized with a common
terror, he turned on her and treated her savagely.
For the first few nights, they could not go to bed. They waited for daylight, sitting in front of the fire
or walking backwards and forwards, as on their wedding night. They felt a kind of terrified
repugnance at the idea of lying side by side on the bed. By tacit agreement, they avoided kissing and
did not even look at the bedclothes, which Thérèse undid in the morning. When tiredness overcame
them, they fell asleep for an hour or two in armchairs, only to wake up with a start, aroused by the
sinister unfolding of some nightmare. When they did wake up, their limbs stiff and aching, with livid
blotches on their faces, shivering with discomfort and cold, they would look at one another with
amazement, astonished to see the other there and suffering a strange embarrassment towards each
other, ashamed to show their disgust and terror.
In any case, they struggled against sleep as much as they could. They sat on either side of the
fireplace and chatted about this or that, being careful to avoid letting the conversation lapse. There
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was a wide space between them, opposite the fire. When they turned round, they imagined that
Camille had drawn up a chair and was occupying this space, warming his feet with lugubrious
derision. The vision that they had had on the wedding night returned every night from then on. This
corpse, silent and mocking, who listened in on their discussions, this horribly disfigured corpse, ever
present, overwhelmed them with continual feelings of anxiety. They dared not budge, they blinded
themselves with staring into the blazing hearth and, when they could no longer resist casting a fearful
glance to the side, their eyes, irritated by the burning coals, created the apparition and bathed it in a
reddish light.
Eventually, Laurent refused to sit down, though he did not tell Thérèse why. She realized that this
behaviour meant that Laurent must be seeing Camille, as she was, so she announced in her turn that the
heat was painful and that she would be better off a short distance away from the fireplace. She pushed
her chair over to the foot of the bed and slumped down in it there, while her husband resumed his
marching up and down. At times, he would open the window and let the cold January night fill the
room with its icy breath. It brought his fever down.
For a week, the newlyweds spent all night in this way. They dozed off, catching a bit of rest during
the day, Thérèse behind the shop counter and Laurent at his desk. At night, they were a prey to pain
and fear. And the oddest thing yet was their attitude towards one another. They did not speak a single
loving word, they pretended to have forgotten the past, appearing to accept and tolerate each other,
like sick people feeling a secret pity for their shared miseries. Both of them hoped to hide their
disgust and fear, and neither of the pair seemed to find anything strange in the way they spent their
nights, which should have enlightened them about the true state of their minds. When they stayed up
until morning, barely speaking to each other and blanching at the slightest sound, they acted as though
they imagined this was how all newlyweds behaved in the first days of marriage: it was the clumsy
hypocrisy of a couple of mad people.
Soon tiredness overcame them to such an extent that, one evening, they decided to lie down on the
bed. They did not get undressed, but threw themselves fully clothed on the quilt, fearful that they might
touch one another’s bare skin. It seemed to them that they would get a painful shock from the slightest
contact. Then, when they had dozed off like that for two nights in a restless sleep, they risked taking
off their clothes and slipping between the sheets. But they stayed far away from one another and were
careful not to touch by mistake. Thérèse went to bed first and got into the far side, against the wall.
Laurent waited until she was settled down, then carefully stretched himself out on the front of the bed,
right on the edge. There was a wide gap between them. This was where the body of Camille lay.
When the two murderers were under the same sheet and shut their eyes, they would imagine they
could feel the damp corpse of their victim spread out in the middle of the bed, sending a chill through
their flesh. It was like some grotesque barrier between them. They were seized by feverish delirium
and the barrier would become an actual one for them; they would touch the body, they would see it
lying like a greenish, rotten lump of meat and they would breathe in the repulsive odour of this heap
of human decay. All their senses shared in the hallucination, making their sensations unbearably acute.
The presence of this foul bedfellow would keep them motionless, silent and rigid with fear. At times,
Laurent would consider violently grasping Thérèse in his arms, but he dared not move, telling himself
that if he were to reach out an arm he would surely grasp a handful of Camille’s soft flesh. At that, he
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would imagine that the drowned man had just lain down between them, to prevent them from touching
one another. Eventually, he realized that Camille was jealous.
Occasionally, however, they would try to exchange a timid kiss to see what happened. The young
man would tease his wife, demanding that she kiss him. But their lips were so cold that death
appeared to have come between their mouths. They would feel nausea; Thérèse shuddered in horror
and Laurent, who could hear her teeth chatter, would lose his temper with her.
‘Why are you trembling?’ he would shout. ‘Are you afraid of Camille, then? Come on, the poor
fellow can’t feel his bones any longer.’
The pair of them avoided admitting the cause of their anxieties. When either of them imagined
seeing the drowned man’s pallid face before them, they would shut their eyes and enclose themselves
in terror, not daring to talk to the other about the vision, for fear of inducing a still more frightful
attack. When Laurent, driven to the end of his tether, accused Thérèse in a desperate fury of being
afraid of Camille, the name, spoken aloud, would make the horror more intense. The murderer would
lose his head.
‘Yes, yes,’ he spluttered, speaking to her. ‘You’re afraid of Camille … I can see that, for God’s
sake! You’re crazy, you don’t have an ounce of courage. Huh! You can sleep easy. Do you think your
first husband will come and pull your feet because I’m in bed with you?’
This idea, the suggestion that the drowned man might come and pull their feet, made Laurent’s hair
stand on end. He went on, still more savagely, tearing into himself.
‘I’ll have to take you to the cemetery one night. We’ll open Camille’s coffin and you’ll see what a
heap of rotten meat he is! Then perhaps you won’t be afraid of him any more … Come on, he doesn’t
know we pushed him in the water.’
Thérèse was moaning softly, with her head under the sheet.
‘We pushed him in the water because he was in our way,’ her husband went on. ‘And we’d do it
again, wouldn’t we? Don’t be such a baby. Be strong. It’s silly to let this get in the way of our
happiness. Don’t you see, dear, when we’re dead ourselves, we won’t be any more or less happy
under the ground because we chucked an idiot into the Seine, and will have been free to enjoy our
love, which is to our benefit … Come on, give me a kiss.’
The young woman kissed him, icy cold and frantic, and he was shivering as much as she was.
For more than a fortnight, Laurent wondered what he could do to kill Camille off again. He had
thrown the man in the water and still he was not sufficiently dead, but came back every night to lie at
Thérèse’s side. Even when the murderers thought they had completed the killing and could indulge the
sweet pleasures of their love, the victim would return to chill their marriage bed. Thérèse was not a
widow: Laurent found himself married to a wife who already had a drowned man as her husband.
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XXIII
Little by little, Laurent lapsed into raging madness. He determined to drive Camille out of his bed. At
first, he had gone to sleep fully clothed, then he avoided touching Thérèse. Finally, in a desperate
fury, he tried to clasp his wife to his breast and crush her rather than abandon her to his victim’s
ghost. It was a supreme gesture of brutal defiance.
In short, only the hope that Thérèse’s kisses would cure his insomnia had induced him to share a
bed with the young woman. And when he found himself in her bedroom, as the master, his flesh, rent
by still more frightful agonies, did not even consider trying the cure. For three weeks, he remained in
a state of apparent devastation, forgetting that he had done everything to possess Thérèse and, now
that he did possess her, being unable to touch her without increasing his agony.
The excess of his suffering brought him out of this numbness. In the first moment of stupor, in the
strange desperation of the wedding night, he had managed to overlook the reasons that had driven him
to marry. But with the repeated attacks of his bad dreams, he was invaded by a dull irritation that
overcame his cowardice and restored his memory. He recalled that he had married to drive away his
nightmares by clasping his wife tightly to him. So he seized Thérèse in his arms, one night, taking the
risk of crossing over the drowned man’s corpse, and dragged her violently towards him.
The young woman, too, was at the end of her tether. She would have flung herself into the flames if
she had thought that the flames would purify her flesh and deliver her from her distress. She
responded to Laurent’s grasp, deciding to burn in the caresses of this man or else to find solace in
them.
They locked into a frightful embrace. Pain and terror took the place of desire. When their limbs
touched, it seemed to them that they had fallen against burning coals. They gave a cry and pressed
more tightly together, so as to leave no place between their bodies for the drowned man. Yet they
could still feel Camille’s shredded flesh, foully squeezed between them, freezing their skin in places,
even while the rest of their bodies was burning.
Their kisses were fearfully cruel. Thérèse’s lips sought out Camille’s bite on Laurent’s stiff,
swollen neck and she fixed her mouth on it with savage passion. Here was the open wound; once this
was healed, the murderers could sleep easy. The young woman knew this, trying to cauterize the place
with the fire of her kisses. But her lips burned and Laurent pushed her away harshly, with a dull
moan: it felt to him as though a red-hot iron had been placed on his neck. Crazed, Thérèse persisted:
she wanted to kiss the scar again, feeling a bitter pleasure in putting her mouth against this skin in
which Camille’s teeth had sunk. For a moment, she thought of biting her husband on the spot,
removing a large piece of flesh and making a new, deeper wound which would take away the mark of
the old one. Then, she thought, she would no longer go pale if she saw the mark of her own teeth. But
Laurent protected his neck against her kisses. The wound smarted too much; he pushed her back each
time as she reached out her lips. And so they fought, groaning and struggling in the horror of their
embrace.
They realized that they were only increasing their own suffering. However much they exhausted
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themselves, frightfully grasping one another, they cried out with pain, they burned and bruised each
other, but they could not calm their shattered nerves. Every embrace served only to sharpen their
disgust. Even as they were exchanging these dreadful kisses, they were prey to a variety of
hallucinations: they imagined that the drowned man was pulling on their feet and violently shaking the
bed.
For a moment, they let go of one another. They were feeling insurmountable disgust and nervous
repulsion. Then, they were not willing to give in, so they clasped one another again in a further
embrace and were obliged once more to let go, as though red-hot pins had been stuck into their limbs.
In this way, they tried again and again to overcome their disgust and to forget everything by tiring
themselves out and exhausting their nerves. Yet every time their nerves were so on edge and so tense,
causing them such feelings of exasperation that they might perhaps have died of nervous exhaustion if
they had stayed in one another’s arms. This struggle against their own bodies had driven them to the
point of madness: they persisted obstinately, determined to overcome. Finally, a sharper crisis broke
them with a shock of unimagined violence, and they thought that they were about to collapse in an
epileptic fit.
Thrown back to the two sides of the bed, seared and bruised, they began to sob.
And in their sobs, it seemed to them that they could hear the triumphant laugh of the drowned man,
as he slid back beneath the sheets, sniggering. They had been unable to drive him out of the bed; they
were beaten. Camille was lying quietly between them, while Laurent wept at his impotence and
Thérèse shuddered to think that the corpse might get it into its mind to take advantage of its victory
and, in its turn, squeeze her in its rotting arms, as her legitimate master. They had made one final
effort and, faced with their defeat, they realized that from now on they would not dare to exchange a
single kiss. The paroxysm of passionate love that they had tried to reach in order to kill their fear had
now plunged them even more deeply into the pit of terror. As they felt the cold of the corpse that,
henceforth, would keep them for ever divided, they wept tears of blood and agonizingly wondered
what would become of them.
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XXIV
As Old Michaud had hoped when he engineered Thérèse’s marriage to Laurent, Thursday evenings
resumed, merry as in the old days, after the wedding. With Camille’s death, these soirees had been
seriously at risk. The guests had visited this house in mourning only with apprehension and every
week were afraid that they would finally be sent away for ever. Michaud and Grivet, who stuck to
their habits with the obstinacy of brutes, were appalled at the idea that the door of the shop would
eventually close upon them. They told themselves that the old mother and young widow would get up
one fine morning and take their grief back to Vernon or somewhere, with the result that, on Thursday
evenings, they would find themselves outside on the pavement with nothing to do: they imagined
themselves in the arcade, wandering about in a pitiful manner, dreaming of huge domino games. In
expectation of these bad days, they took themselves round to the shop with an anxious and
conciliatory air, constantly thinking that they might never come here again. For more than a year, they
knew this fear, not daring to let themselves have a laugh when confronted by Mme Raquin’s tears and
Thérèse’s silence. They no longer felt at home, as they had done in Camille’s day: it was as though
they were stealing every evening that they spent round the dining-room table. It was in these desperate
circumstances that Old Michaud’s selfishness drove him to the master-stroke of marrying off the
drowned man’s widow.
On the Thursday after the wedding, Grivet and Michaud made a triumphal entry. They had won.
The dining room belonged to them once more; they no longer feared that someone might drive them
away from it. They came in joyfully, they let themselves go, they told all their old jokes one after
another. You could see from their smug, confident manner that as far as they were concerned there had
just been a revolution. The memory of Camille had gone; the dead husband, that spectre who had
chilled them, had been expelled by the living husband. The past returned with all its pleasures.
Laurent was taking the place of Camille and there was no longer any reason to be sad: the guests
could laugh without upsetting anyone – and, indeed, they should laugh in order to spread joy in this
excellent family that was good enough to invite them. Henceforth, Grivet and Michaud, who had
ostensibly been coming here over the past eighteen months to console Mme Raquin, could put aside
this little hypocrisy and come openly so that they could fall asleep, one opposite the other, to the click
of dominoes.
Every week brought its Thursday evening and every week once again reunited around the table
these dead, grotesque heads that had once exasperated Thérèse. The young woman talked about
showing them the door; they irritated her with their bursts of silly laughter and their idiotic remarks.
But Laurent told her that it would be a mistake to do this. As far as possible, the present must seem
like the past; and, most of all, they had to keep friends with the police, those imbeciles who were
guarding them against suspicion. Thérèse capitulated, and the guests, welcomed in, were delighted to
contemplate a long series of warm evenings ahead of them.
It was around this time that the young couple started to lead a kind of double life.
In the morning, when the daylight drove away the terrors of the night, Laurent hastened to get
dressed. He did not feel at ease or recover his egotistical composure until he was sitting at the dining-
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room table in front of a huge bowl of milky coffee, which Thérèse made for him. Mme Raquin was
now such an invalid that she could hardly get down into the shop, but she would watch him eat with a
maternal smile on her face. He would gorge on toast, filling his stomach, and gradually regain his
self-assurance. After his coffee, he would drink a little glass of cognac. This finally completed the
process of restoration. He would say: ‘See you this evening,’ to Mme Raquin and Thérèse, without
ever kissing them, then stroll off to his office. Spring came and the trees beside the Seine were
covered with leaves — a light, pale-green lace. Down below the river ran with a caressing sound,
and up above the first rays of the sun were gentle and warm. Laurent felt revived by the cool air. He
took deep breaths of this young life in the skies of April and May. He looked up at the sun, stopped to
watch the silver reflections shimmering on the surface of the water, listened to the noises of the
quayside, let the sharp scents of morning sink into him and appreciated this clear, happy morning with
all his senses. He definitely did not think much about Camille, though sometimes he did happen to
glance mechanically across to the Morgue on the other side of the river, and would then remember the
drowned man in the way that a courageous one considers some foolish fright that he has had. With a
full stomach and a fresh, cool head, he lapsed back into his calmly stolid nature, reached his office
and spent the whole day there yawning, waiting for the time to leave. He became just a clerk like the
rest of them, dull and bored, with his head empty. The only idea he had at such moments was to hand
in his resignation and rent a studio; he would have vague dreams of a new life of idleness, which
were enough to keep his mind occupied until evening. Never was he troubled by any thought of the
shop in the arcade. In the evening, having waited since morning for it to be time to leave, he would be
reluctant to go out, full of his private worries and anxieties on his way along the embankment.
However slowly he walked, he would eventually have to return to the shop. And there terror awaited.
Thérèse had the same feelings. As long as Laurent was not with her, she felt all right. She had
dismissed the cleaning woman, saying that everything was dirty and left lying around in the shop and
the flat. She felt an urge to tidy up. The truth was that she needed to walk around, to do something, to
exhaust her stiffened limbs. She bustled around all morning, sweeping, dusting and cleaning the
bedrooms, washing the dishes and carrying out tasks that would previously have disgusted her. These
domestic duties kept her on her feet until noon, active and silent, leaving her no time to think of
anything except the cobwebs on the ceiling and the grease on the plates. Then she went into the
kitchen and prepared lunch. While they were eating, it grieved Mme Raquin to see her constantly
getting up to go and fetch the courses. She was touched and annoyed by her niece’s constant activity;
she would scold her and Thérèse answered that they had to save money. After the meal, the young
woman would get dressed and finally resign herself to joining her aunt behind the counter. There, she
would become drowsy. Exhausted by her sleepless nights, she would nod off, abandoning herself to
the delicious lethargy that overcame her as soon as she sat down. They were only light snoozes,
imbued with a kind of delight, which calmed her nerves. The thought of Camille vanished and she
experienced the deep rest of sick people whose pain is suddenly taken away. Her body felt relaxed
and her mind free: she lapsed into a sort of warm, healing oblivion. Without these few moments of
peace, her organism would have broken down under the pressure from her nervous system, but she
drew enough strength from them to suffer yet again and feel terror on the following night. In any case,
she did not fall asleep, hardly lowering her eyelids, lost in a dream of peace. When a customer came
in she would open her eyes and produce the few sous’ worth of goods requested, then drift back into
her vague reverie. She would spend three or four hours in this way, perfectly happy, replying to her
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aunt in monosyllables and taking a real delight in letting herself lapse into this state of
unconsciousness that took away thought and drew her back into herself. She would only very
occasionally cast a glance into the arcade, feeling most at ease when the weather was overcast, when
it was dark and when she hid her weariness in the shadows. The damp, mean arcade, traversed by a
population of poor, wet devils whose umbrellas dripped on the paving, seemed to her like the
passage into some place of ill-repute, a kind of sinister, dirty corridor where no one would come and
look for her or bother her. At times, seeing the murky glows around her and smelling the acrid scent
of damp, she imagined that she had been buried alive and thought she was in the earth at the bottom of
a communal grave, with the dead milling around her. The idea calmed her and consoled her. She told
herself that she was safe now, that she would die and not suffer any longer. At other times, she had to
keep her eyes open: Suzanne would visit and stay sewing beside the counter all afternoon. Thérèse
now liked the company of Olivier’s wife, with her soft face and slow gestures; she felt a strange
sense of relief looking at this poor, disconnected creature. She had made a friend of her and liked
having her by her side, smiling a pale smile and only half alive, bringing a faint graveyard odour into
the shop. When Suzanne’s blue eyes, with their glassy transparency, stared into hers, Thérèse felt a
beneficial chill in the marrow of her bones. She would stay like that for four hours. Then she would
go back to the kitchen and try to tire herself out again, making Laurent his dinner with feverish haste.
And when her husband appeared in the doorway, her throat tightened and a feeling of anxiety once
more wrenched her whole being.
Every day, the couple experienced more or less the same feelings. In the daytime, when they were
not face to face with one another, they enjoyed delightful hours of rest, but in the evening, when they
were together again, a piercing sense of disquiet swept through them.
Their evenings, however, were quiet. Thérèse and Laurent, who shuddered at the idea of going
back to their room, delayed going to bed for as long as possible. Mme Raquin, half recumbent at the
back of a wide armchair, sat between them and chatted in her placid tones. She would tell them about
Vernon, always thinking about her son, but not naming him, out of a sense that it would somehow be
indecent to do so. She would smile at her dear children and make plans for their future. The lamp cast
a pale light over her white face and her words took on an extraordinary softness in the still, silent air.
And, on either side of her, the two murderers, not speaking or moving, seemed to be listening to her
devoutly. In fact, they would not seek to follow the meaning of the good old woman’s prattling; they
were just happy at this soft sound of words, which prevented them from hearing the roar of their own
thoughts. They did not dare look at one another; they would look at Mme Raquin, so as to keep a good
face. They never spoke about going to bed and would have stayed there until morning, caressed by the
flow of chatter from the old haberdasher, in the tranquillity that she created around her, if she herself
had not expressed a wish to retire. Only then would they leave the dining room and return to their
room in despair, like people hurling themselves into a chasm.
They very soon came to prefer the Thursday sessions to these intimate evenings. When they were
alone with Mme Raquin, they could not deafen themselves. The slender thread of their aunt’s voice
and her tender merriment did not stifle the cries tearing them apart. They felt bedtime approaching and
shuddered when they happened to glance towards the door of their room. Waiting for the moment
when they would be alone became more and more painful as the evening progressed. On Thursdays,
on the other hand, they were intoxicated by idiocies and forgot about each other’s presence, so they
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suffered less. Even Thérèse came eventually to long for these days when they had guests. If Michaud
and Grivet had not come, she would have gone to look for them. When there were strangers in the
dining room, between her and Laurent, she felt calmer; she would have liked there to be guests
always; and noise: something that would stun and isolate her. With other people, she exhibited a sort
of nervous merriment. Laurent, too, reverted to his coarse peasant jokes, his belly laughs and his art
student’s tricks. Never had their gatherings been so jolly or so noisy.
That is how, once a week, Laurent and Thérèse managed to remain in each other’s company
without a shudder.
Soon they had a new cause for anxiety. Mme Raquin was gradually being overtaken by paralysis
and they could foresee the day when she would be tied to her chair, physically and mentally
incapable. The poor old woman was starting to mutter phrases that were not connected to one another,
her voice was growing weaker and her limbs were failing one by one. She was turning into a thing.
Thérèse and Laurent were horrified to see the vanishing of this person who, for the time being, was
keeping them apart and whose voice roused them from their nightmares. When the old haberdasher
had lost all understanding, when she was left dumb and stiff in her chair, they would be alone. In the
evening, they would no longer be able to escape from an intimacy that they dreaded. In that case, their
terror would start at six o’clock, instead of starting at midnight. They would go mad.
They devoted themselves entirely to preserving the health of Mme Raquin, which was so precious
to them. They called in doctors, they attended to her slightest need and they even found that the job of
sick-nurse helped them to forget, bringing a sense of peace that encouraged them to double their
efforts. They did not want to lose this third party who made their evenings bearable, they did not want
the dining room and the whole house to become a tormenting and sinister place like their bedroom.
Mme Raquin was extremely touched by the care that they lavished on her; she congratulated herself,
with tears in her eyes, at having brought them together and having given them her forty or so thousand
francs. Never since the death of her son had she expected to find such affection in her declining years
and, old woman that she was, she felt warmed through by the kindness of her dear children. She did
not feel the relentless paralysis that, despite it all, was making her a little less mobile every day.
Meanwhile, Thérèse and Laurent led their double life. It was as though in each one of them there
were two quite distinct beings: a nervous, terrified creature who would shudder as soon as dusk
came, and a numb, forgetful one who breathed freely as soon as the sun rose. They were living two
lives, crying out in pain when they were alone with one another and smiling complacently when there
were other people about. Never did their faces in public hint at the suffering that came to tear them
apart when they were together; they seemed calm and happy, instinctively hiding their woes.
Seeing them so untroubled by day, no one would have suspected that they were tormented every
night by hallucinations. Theirs might have been seen as a marriage blessed in heaven, a couple living
in perfect harmony. Grivet called them (suggestively) the ‘turtle-doves’. When they had bags under
their eyes after a long period without sleep, he teased them and asked when the baptism was due. And
all the guests laughed. Laurent and Thérèse went a little pale and managed a smile; they were getting
used to Grivet’s risque jokes. Whenever they were in the dining room, they could control their fears.
No one could have imagined the frightful change that came over them when they shut the bedroom
door behind them. On Thursday evenings especially this change was so sudden and violent that it
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seemed to belong to some supernatural world. So strange was the drama of their nights, so savage in
its excesses, that it exceeded all credibility and stayed hidden deep inside their tormented beings.
Had they spoken about it, they would have been considered insane.
‘How happy they are, those love-birds!’ Old Michaud often used to say. ‘They don’t have a lot to
say for themselves, but that doesn’t mean they don’t think about it. I’ll bet they are all over one
another when we aren’t here.’
This was what everyone thought: Thérèse and Laurent would even be cited as a model couple. The
whole Passage du Pont-Neuf praised the affection, the tranquil happiness and the endless honeymoon
enjoyed by the couple. They alone knew how the corpse of Camille would lie between them, they
alone would feel the nervous contractions beneath the calm surface of their faces which at night
would horribly distort their features and change their peaceful expressions to a ghastly, tormented and
grimacing mask.
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XXV
After four months, Laurent thought about reaping the benefits he had anticipated from his marriage. He
would have abandoned his wife and fled before the spectre of Camille three days after the wedding if
self-interest had not tied him to the shop in the arcade. He bore his nights of terror and stayed despite
his suffocating fears, so as not to lose the profits of his crime. If he were to leave Thérèse, he would
lapse back into poverty and be obliged to keep his job; if, on the contrary, he stayed with her, he
could indulge his taste for idleness and do nothing, living well off the income from the money that
Mme Raquin had invested in his wife’s name. It seems likely that he would have made off with the
forty thousand francs if he had been able to cash the money in, but the old haberdasher, on Michaud’s
advice, had been careful to protect her niece’s interests in the contract. There was consequently a
strong bond attaching Laurent to Thérèse. So, as a compensation for his dreadful nights, he wanted at
least to have himself kept in idle contentment, well fed, warmly clothed and with enough money in his
pocket to satisfy his whims. Only at this price would he agree to sleep with the drowned man’s
corpse.
One evening, he announced to Mme Raquin and his wife that he had handed in his notice and would
be leaving the office at the end of a fortnight. Thérèse gave a sign of anxiety, so he hastened to add
that he was going to rent a little studio where he would go back to painting. He discoursed at length
on the tedium of his job and the broad horizons that Art would open up for him. Now that he had some
money and could try for success, he wanted to see if he might not be capable of doing great things.
His speech on the subject merely concealed the fact that he urgently desired to go back to his former
bohemian existence. Thérèse pursed her lips, without answering; she did not intend Laurent to waste
the little fortune that guaranteed her freedom. When her husband pressed her, in order to obtain her
consent, she replied with a few curt answers and gave him to understand that if he left his office, he
would earn nothing more and would be entirely dependent on her. As she spoke, Laurent looked at her
intently, which disturbed her. The refusal she was about to make stopped in her throat. She thought
that she could read this threat in her accomplice’s eyes: ‘If you don’t agree, I’ll tell all.’ She began to
stammer. At this, Mme Raquin exclaimed that her dear son’s wish was only too proper and that he
must have the means to become a man of talent. The good woman spoiled Laurent as she had once
spoiled Camille. She was entirely softened by the young man’s marks of affection towards her, she
belonged to him and always took his side.
So it was decided that the artist would rent a studio and have a hundred francs a month for the
various expenses that might arise. In that way the family budget was settled: the profits from the
haberdashery business would pay the rent of the shop and the apartment, and almost cover the
family’s day-to-day expenditure; Laurent would deduct the rent of his studio and his hundred francs a
month out of the two thousand and a few hundred francs of income from the capital; and the rest of that
income would go on whatever else they needed. In this way, they would not break into the capital.
This made Thérèse a little easier, but she made her husband swear never to exceed the amount that
had been allocated to him. And she told herself that, in any case, Laurent would not be able to draw
on the forty thousand francs without her signature, promising herself that she would never sign any
paper.
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The very next day, Laurent rented a little studio that he had had his eye on for a month, at the bottom
of the Rue Mazarine. He did not want to leave his work until he had a bolt-hole where he could spend
his days in peace, away from Thérèse. At the end of the fortnight, he said farewell to his colleagues.
Grivet was amazed by his departure. A young man, he kept saying, who had such a bright future
before him, a young man who, in four years, had risen to a salary that he, Grivet, had taken twenty
years to attain! Laurent astonished him even more when he told him that he was going to devote
himself to painting.
At length, the artist moved into his studio. This was a kind of square attic, about five or six metres
long and wide. The ceiling sloped abruptly, at a steep angle, with a wide window in it that threw a
harsh white light on the floor and the blackish walls. The noise of the street did not reach up to this
level. The room, silent, murky, with its window on the sky, seemed like a hole or a burial vault dug
into grey clay. Laurent furnished this tomb as best he could. He brought two chairs with tattered cane
seats, a table that he had to prop against the wall to prevent it sliding to the floor, an old kitchen
cupboard, his paintbox and his old easel. The one luxury item in the place was a huge divan, which he
bought from a secondhand dealer for thirty francs.
He waited for a fortnight without even thinking of picking up a brush. He would arrive between
eight and nine o’clock, have a smoke, lie down on the divan and wait for noon, happy that it was
morning and he still had long hours of daylight ahead of him. At twelve, he went out for lunch, then
hastened back so that he could be alone and not have to look at Thérèse’s pale face any more. In this
way he would digest his food, sleep and lounge around until evening. His studio was a haven of
peace where he felt calm and unafraid. One day, his wife asked if she could visit this dear refuge. He
refused and when, despite this, she came and knocked on the door, he did not open it. That evening, he
told her that he had spent the day at the Louvre. He was afraid that Thérèse would bring Camille’s
ghost with her.
Eventually, he grew tired of idleness. He bought a canvas and some paints and set to work. Not
having enough money to pay for models, he decided to paint whatever his imagination suggested,
without copying from nature. He started a man’s head.
In any case, he did not shut himself up for too long. He worked for two or three hours every
morning and spent his afternoons wandering around Paris and its suburbs. It was when he was
returning from one of these long walks that he met, opposite the Institut, a former schoolfriend who
had had a fine success at the last Salon, thanks to knowing the right people.
‘Why, it’s you!’ the painter exclaimed. ‘Oh, dear, poor Laurent. I’d never have recognized you.
You’ve lost weight.’
‘I got married,’ Laurent replied, slightly put out.
‘Married! You! In that case, I’m not surprised to see you looking a bit odd … So what are you up to
now?’
‘I’ve rented a small studio. I paint a little, in the morning.’
Laurent briefly described his marriage, then outlined his future plans, in an enthusiastic voice. His
friend looked at him with an astonishment that Laurent found quite upsetting. The truth was that the
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painter could not recognize the rough, ordinary lad that he had previously known in Thérèse’s
husband. He felt that Laurent was acquiring an air of distinction. His face had thinned down and had a
tasteful pallor,1 while the stance of the whole body was more dignified and more relaxed.
‘Why, you’re becoming quite an elegant fellow,’ the artist couldn’t help remarking. ‘You look like
an ambassador. It’s all the latest style. What school are you with?’
Laurent found this examination quite painful, but he dared not just walk off abruptly.
‘Would you like to come up to my studio for a moment?’ he eventually asked his friend, who would
not go away …
‘Indeed, I would,’ the other man replied.
The painter was unable to account for the changes he saw in his former friend, and was keen to see
his studio. He definitely was not going up five floors in order to see Laurent’s new work, which
would undoubtedly make him feel sick; all he wanted was to satisfy his curiosity.
When he had climbed the five flights and taken a look at the canvases hanging on the walls, his
astonishment increased. There were five studies there, two women’s heads and three men’s, painted
with real energy. The technique was sound and solid, each piece standing out against a grey
background with magnificent brushstrokes. The artist went over to them eagerly and, in amazement,
not even trying to conceal his surprise, asked Laurent:
‘Did you do this?’
‘Yes,’ he answered. ‘They’re oil sketches that I’m going to use in a large picture that I’m planning.’
‘Come on, no kidding. Are you really the person who painted these things?’
‘Yes, I am. Why shouldn’t I be?’
The painter did not dare to answer: because these pictures were done by an artist, and you have
always been just a base artisan. He stood for a long time in silence in front of them. Admittedly, they
were naive, but they had a strangeness about them and such power that they implied the most
advanced aesthetic sense. You would have thought they were the product of experience. Never had
Laurent’s friend seen sketches exhibiting such high promise. When he had examined the pictures
carefully, he turned towards their creator:
‘Quite honestly,’ he said, ‘I should not have thought you capable of painting such work. Where did
you pick up this talent? It’s not normally something that can be learned.’
He looked at Laurent, whose voice seemed softer to him, whose every gesture had a sort of grace.
He could not guess the catastrophic event that had changed this man, developing a woman’s
sensibility in him and giving him sharper, more delicate feelings. Some strange phenomenon had
doubtless taken place in the organism of Camille’s murderer. It is difficult for analysis to penetrate
such depths. Perhaps Laurent had become an artist as he had become lazy, after the great disruption
that had unbalanced his mind and his body. Previously, he had been stifled by the heavy weight of his
blood and blinded by the thick vapour of health surrounding him. Now, thinner, quivering, he had the
restless vitality, the quick, sharp sensations of persons of a nervous temperament. In the life of terror
that he was leading, his thoughts became exaggerated and rose to the ecstasy of genius; the sickness of
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the spirit, as it were, the neurosis2 that was afflicting his being, was also developing a strangely lucid
artistic sensibility in him. Since he’d killed a man, it was as though his flesh had become lighter, his
brain, distraught, seemed immense to him, and in this sudden expansion of his ideas he saw exquisite
creations and poetic reveries. This is why his hand had suddenly acquired its distinction and his
works their beauty, in a moment becoming personal and alive.
His friend gave up trying to explain the birth of this artist and left with his astonishment
undiminished. Before he went, he looked at the pictures once again and told Laurent:
‘I have only one criticism to make, which is that all your sketches look alike. Those five heads
resemble one another. Even the women have a sort of violent look that makes them seem like men in
disguise… Now, if you want to make a picture out of those studies, you’ll have to change some of the
faces: your figures can’t all look like members of the same family. People would laugh.’
He went out and, on the landing, added with a laugh:
‘It’s true, my friend, I’m glad to have seen you. Now I can believe in miracles … Good Lord!
You’ve really got it!’
He went down and Laurent returned to his studio, deeply disturbed. When his friend had remarked
that all the heads looked alike, he had quickly turned away to hide the pallor of his face. The fact was
that this inescapable resemblance had already struck him. He came back slowly and stood in front of
the paintings; and as he looked at them, turning from one to the other, a cold sweat ran down his back.
‘He’s right,’ he murmured. ‘They are all alike … They look like Camille.’
He stepped back and sat down on the divan, unable to take his eyes off the heads in the sketches.
The first was an old man with a long white beard, but underneath the beard, the artist could make out
Camille’s slender chin. The second showed a young blonde girl, and this girl was looking at him with
his victim’s blue eyes. Each of the three other faces had some features of the drowned man. It was
like Camille made up as an old man, as a young girl, taking whatever disguise the painter chose to
give him, but always keeping the general character of his physiognomy. There was another frightful
similarity in the heads, too: they seemed to be suffering, terrified, as though they were all crushed by
the same feeling of horror. Each one had a slight fold to the left of the mouth that pulled back the lips
and made them grimace. This fold, which Laurent remembered having seen on the drowned man’s
convulsed features, marked them with the sign of a foul family bond.
Laurent realized that he had spent too long looking at Camille in the Morgue. The corpse’s image
had been deeply impressed on his mind. And now his hand, without his realizing it, was constantly
drawing the lines of this frightful mask, the memory of which followed him around everywhere.
Gradually, as he lay back on the divan, the painter thought he could see the faces come to life. So
there were five Camilles in front of him, five Camilles that his own fingers had endowed with such
power and which, through some terrifying mystery, represented every age and every sex. He got up,
cut through the canvases and threw them outside. He felt that he would die of fright in his studio if he
were to people it himself with portraits of his victim.
He had just been seized by a feeling of anguish: he was afraid that he could never again draw a
head without representing the drowned man. He wanted to find out at once if he was in control of his
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hand. He put a white canvas on the easel, then with a piece of charcoal, he drew a face with a few
lines. The face was like Camille. Laurent quickly rubbed out that sketch and tried another. For more
than an hour, he struggled against the inescapable urge that drove his fingers; but with each new
attempt, he came back to the head of the drowned man. Much as he exerted his will, avoiding the lines
that he knew so well, he would draw these lines despite himself, obeying his rebellious muscles and
nerves. At first, he had quickly set down the sketches, then he tried to guide the charcoal slowly. The
result was the same: Camille, screwing his face up in pain, kept coming back on the canvas. The artist
drew the most varied kinds of head in quick succession — angels, young women with haloes, Roman
warriors with their helmets on, blond, pink-cheeked children, or old bandits covered in scars … Yet
always the drowned man was resuscitated, by turns as angel, woman, warrior, child and bandit. So
Laurent turned to caricature, exaggerating the features; he made monstrous heads, he invented
grotesques … and all he did was to make the striking portraits of his victim more frightful. Eventually,
he tried drawing animals, cats and dogs. The cats and dogs looked vaguely like Camille …
A dull fury had overtaken Laurent. He broke the canvas with his fist, thinking with despair of his
great painting. Now, he could no longer even consider it. From now on, he knew, he would only draw
heads of Camille and, as his friend had said, figures that all looked alike would just make people
laugh. He imagined what his work would have been; he saw, on the shoulders of his figures, men and
women, the drowned man’s pallid, horrified features; and the strange spectacle that this brought into
his head seemed to him so horribly ridiculous that it filled him with despair.
So he would no longer dare to work, for he would always be afraid of bringing his victim back to
life with the slightest stroke of the brush. If he wanted to live in peace at his studio he must never
paint there. This idea that his fingers had this unavoidable and unconscious ability to reproduce
constantly the face of Camille, made him look with terror at his hand. It seemed to him that the hand
no longer belonged to him.
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XXVI
The stroke that had been threatening Mme Raquin’s health arrived. Suddenly the paralysis, which for
several months had been creeping along her limbs, constantly on the point of gripping her entirely,
seized her by the throat and immobilized her body. One evening, while she was quietly talking to
Laurent and Thérèse, she stopped in the middle of a sentence, open-mouthed ; she felt as though
someone were strangling her. When she tried to cry out, to call for help, she could make only harsh
croaking noises. Her tongue had been turned to stone, her hands and feet had stiffened. She was
rendered dumb and immobile.1
Thérèse and Laurent got up, terrified by this thunderclap that had struck the old haberdasher down
in under five seconds. Seeing her stiff like that, looking at them appealingly, they asked her repeatedly
to tell them what was wrong. She could not answer, but kept giving them a look of deep distress. At
this, they realized that all that was left before them was a corpse, one that was half living, one that
could see and hear them, but could not speak. The catastrophe drove them to despair. Underneath,
they cared little about the paralysed woman’s suffering, but wept for themselves, obliged from now
on to live for ever alone with each other.
From that day, the couple’s life became unbearable. They spent agonizing evenings beside the
stricken old woman who no longer appeased their terrors with her gentle chattering. She lay in an
armchair like a parcel, like a thing, and they were left alone at either end of the table, awkward and
uneasy. This corpse no longer kept them apart; from time to time they forgot about it and treated it like
part of the furniture. And then their terrors of the night gripped them and the dining room became, like
the bedroom, a place of horror in which the spectre of Camille loomed. This meant that they suffered
for four or five additional hours every day. As soon as evening came, they shuddered, lowering the
shade on the lamp to avoid seeing one another and trying to believe that Mme Raquin would speak
and so remind them of her presence. If they kept her, if they did not get rid of her, it was because her
eyes still lived and at times they would feel some relief in looking at them moving and shining.
They always put the old cripple in the full light of the lamp so that her face would be fully lit and
they would constantly have it in front of them. For other people, this soft, pale face would have been
an unbearable sight, but they felt such a need for company that they rested their eyes on her with real
joy. It was like the decayed mask of a dead woman, with two living eyes in it: the eyes alone moved,
rapidly turning in their sockets, while the cheeks and mouth looked as though they were petrified,
possessing a horrifying immobility. When Mme Raquin abandoned herself to sleep, lowering her
eyelids, her face, now entirely white and silent, was truly that of a corpse. Thérèse and Laurent,
feeling that there was no longer anyone with them, would make a noise until the paralysed woman
opened her eyes and looked at them. In this way, they forced her to stay awake.
They used to consider her a distraction to bring them out of their bad dreams. Now that she was an
invalid, she had to be looked after like a child. The care that they lavished on her took their minds off
their obsessions. In the morning, Laurent would get her up, carry her to her chair; in the evening he
would put her back into her bed. She was still heavy and it took all his strength to lift her carefully in
his arms and carry her. He was also the one who pushed her chair around. Her other needs were
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looked after by Thérèse: she was the one who dressed the cripple, fed her and tried to understand her
every wish. For a few days, Mme Raquin could still use her hands, so she was able to write on a
slate and ask for what she needed; then her hands died and she was unable to lift up or hold a pencil.
All that was left after that was the language of the eyes and her niece had to guess what she wanted.
The young woman devoted herself to the cruel task of sick-nurse: it kept her body and mind occupied
and did her a lot of good.
So that they would not have to stay alone together, the couple would push the poor old woman’s
chair into the dining room early in the morning. They brought her in with them, as though she were
essential to their existence. She had to watch their meals and listen to all their conversations. They
pretended not to understand when she showed that she wished to go back to her room. She was useful
only in preventing them from having to endure each other’s company; she had no right to live by
herself. At eight o‘clock, Laurent went to his studio and Thérèse down to the shop, so the paralysed
woman stayed alone in the dining room until noon; then, after lunch, she was alone again until six
o’clock. Often, during the day, her niece would come up and busy herself around her, making sure that
she had everything she needed. Friends of the family could not praise the goodness of Thérèse and
Laurent too highly.
The Thursday evening gatherings continued and the cripple was present, as in the past. Her chair
was brought over to the table and from eight o’clock until eleven, she kept her eyes open, fixing each
of the guests in turn with her penetrating gaze. For the first few days, Old Michaud and Grivet were a
little put out by this corpse of their old friend. They were not sure how they ought to look; they were
not very much grieved, but they wondered what was precisely the correct degree of sadness to be
exhibited in the circumstances. Should they address themselves to this dead face, or should they rather
take no notice of it? Little by little, they adopted the solution of treating Mme Raquin as though
nothing had happened to her. Eventually, they came to pretend that they were quite unaware of her
condition. They chatted with her, putting the questions and replying to them, laughing for her and for
themselves and never allowing the rigid expression on her face to disconcert them. It was an odd
sight: these men seemed to be talking sensibly to a statue, as little girls talk to their dolls. The
paralysed woman sat stiff and silent in front of them while they talked on, with lots of gestures, having
very animated conversations with her. Michaud and Grivet congratulated themselves on their
excellent behaviour. In this way, they thought they were showing good manners while additionally
avoiding the awkwardness of the conventional expressions of sympathy. Mme Raquin must be
flattered to see that she was treated as a healthy person and, because of that, they could enjoy
themselves in her presence without the slightest scruple.
Grivet had an obsession: he insisted that he had a perfect understanding with Mme Raquin and that
she could not look at him without his at once knowing what she meant. That was another sign of how
considerate he was – except that, each time, Grivet got it wrong. He would often interrupt the game of
dominoes and examine the paralysed woman whose eyes had been calmly watching them play, and
announce that she wanted this or that. When they looked into it, either Mme Raquin wanted nothing or
she wanted something else entirely. This did not deter Grivet, who would exclaim victoriously: ‘I
told you so!’, then start again a few minutes later. It was quite different when the cripple did openly
express a wish. Thérèse, Laurent and the guests, one after another, would name the things that she
might want. On such occasions. Grivet would distinguish himself by the inappropriateness of his
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suggestions. He named whatever came into his head, haphazardly, always choosing the opposite of
what Mme Raquin wanted – which would not prevent him from repeating:
‘I can read her eyes like a book. Look, there, she’s telling me I’m right … Aren’t you, dear lady?
Yes, yes …’
In any event, it was no easy matter to grasp the poor old woman’s wishes. Only Thérèse knew how.
She would communicate quite easily with this immured mind, still living but buried in the depths of a
dead body. What was going on in this unfortunate being who was just enough alive to observe life
without taking part in it? She could see, hear and no doubt reason in a sharp and clear enough way,
but she no longer had any movement or any voice to express outwardly the thoughts that arose in her.
Perhaps her ideas were stifling her. She could not have raised a hand or opened her mouth even if a
single movement or a single word might determine the fate of the world. Her spirit was like one of
those living people who are accidentally buried and who awake in the darkness of the earth under
two or three metres of soil.2 They shout and thrash around while others walk above them without
hearing their appalling cries for help. Laurent would often look at Mme Raquin, with her tight lips
and hands resting on her knees, putting all her life into her bright, quick eyes, and he would think:
‘Who knows what might be going on in her mind? Some cruel drama must be taking place in the
depths of this corpse.’
Laurent was wrong. Mme Raquin was happy, happy in the dedication and affection of her dear
children. She had always dreamed of ending her life like this, slowly, surrounded by care and
caresses. Of course, she would have liked to be able to speak so that she could thank the friends who
were helping her to die in peace. But she accepted her state with resignation. The quiet, retiring life
that she had always led and the gentleness of her personality meant that she did not feel the loss of
speech and mobility too deeply. She had become a child again and spent her days without boredom,
staring in front of her and dreaming of the past. She even came to enjoy staying in her chair like a
well-behaved little girl.
Every day, her eyes took on a more penetrating softness and clarity. She had reached the point
where she used her eyes like a hand and a mouth, to ask for things and to say ‘thank you’; and so, in
some strange and endearing way, she made up for the faculties that she lacked. The looks that she
gave had a celestial beauty, in the midst of a face on which the flesh hung soft and contorted. Since the
time when her twisted, unmoving lips had lost the power to smile, she had smiled with her eyes, with
delightful tenderness. Moist lights shone and dawn rays emerged from them. Nothing was more
remarkable than these eyes laughing like lips in that dead face: the lower part of the face remained
dreary and wan, while the upper part was divinely lit. It was for her dear children, especially, that
she would put all her gratitude and all the feeling in her soul into a simple glance. When, morning and
evening, Laurent took her in his arms to move her, she thanked him lovingly with looks full of tender
affection.
So she lived for several weeks, awaiting death and thinking herself safe from any further disaster.
She thought that she had paid her debt of suffering. She was wrong. One evening she was smitten by a
dreadful blow.
Even though Thérèse and Laurent put her between them in the full light of day, she was no longer
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enough alive to keep them apart and protect them against their anguish. When they forgot that she was
there, that she could see and hear, madness overcame them, Camille rose before them and they tried to
drive him away. Then they would stammer, let slip confessions without meaning to, remarks that
eventually revealed everything to Mme Raquin. Laurent had a sort of fit in which he spoke like a man
in a trance. Suddenly, the paralysed woman understood.
A frightful grimace passed across her face and she experienced such a shock that Thérèse thought
she was going to leap up and scream. Then she lapsed back into a state of complete rigidity. This sort
of shock was all the more terrifying since it seemed to have galvanized a corpse. For an instant
feeling returned to her, then vanished, leaving the cripple more haggard and pallid than ever. Her
eyes, which were usually so soft, had become hard and black like pieces of metal.
Never had despair struck any being so hard. The awful truth burned the crippled woman’s eyes like
a flash of lightning and entered into her with the finality of a thunderclap. If she could have got up,
released the cry of horror that was rising in her throat and cursed the murderers of her son, she would
have suffered less. But now that she had heard everything and understood everything, she was forced
to remain motionless and silent, keeping the explosion of her pain inside her. It seemed to her that
Thérèse and Laurent had tied her up and pinned her to her chair to prevent her from leaping out at
them, and that they were taking a horrible delight in repeating: ‘We killed Camille,’ after putting a gag
on her mouth to stifle her sobs. Terror and torment raged within her, but found no way out. She made
superhuman efforts to lift the weight that was oppressing her, to unblock her throat and clear the way
for the flood of her despair. But it was in vain that she struggled with the last of her energy: she felt
her tongue cold against her palate and could not tear herself away from death. She was held rigid by
the powerlessness of a corpse. Her feelings were like those of a man who has fallen into a lethargy
and is being buried alive: gagged by the fetters of his own flesh, he hears the dull thud of spadefuls of
sand above his head.
The ravages in her heart were still worse. She felt as though something inside her had collapsed.
She was crushed. Her whole life was destroyed, all her charity, all her kindness, all her care had
been brutally knocked over and trampled underfoot. She had led a life of affection and gentleness and
now, in her last hours, when she was about to take her belief in the simple goodness of life into the
grave with her, a voice was shouting that everything was a lie, everything was criminal. The veil had
been torn apart, showing her, beyond the love and friendship that she imagined she saw, a frightful
vision of blood and shame. She would have cursed God if she could have uttered a blasphemy. For
more than sixty years, God had deceived her, treating her as a kind, gentle little child and amusing her
with the sight of lying pictures of tranquil happiness. And she had remained a child, foolishly
believing in a myriad of silly things, without seeing the reality of life as it was, mired in a bloody
slough of passion. God was bad. He should have told her the truth earlier, or else allowed her to
depart with her innocence and her blindness. Now all that was left was for her to die, denying love,
denying friendship, denying charity. Nothing existed except murder and lust.
So! Camille had died at the hands of Thérèse and Laurent, and the two of them had plotted their
crime in the throes of their shameful adultery! For Mme Raquin, this idea presented such an abyss that
she could not adjust to it or grasp it clearly and in detail. She felt only one sensation: that of a
dreadful fall. It seemed to her as though she were falling down a cold, black hole. And she thought: ‘I
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am going to be crushed at the bottom.’
After the first shock, the enormity of the crime seemed unreal to her. Then she felt afraid that she
might go mad, once she had become convinced of the adultery and the murder, as she remembered
some little events that she had not previously been able to explain. Thérèse and Laurent were indeed
Camille’s murderers: Thérèse, whom she had brought up, and Laurent, whom she had loved like a
gentle and devoted mother. This idea went round and round in her head like a huge wheel with a
deafening noise. She guessed such repulsive details, she plumbed the depths of such profound
hypocrisy, she witnessed in her mind such a cruel double game that she wanted to die to escape from
the thoughts. One single idea, formulaic and inescapable, crushed her brain with the weight and
persistency of a grindstone. She would repeat to herself: ‘My child was killed by my children.’ She
could find nothing else to express her despair.
After this sudden change of heart, she looked frantically for a self that she could no longer
recognize. She was overwhelmed by the sudden invasion of thoughts of revenge that drove all the
goodness out of her life. When the transformation was complete, there was darkness inside her. She
felt a new being, pitiless and cruel, being born in her dying flesh, a being that would like to bite into
the killers of her son.
Now that she had succumbed to the devastating embrace of paralysis and had realized that she
could not leap at the throats of Thérèse and Laurent, whom she dreamed of strangling, she resigned
herself to silence and immobility, and large tears fell slowly from her eyes. Nothing was more
distressing than this silent, unmoving despair. These tears, running one after another across this dead
face, in which not a line moved, this inert, pallid face in which the muscles could not weep and only
the eyes sobbed, was the most moving of sights.
Thérèse was overcome with terrified pity.
‘We must put her to bed,’ she said to Laurent, indicating her aunt.
Laurent hastily pushed the cripple into her room. Then he bent down to pick her up in his arms. At
that moment, Mme Raquin hoped that some powerful spring would raise her to her feet; she made a
supreme effort. God could not allow Laurent to clasp her to his breast; she was sure that thunder
would strike him if he showed such monstrous impudence. But no spring drove her and the heavens
kept their thunderbolts. She remained there, slumped in the chair, passive, like a bundle of washing.
She was grasped, lifted and carried by the murderer. She experienced the horror of feeling herself
soft and powerless in the arms of the man who had killed Camille. Her head rolled on to Laurent’s
shoulder and she looked at him with eyes made wider by terror and repulsion.
‘Go on, then, have a good look at me,’ he murmured. ‘Your eyes won’t eat me …’
And he threw her roughly on the bed. The cripple fainted away. Her last thought was one of fear
and disgust. From now on, morning and evening, she would have to suffer the foul embrace of
Laurent’s arms.
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XXVII
Only a fit of terror had induced the couple to speak and confess in front of Mme Raquin. Neither one
of them was cruel; they would have avoided making such a revelation out of sheer humanity, even if
their safety had not required them to keep silent.
The following Thursday, they were especially uneasy. In the morning, Thérèse asked Laurent if he
thought it wise to bring the paralysed woman into the dining room that evening. She knew everything
and could arouse suspicions.
‘Huh!’ said Laurent. ‘She can’t move her little finger. How do you expect her to talk?’
‘She might find a way,’ Thérèse replied. ‘Since the other evening, I have seen an implacable
resolve in her eyes.’
‘No, don’t you see, the doctor told me everything is really finished for her. If she does speak once
more, it will be in the last gasp of her death agony … Come on, she won’t be with us for long. It
would be stupid to burden our consciences any further by stopping her from coming along this
evening.’
Thérèse shuddered.
‘You don’t understand!’ she exclaimed. ‘Oh, you’re right, there has been enough blood. What I
meant was that we could shut my aunt in her room and pretend that she has got worse, that she’s
asleep.’
‘That’s great!’ said Laurent. ‘Then that idiot Michaud would march straight into the room to see his
old friend even so. That would be the best way to destroy us.’
He hesitated, trying to look calm, but the anxiety made him stutter.
‘Better to let things take their course,’ he continued. ‘Those people are as daft as geese, they’ll
definitely not understand anything of the old lady’s silent miseries. They’ll never guess the thing
itself, because they’re too far from thinking it. Once we’ve tested the water, we can rest easy about
the result of our indiscretion. You’ll see, everything will be all right.’
That evening, when the guests arrived, Mme Raquin was in her usual place, between the stove and
the table. Laurent and Thérèse pretended to be in good spirits, hiding their fears and anxiously
waiting for the incident that was bound to happen. They had lowered the lampshade a long way, so
that only the oiled tablecloth was lit.
The guests had that banal, noisy bit of a chat that always preceded the first game of dominoes.
Grivet and Michaud naturally asked Mme Raquin the usual questions about her health, and provided
some excellent replies to the questions themselves, as they were accustomed to do. After that, without
taking any further notice of the poor old woman, they happily immersed themselves in their game.
Since learning the dreadful secret, Mme Raquin had eagerly been awaiting this evening. She had
gathered her last strength to denounce the guilty pair. Up to the last moment, she was afraid that she
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would not be joining the party: she thought that Laurent would spirit her away, perhaps kill her, or at
least shut her up in her room. When she saw that they were allowing her to be there, and she was in
the presence of the guests, she felt a warm surge of joy at the thought that she was going to try to
avenge her son. Realizing that her tongue was quite dead, she tried out a new language. By an
incredible exercise of will, she managed as it were to galvanize her right hand, lift it a little off the
knee where it always lay, inert, and after that to make it crawl little by little up one of the table legs
which was in front of her, until she managed to place it on the oilcloth. There, she moved her fingers
feebly as though to attract attention.
The players were very surprised to find that dead hand, soft and white, on the table in front of them.
Grivet stopped, his arm raised, just at the moment when he was going to put down a victorious double
six. Since her stroke, the cripple had not once moved her hands.
‘Well, I never! Look at that, Thérèse,’ Michaud exclaimed. ‘Mme Raquin is moving her fingers.
She must want something.’
Thérèse was unable to reply. With Laurent, she had followed the paralysed woman’s efforts and
was considering her aunt’s hand, pale beneath the harsh light of the lamp, as a vengeful hand, about to
speak. The two murderers waited with bated breath.
‘By golly, yes!’ said Grivet. ‘She wants something. Oh, we understand one another, she and I. She
wants to play dominoes. Huh? That’s right, isn’t it, dear lady?’
Mme Raquin made a violent attempt to deny it. She extended one finger and bent the others back,
with infinite pains, and started with agonizing slowness to trace out letters on the table. She had only
made a few lines when Grivet once more exclaimed triumphantly:
‘I see it! She’s saying that I’m right to play the double six.’
The cripple gave him a furious look and again started the word that she wanted to write. But Grivet
kept on interrupting her, saying that it was not necessary, that he had understood; and he would then
suggest some idiocy. Eventually, Michaud told him to be quiet.
‘For heaven’s sake!’ he said. ‘Let Mme Raquin talk. Tell us, my old friend.’
And he looked at the oilcloth as though listening to something. But the cripple’s fingers were tiring:
they had started one word more than ten times, and now they could not form it without wandering to
the left and to the right. Michaud and Olivier leaned over, but could not read it, so they obliged the
victim to keep on repeating the first letters.
‘Ah! That’s it!’ Olivier suddenly exclaimed. ‘I’ve read it this time. She has just written your name,
Thérèse. Look: Thérèse and … Carry on, dear lady.’
Thérèse almost cried out in agony. She watched her aunt’s fingers slide along the oilcloth and it
seemed to her that those fingers were writing her name and the admission of her crime in letters of
fire. Laurent had leaped to his feet, wondering if he ought to throw himself at the old woman and
break her arm. He thought that all was lost and could feel the cold weight of retribution on him as he
watched that hand come back to life to reveal Camille’s murder.
Mme Raquin was still writing, in an increasingly unsteady way.
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‘That’s perfect, I can read it very clearly,’ said Olivier after a short while, looking at the young
couple. ‘Your aunt is writing your two names: Thérèse and Laurent.’
At once, the old lady made affirmative signs, casting devastating looks towards the murderers.
Then she tried to complete the sentence. But her fingers had stiffened and she was losing the supreme
effort of will that had galvanized them; she could feel the paralysis moving slowly along her arm and
once more grasping her wrist. She hastened to write another word.
Old Michaud read aloud:
‘Thérèse and Laurent are…’
And Olivier asked:
‘What are they, your dear children?’
The murderers, wild with fear, were on the point of finishing the sentence aloud. They were staring
at the vengeful hand with anxious eyes when, suddenly, the hand was seized with a convulsion and
dropped flat on the table. It slipped and fell on the old woman’s knee like a mass of inanimate flesh.
The paralysis had returned and halted the punishment. Michaud and Olivier sat down, disappointed,
while Thérèse and Laurent felt such a sharp flood of joy that they thought they were about to faint with
the sudden rush of blood thumping in their chests.
Grivet was annoyed at not having been believed. He thought that the moment had come to retrieve
his reputation for infallibility by completing Mme Raquin’s unfinished sentence. While they were
searching for the meaning of the words, he said:
‘It’s quite clear. I can guess the whole sentence in Madame’s eyes. She doesn’t have to write it on
the table for me; just one look will suffice. What she wanted to say was: “Thérèse and Laurent are
taking good care of me.”’
Grivet could congratulate himself on his imagination, because everyone agreed. The guests started
to praise the young couple who were being so kind to the old lady.
‘It is certain,’ said Old Michaud gravely, ‘that Mme Raquin wanted to acknowledge the tender care
that her children lavish upon her. It’s a tribute to the whole family.
And, picking his dominoes up again, he added:
‘Right, let’s carry on. Where were we? I believe Grivet was about to put down the double six.’
Grivet did put down the double six. The game went on, stupid and monotonous.
The paralysed woman looked at her hand, sunk in the most frightful despair. Her hand had just
betrayed her. It felt to her as heavy as lead now; never again would she be able to lift it. Heaven did
not want Camille to be avenged, but had taken away from his mother the one means she had to let men
know that he was the victim of a murder. The unhappy woman told herself that she was no good any
longer for anything except to join her child in the ground. She lowered her eyes, feeling useless from
now on and trying to believe that she was already in the darkness of the tomb.
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XXIX
A new phase began. Thérèse, driven to extremes by fear and not knowing where to look for
consolation, started to mourn the drowned man openly in front of Laurent.
She suffered a sudden collapse. Her overstretched nerves snapped and her dry, violent nature
softened. Already, in the first days of her marriage, she had experienced emotional outbursts, and
these returned, like a necessary and inevitable reaction. After she had struggled with all her nervous
energy against Camille’s ghost and when she had lived for several months in a state of vague
irritation, rebelling against her sufferings and trying to heal them by sheer effort of will, she suddenly
felt such weariness that she was overcome and gave in. So, a woman once more, even a little girl, no
longer feeling she had the strength to stiffen herself, stand up and furiously drive off her terrors, she
relapsed into pity, tears and regrets, hoping that these would bring her some relief. She tried to take
advantage of the weaknesses of the flesh and the spirit that took hold of her: perhaps the drowned
man, who had not given way to her annoyance, would give in to her tears. She felt a self-interested
remorse, telling herself that this was probably the best way to pacify and please Camille. Like certain
pious women who think they can deceive God and gain a pardon by praying with their lips and
adopting meek attitudes of penance, Thérèse humbled herself, smote her breast and spoke words of
repentance, without having anything more in the depths of her heart but fear and cowardice. Apart
from that, she felt a sort of physical pleasure in abandoning herself, feeling soft and broken and
offering herself to pain without trying to resist.
She crushed Mme Raquin with the weight of her tearful despair. She subjected the paralysed
woman to daily use, making her a kind of prayer-stool, a piece of furniture before which she could
confess her sins without fear and ask for pardon. As soon as she felt the need to weep, or to relieve
herself with sobs, she knelt before the cripple and there cried out, panting for breath, playing a scene
of remorse all by herself and finding relief in weakness and exhaustion.
‘I am a wretch,’ she stammered. ‘I don’t deserve forgiveness. I deceived you, I pushed your son to
his death. You will never forgive me … Yet perhaps if you could see the remorse that is wrenching
me apart, if you could know how much I am suffering, then perhaps you would take pity on me … No,
there is no pity for me. I would like to die here at your feet, crushed with shame and sorrow.’
She would talk in this way for hours on end, swinging from despair to hope, blaming herself, then
forgiving herself. She would take on the voice of a sick little girl, now snapping, now pleading. She
would lie down on the floor, then get up again, acting according to whatever idea of humility or pride,
repentance or revolt came into her head. She would even at times forget that she was kneeling in front
of Mme Raquin, and continue her monologue in a dreamlike state. When she had thoroughly numbed
herself with her own words, she would stagger to her feet and go back downstairs to the shop, dazed
but calm, no longer afraid of bursting into a fit of nervous weeping in front of the customers. When
she felt the onset of a new bout of remorse, she hurried back up to kneel, once more, in front of the
cripple. And so it went on, ten times a day.
It never occurred to Thérèse that her tears and the display of her remorse must be imposing the
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most unspeakable agony on her aunt. The truth is that, if you were to invent a torture to inflict on Mme
Raquin, you could surely not find anything more appalling than the dramas of repentance that her niece
played out in front of her. The paralysed woman could perceive the egotism behind these outpourings
of pain. She suffered agonies listening to these long monologues, which she was obliged constantly to
undergo and which repeatedly reminded her of Camille’s murder. She could not forgive; she shut
herself into a pitiless idea of vengeance, which her disability made more acute; yet all day she had to
hear these pleas for forgiveness, these despicable, cowardly prayers. She would have liked to reply;
some things that her niece said brought crushing responses to her lips, but she had to remain silent,
allowing Thérèse to plead her case without ever interrupting her. Her inability to cry out or to stop
her ears filled her with inexpressible torment. And, one by one, the young woman’s slow, plaintive
words sank into her mind, like an annoying tune. For a while, she thought that the murderers were
inflicting this sort of torture on her out of sheer, diabolical cruelty. Her only means of defence was to
close her eyes as soon as her niece knelt before her: if she could still hear, at least she could not see
her.
Eventually, Thérèse grew bold enough to kiss her aunt. One day, in a fit of repentance, she
pretended that she had seen a hint of mercy in the eyes of the paralysed woman. She crawled along on
her knees, then got up and cried in a distraught voice: ‘You forgive me! You forgive me!’ After this,
she kissed the forehead and cheeks of the poor old woman, who could not move her head away.
Thérèse experienced a sharp feeling of disgust as her lips touched the cold flesh, but she decided that
this disgust, like the tears and the remorse, would be a fine way to calm her nerves, so she continued
to kiss the cripple every day, as a penance and to give herself relief.
‘Oh, how good you are!’ she would exclaim at times. ‘I can see that my tears have moved you.
Your look is full of pity. I am saved.’
She would smother her with caresses, put her head on the old woman’s lap, kiss her hands, smile
happily at her and care for her with all the signs of passionate affection. After a while, she came to
believe in the reality of this play-acting. She imagined that she had received Mme Raquin’s pardon
and from then on talked to her only of her happiness at having her forgiveness.
This was too much for the paralysed woman. It almost killed her. Her niece’s kisses gave her the
same bitter feeling of repugnance and fury that filled her every morning and evening when Laurent
picked her up to get her out of bed or to lie her down. She was obliged to suffer the foul embraces of
the wretched woman who had betrayed and killed her son. She could not even use her hand to wipe
off the kisses that this creature left on her cheeks. For hours on end, she would feel these kisses
burning her flesh. This is how she became the plaything of Camille’s murderers, a doll whom they
dressed, whom they turned to right or left, and used according to their needs and whims. She
remained inert in their hands, as if she had only sawdust in her belly, when in fact her guts came to
life, anguished and outraged, at the slightest touch of Thérèse or Laurent. What made her most angry
was the frightful mockery of this young woman who claimed to be able to read feelings of mercy in
her look, when she would have liked with a look to strike the criminal down. She often made
immense efforts to give a cry of protest, and put all her hatred into her eyes. But Thérèse, whom it
suited to repeat twenty times a day that she had been forgiven, refused to guess the truth and
smothered her with more caresses. The paralysed woman had to accept effusive thanks that she
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rejected in her heart. From now on, she lived in a state of complete, bitter and powerless irritation,
confronted with this pliant niece who kept trying to demonstrate new signs of affection to reward her
aunt for what Thérèse called her ‘celestial goodness’.
When Laurent was there and his wife knelt before Mme Raquin, he would lift her up roughly.
‘Stop play-acting,’ he would say. ‘Am I crying? Am I down on my knees? You’re doing all this to
upset me.’
Thérèse’s remorse disturbed him to a peculiar degree. He was more troubled, now that his
accomplice was dragging herself around, her eyes red with tears and her lips full of pleading. The
sight of this repentance made flesh and blood increased his uneasiness. It was like an eternal reproach
walking around the house. Apart from that, he was afraid that repentance would one day incite his
wife to reveal everything. He would have preferred it if she had stayed stiff and threatening, earnestly
defending herself against his accusations. But she had changed her approach and now willingly
acknowledged her share in the crime, accusing herself, becoming soft and fearful, and using this as a
basis to beg for redemption with humble ardour. Laurent was irritated by this attitude. Every evening
now, their arguments would take a more damning and sinister turn.
‘Listen,’ Thérèse told her husband, ‘we are guilty of a terrible crime, we must repent if we want to
have any peace … Don’t you see, since I started to cry, I have been calmer. Do as I do. Let’s admit
together that we are being rightly punished for committing a frightful crime.’
‘Pooh!’ Laurent would answer brusquely. ‘Say what you like. I know how devilishly cunning and
hypocritical you are. Weep, if that amuses you. But, please, don’t go on at me with your tears.’
‘You’re wicked, you are refusing to feel any remorse. But you’re a coward even so. You caught
Camille off guard.’
‘Are you saying I’m the only one who’s guilty?’
‘No, that’s not what I’m saying. I’m guilty, more guilty than you. I should have saved my husband
from your hands. Oh, I know the full horror of my sin! But I shall try to obtain forgiveness, Laurent,
and I’ll manage it, while you will go on living a life of desolation. You don’t even have the goodness
in your heart to spare my aunt the sight of your shameful anger, and you have never spoken a word of
regret to her.’
And she would kiss Mme Raquin, who closed her eyes. Then she would fuss around her, plumping
up the pillow behind her head and showering her with affection. This exasperated Laurent.
‘Leave her alone,’ he would say. ‘Can’t you see that she hates you caring for her; she hates the sight
of you. If she could lift up her hand, she’d slap your face.’
His wife’s slow, plaintive words, and her attitude of resignation, would gradually drive him into a
blind rage. He could see plainly what she was about: she no longer wanted to make common cause
with him, but was trying to separate herself in the depth of her remorse, so as to escape the clutches of
the drowned man. At times, he would tell himself that she might have chosen the right course, that
tears would cure him of his terrors, and he shuddered at the idea of being the only one to suffer and
fear. He would like to repent, too, or at least to act out a scene of remorse, just to see. But he could
not find the necessary words and sobs, so he would lapse into violence and shake Thérèse in order to
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irritate her and bring her back to join him in his raging madness. The young woman worked hard at
remaining unexcited, responding to his cries of anger with tearful submission and becoming
proportionately more humble and repentant as he became rougher. In this way Laurent would be
driven to a fury. To put the final touch to his annoyance, Thérèse would start singing Camille’s
praises, listing the qualities of the victim.
‘He was a good man,’ she said, ‘and we must have been very cruel to lift a hand against that gentle
heart, which never had a bad impulse.’
‘Oh, yes, he was certainly good,’ Laurent scoffed. ‘What you mean is that he was stupid, don’t you?
Have you forgotten? You used to claim that the slightest word from him got on your nerves and that he
could not open his mouth without saying something ridiculous.’
‘Don’t mock. That’s the last straw, insulting the man you killed. You don’t know anything about a
woman’s heart, Laurent. Camille loved me and I loved him.’
‘You loved him! Huh! Did you really? That’s new! I suppose it was because you loved your
husband that you took me as a lover. I remember the day when you were lying with your head on my
chest and saying that Camille made you feel sick when your fingers sank into his flesh, like sinking
into clay … Oh, I can tell you why you loved me. You needed some more sturdy arms than that poor
devil had to hold you with.’
‘I loved him like a sister. He was the son of my aunt and benefactress. He had all the gentleness of
a delicate nature, and would always behave in a way that was noble and generous, helpful and
affectionate. And we killed him! My God, my God!’
She would cry and swoon away. Mme Raquin shot piercing glances at her, indignant at hearing
Camille’s praises on such lips. Laurent, powerless against this flood of tears, walked back and forth
feverishly, looking for some way of finally crushing Thérèse’s remorse. In the end, all the good that
he heard about his victim caused him sharp pangs of anxiety; occasionally, he would really come to
believe in Camille’s virtues and this would increase his terror. But what drove him out of his mind
and caused him to become violent was the parallel that the drowned man’s widow would inevitably
draw between her first and second husbands, entirely to the advantage of the first.
‘Why, yes!’ she would exclaim. ‘He was better than you. I would prefer it if he were still alive and
you in his place under the ground.’
At first, Laurent would shrug his shoulders.
‘Say what you like,’ she went on, warming to the subject. ‘Perhaps I didn’t love him when he was
alive, but now I remember him and I do love him. I love him and hate you, that’s what. You’re a
murderer …’
‘Will you be quiet!’ Laurent shouted.
‘And he is a victim, a decent man killed by a rogue. Oh, I’m not afraid of you. You know that
you’re a wretch, a brute with no heart or soul. How do you expect me to love you, now that you are
bathed in Camille’s blood? Camille lavished affection on me and I’d kill you, do you hear, if that
could bring him back and restore his love.’
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‘Shut up, you bitch!’
‘Why should I? I’m speaking the truth. I would buy forgiveness at the cost of your blood. Oh, how
much I am weeping and suffering! It’s my fault that this scoundrel murdered my husband. One night, I
must go and kiss the earth where he lies. That will be the last joy of my flesh.’
Laurent, driven crazy by these frightful pictures that Thérèse conjured up, flew at her, knocked her
down and knelt on her, his fist raised.
‘That’s right,’ she cried. ‘Hit me! Kill me! Camille never raised a hand against me, but you are a
monster.’
And Laurent, spurred on by these words, would shake her in his rage, hit her and bruise her body
with his clenched fist. On two occasions, he nearly strangled her. Thérèse went limp beneath his
blows. She experienced a fierce, bitter pleasure at being struck. She would abandon herself, offer
herself up, provoking her husband to hit her again and again. This was another cure for the misery of
her life: she would sleep better at night when she had been well beaten in the evening. Mme Raquin
experienced an exquisite sense of pleasure when Laurent pulled her niece across the floor in this way,
kicking her.
The murderer’s existence had become truly dreadful since the day when Thérèse had the hellish
notion of feeling remorse and openly mourning Camille. From then on, the wretch lived constantly
with his victim: at every moment, he had to listen to his wife extolling and bewailing her first
husband. The slightest opportunity would set her off: Camille used to do this, Camille used to do that,
Camille had this quality, Camille loved her in that way. Always Camille, always these sad remarks
mourning the death of Camille. Thérèse used all her venom to intensify the cruelty of this torture that
she was inflicting on Laurent in order to protect herself. She went into the most intimate details and
described the trivial events of her youth with sighs of nostalgia, in this way mingling the memory of
the drowned man with every act of her daily routine. The body, which was already haunting the
house, was now brought into it openly. It sat on the chairs or at the table, lay down on the bed, and
used the furniture or whatever else was lying around. Laurent could not pick up a fork, a brush or
anything without Thérèse letting him know that Camille had touched it before him. Constantly running
up against the man he had killed, the murderer came to feel an odd sensation that almost drove him
mad: through being so often compared to Camille and using things that Camille had used, he came to
think that he was Camille; he identified with his victim. His brain was bursting, so he would rush at
his wife to make her be quiet, so as not to hear the words that were driving him insane. All their rows
would end in blows.
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XXX
The time came when it occurred to Mme Raquin to let herself die of hunger in order to escape the
agony that she had to endure. Her resistance was at an end; she could no longer bear the torment
imposed on her by the continual presence of the murderers and she dreamed of finding an end to all
her suffering in death. Every day, when Thérèse kissed her, and when Laurent took her in his arms and
carried her like a child, her pain intensified. She made up her mind to escape from these caresses and
embraces which aroused such horrible repugnance in her. Since she was no longer fully enough alive
to revenge her son, she preferred to be entirely dead and leave the killers with nothing except a body,
devoid of feeling, which they could treat as they wished.
For two days, she refused all food, using the last of her strength to clench her teeth and spit out
what they managed to get into her mouth. Thérèse was in despair. She wondered where she could
kneel and weep in repentance when her aunt was no longer there. She talked endlessly to her, to
convince her that she should live; she wept, she even grew angry, as she had done in the past, opening
the paralysed woman’s jaws as one does the jaws of an animal that does not want to be fed. Mme
Raquin held firm. The struggle was appalling.
Laurent maintained an attitude of perfect neutrality and indifference. He was amazed by the violent
efforts that Thérèse put into preventing the cripple’s suicide. Now that the old woman’s presence was
no longer useful to them, he wanted her to die. He would not have killed her himself, but since she
wished for death, he saw no need to deny her the means to achieve her goal.
‘Oh, leave her!’ he would shout at his wife. ‘Good riddance. Perhaps we will be happier when she
is not here any more.’
This last remark, which he often repeated in front of her, aroused strange emotions in Mme Raquin.
She was afraid that Laurent’s hopes would be fulfilled, and that after her death the couple would
enjoy tranquil, happy days. She told herself that it was cowardly to die and that she had no right to go
before she had seen the sinister adventure through to its end. Only then could she go down into the
shades and tell Camille: ‘You are avenged.’ The thought of suicide began to weigh on her when she
suddenly considered the unknowns that she would take into the tomb: there, amid the cold and silence
of the earth she would sleep, eternally racked by doubts about the punishment of her tormentors. To
sleep properly the sleep of death, she had to lapse into insensibility feeling the sharp joy of revenge;
she had to take with her a dream of hatred satisfied, one that she would dream throughout eternity. She
took the food that her niece brought her and agreed to carry on living.
In any case, she saw that the end could not be far away. Every day the couple’s situation became
more tense and more unbearable. They were heading quickly towards a crisis that would destroy them
both. Day by day, Thérèse and Laurent took up ever more threatening positions towards one another.
It was not only at night that their intimacy tortured them: their whole days were spent in crises of self-
destructive agony. Everything brought terror and suffering to them. They lived in a hell, wounding one
another, making whatever they did and said bitter and cruel, each hoping to drive the other towards
the gulf that they could feel before their feet, and falling into it together.
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Both of them had had the idea of separating. Each in turn had dreamed of running away to enjoy
some rest far from this Passage du Pont-Neuf where the damp and dirt seemed to have been designed
especially for their desolate existence. But they did not dare, they could not escape. The thought of not
rending each other apart, of not staying there to suffer and inflict suffering, seemed impossible to
them. They were obstinate in their hatred and cruelty. A sort of attraction and repulsion drove them
asunder and kept them together at the same time. They felt that peculiar sensation of two people who,
after an argument, want to separate, yet keep on coming back to shout fresh insults at one another.
Then there were material obstacles to flight: they did not know what to do with the cripple, or what to
say to their Thursday guests. If they fled, people might suspect something: they imagined being hunted
down and guillotined. So they stayed, out of cowardice; they stayed and grovelled in the horror of
their existence.
When Laurent was not there, during the mornings and afternoons, Thérèse would go from the dining
room to the shop, gnawed by anxiety, not knowing how to fill the void that every day sank deeper in
her. She was at a loose end when not weeping at Mme Raquin’s feet or being beaten and insulted by
her husband. As soon as she was alone in the shop, a sense of despondency overcame her: she would
look out numbly at the people going up and down the dirty, black arcade, and become mortally
depressed in the depths of this dark tomb stinking of the graveyard. Eventually, she asked Suzanne to
come and spend whole days with her, hoping that the presence of this sad creature, all soft and pale,
would calm her nerves.
Suzanne gleefully accepted the offer. She still felt a kind of respectful friendship towards Thérèse,
and had long wanted to come and work with her while Olivier was in his office. She brought along
her embroidery and took up Mme Raquin’s empty place behind the counter.
From that day on, Thérèse left her aunt more alone. She went up less often to weep on her knees
and kiss her dead cheeks. She had something else to occupy her. She made an effort to listen to
Suzanne’s slow chattering on about her family and the trivialities of her monotonous life. It took
Thérèse out of herself. She was sometimes surprised to find herself getting interested in some
nonsense and would later smile bitterly to herself over it.
Little by little, she lost all the customers who used to come to the shop. Since her aunt had become
immobilized upstairs in her chair, she let the shop go to the dogs, abandoning the goods to dust and
damp. There was a smell of mould about the place, cobwebs hung from the ceiling and the floor was
hardly ever brushed. Apart from that, what drove the customers away was the strange manner in
which Thérèse would sometimes greet them. When she was upstairs, being beaten by Laurent or
seized by a fit of terror, and the bell on the shop door tinkled imperiously, she would have to go
down, almost without taking the time to tie up her hair and wipe away her tears. On such occasions
she would serve the waiting customer brusquely and often not even take the trouble to serve her,
shouting down from the top of the wooden staircase that she no longer had whatever the customer
wanted. This offhand treatment was not calculated to retain the clientele. The little girls who worked
in the district were used to the gentle manners of Mme Raquin and took themselves elsewhere when
they got Thérèse’s rough treatment and mad looks. And when Thérèse took Suzanne in with her, the
exodus was complete: the two young women did not want to be disturbed in their gossiping and made
sure they drove off the last few customers who were still bothering to turn up. From then on the
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haberdashery business no longer contributed a single sou to the household budget and they had to
break into the capital of forty or so thousand francs.
Sometimes, Thérèse would go out for a whole afternoon at a time. No one knew where she went.
She must have taken on Suzanne not only to keep her company but also to keep shop while she was
away. In the evening, when she came back exhausted, her eyelids black with fatigue, she would find
Olivier’s little wife hunched behind the counter, smiling a vague smile and sitting exactly as she had
left her five hours earlier.
Five months after her wedding, Thérèse had a scare. She became convinced that she was pregnant.
The idea of having a child by Laurent appalled her, though she could not explain why. She was
vaguely afraid that she might give birth to a drowned baby. She thought she could feel the cold of a
soft, rotting corpse in her womb. She wanted at any cost to get rid of this child that was chilling her
and which she could not carry any longer. She said nothing to her husband, but one day, after she had
severely provoked him, he began to kick her and she offered him her belly. She let him kick her
almost to death and the next day she had a miscarriage.
Laurent, for his part, was leading a dreadful existence. The days seemed unbearably long to him,
each one bringing the same anxieties, the same heavy tedium, which would settle on him at particular
moments with a deadening monotony and punctuality. He dragged himself through life, horrified every
evening by the memory of the last day and anticipation of the next. He knew that from now on all his
days would be alike and each would bring the same suffering. He could see the weeks, months and
years awaiting him, dark and pitiless, coming one after another to settle on him and stifle him. When
there is no hope for the future, the present acquires a vile, bitter taste. There was no rebellion left in
Laurent; he slumped and gave himself up to the void that was already starting to possess his being.
The idleness was killing him. First thing in the morning, he would go out, wandering aimlessly,
sickened by the thought of doing the same thing as he had done the day before, and forced despite
himself to repeat it. He would go to his studio, from force of habit, obsessively. This grey-walled
room, out of which you could see only an empty square of sky, filled him with melancholy sadness.
He would fling himself down on the divan, his arms dangling and his thoughts leaden. In any case, he
did not dare to touch a brush now. He had made some fresh attempts and Camille’s face had always
sniggered at him from the canvas. To avoid lapsing into insanity, he eventually threw his box of paints
into a corner and abandoned himself to the most utter laziness. He found this imposed idleness
incredibly hard to bear.
In the afternoon, he would rack his brains to think of something to do. He would spend half an hour
on the pavement in the Rue Mazarine wondering about it, hesitating between the various forms of
entertainment that he might choose. He rejected the idea of going back to his studio and would always
decide to go down the Rue Guénégaud, then walk along the banks of the Seine. So until evening he
would carry straight on, in a daze, shivering suddenly from time to time when he looked at the river.
Whether he was in his studio or in the street, he felt the same oppression. The next day, he would start
all over again, spending the morning on his divan and, in the afternoon, wandering along the river
bank. This had lasted for months and could go on for years.
Sometimes it occurred to Laurent that he had killed Camille in order to enjoy a life of leisure, and
he was quite astonished, now that he did have nothing to do, to be enduring such misery. He would
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have liked to oblige himself to be happy. He would prove to himself that he had no reason to suffer,
that he had just achieved the height of happiness, which consists in folding one’s arms, and that he
was an idiot not to indulge tranquilly in such bliss. But his arguments collapsed in the face of reality.
Inside, he was forced to admit that idleness made his sufferings even worse, leaving him every
moment of his life to think about his despair and experience its incurable bitterness. Laziness, the
animal existence that he had dreamed of, was his punishment. There were times when he eagerly
longed for some occupation that would take him out of himself. Then he would let himself go and
abandon himself to the dull fate that bound his limbs, all the better to crush him.
In truth, he felt some release only when he was beating Thérèse in the evenings. This gave him
relief from the dull ache inside.
His worst suffering, one that was both mental and physical, came from the bite that Camille had
inflicted on his neck. There were times when he imagined that this scar covered his whole body. If he
did manage to forget the past, he would seem to feel a sharp pricking, which brought the murder back
to his flesh and into his mind. He could not stand in front of a mirror without seeing the phenomenon
that he had so often noticed, one that never failed to terrify him: the emotion that he felt would have
the effect of bringing the blood up to his neck, making the scar purple and causing it to eat into his
flesh. This sort of living wound that he had on him, which would awake, redden and gnaw at the
slightest hint of anxiety, terrified and tortured him. He came to believe that the drowned man’s teeth
had buried some creature there that was devouring him. He felt that the piece of his neck with the scar
on it no longer belonged to his body; it was like some alien flesh that had been stuck on in that place,
like poisoned meat rotting his own muscles away. In this way he carried the living, devouring
memory of his crime everywhere with him. When he used to beat Thérèse, she would try to scratch
him on that spot; sometimes her nails would dig into it, making him scream with pain. Usually, she
would sob when she saw the bite, to make it even more unbearable for Laurent. Her whole revenge
for his brutality towards her was to torment him with the help of that bite.
Often when he was shaving he had been tempted to cut into his neck in order to remove the marks
of the drowned man’s teeth. Looking into the mirror, when he lifted up his chin and saw the red mark
under the white shaving soap, he would be seized with sudden fury and bring the razor quickly across,
ready to cut into the living flesh. But the cold of the instrument on his neck1 always brought him back
to his senses. He would feel faint and have to sit down and wait until his cowardice had been
appeased enough for him to continue shaving.
In the evening, he would emerge from his lethargy only to launch into an outburst of blind, puerile
anger. When he was tired of quarrelling with Thérèse and beating her, he would kick out at the wall,
like a child, looking for something to break. This would relieve his feelings. He had a particular
loathing of François, the tabby cat, who as soon as he came in would take refuge on the paralysed
woman’s lap. If Laurent had not yet killed it, this was only because he did not dare to pick it up. The
cat would look at him with large, round eyes, staring diabolically. It was these eyes, constantly
settled on him, that drove the young man mad: he wondered what they meant, these eyes, forever
looking in his direction, and in the end he really got the wind up and imagined some ridiculous things.
When he was sitting at the table he would abruptly turn round at any time, in the midst of a quarrel or
a long silence, to see François’s look examining him in this serious, implacable manner, then he
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would go pale and lose his head. He was on the point of yelling: ‘Hey! Say something! Tell me what
you want, for once.’ When he managed to tread on a paw or on the cat’s tail, he did so with savage
joy, but then the poor creature’s miaowing filled him with a vague sense of horror, as though he had
heard a person cry out in pain. Laurent was literally afraid of François, especially since the cat had
taken to living on the old woman’s knees, as though inside an impregnable fortress from which he
could fix his green eyes with impunity on his enemy, Camille’s murderer, who found some
resemblance between the cat and the paralysed woman. He told himself that the cat, like Mme Raquin,
knew about the crime and would denounce him some day if he were ever to speak.
Finally, one evening, François was staring so hard at Laurent that the latter, driven to exasperation,
decided that enough was enough. He opened wide the dining-room window and went over to grasp
the cat by the skin of its neck. Mme Raquin understood, and two large tears ran down her cheeks. The
cat started to snarl and hiss, stiffening itself and trying to turn round to bite Laurent’s hand. But he did
not let go. He whirled the cat around his head a couple of times, then smashed it as hard as he could
against the great black wall opposite. François struck it and, his back broken, fell on to the glass roof
of the arcade. Throughout the whole of that night, the wretched animal dragged itself along the gutter,
its spine fractured, making harsh miaowing noises. That night, Mme Raquin mourned François almost
as much as she had done Camille, and Thérèse had a dreadful nervous crisis. The cat’s moans in the
darkness under their windows were quite sinister.
Soon Laurent had new things to worry him. He was disturbed by certain changes that he noted in
his wife’s attitude.
Thérèse became sombre and taciturn. She no longer smothered Mme Raquin with her repentance
and her grateful kisses, but instead resumed her old attitude of cold cruelty and self-centred
indifference towards the paralysed woman. It was as though she had tried remorse and, when that
failed to relieve her pain, had turned towards other remedies. No doubt her sadness came from her
inability to find peace in her life. She looked at the cripple with a sort of contempt, like some useless
object that could not even serve to console her any longer. She attended to her as little as possible,
short of letting her die of hunger. From that moment on, she dragged herself around the house, silent
and depressed; and she started to go out more often, staying away as many as four or five times a
week.
These changes surprised and alarmed Laurent. He thought that remorse was taking a new form in
Thérèse and coming out as this bored melancholy that he noticed in her. This boredom seemed to him
far more disquieting than the despairing chatter that she had previously heaped on him. She no longer
said anything, she did not argue with him, she seemed to keep everything locked up deep inside her.
He would have preferred to hear her exhausting her suffering than to see her turned in on herself in
this way. He was afraid that the anxiety would one day be too much for her and that, to relieve her
feelings, she would go and tell everything to a priest or a magistrate.
At this, Thérèse’s frequent excursions took on a disturbing meaning for him. He thought that she
must be looking for a confidant outside and was preparing to betray him. Twice, he tried to follow
her, but lost her in the street. He began to keep watch on her once again. An obsession took hold of
him: Thérèse was going to reveal everything, pushed to extremes by her suffering, and he had to gag
her, to stifle the confession in her throat.
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XXXI
One morning, Laurent, instead of going up to his studio, settled down at a wine shop, which occupied
one of the corners of the Rue Guénégaud, opposite the arcade. From there he began to study the
people who were coming out on to the pavement of the Rue Mazarine. He was looking out for
Thérèse. The evening before, the young woman had said that she would be going out early and that
she would probably not be back until evening.
Laurent waited a full half-hour. He knew that his wife always took the Rue Mazarine, but for a
moment he was afraid that she had evaded him by going down the Rue de Seine. He thought of going
back to the arcade and hiding in the alleyway right beside the house. Just as he was getting impatient,
he saw Thérèse quickly emerging from the arcade. She was dressed in light colours and, for the first
time, he noticed that she was done up like a street-walker, with a long train. She was mincing along
the pavement in a provocative manner, looking at the men and lifting up the front of her skirt, taking it
in her hands, so that she was showing the front of her legs, her laced boots and her white stockings.
She went up the Rue Mazarine. Laurent followed.
The weather was mild and the young woman walked slowly, her head a little thrown back, her hair
hanging down her back. Men who had looked at her as she came towards them turned round to see her
from behind. She went down the Rue de l’École-de-Médecine.1 Laurent was terrified: he knew that
there was a police station somewhere around here and thought to himself that there was no longer any
doubt about it, his wife was definitely going to turn him in. So he vowed to rush over and grab her if
she went through the door of the police station, to beg her, beat her and force her to keep silent. At
one street corner, she looked at a constable going past, and Laurent dreaded seeing her go up to the
man, so he hid in a doorway, fearful suddenly that he would be arrested on the spot if he showed
himself. For him, the walk was a real torment: while his wife was sauntering along the pavement in
the sunshine, carefree and shameless, her skirts trailing, here he was following her, pale and
trembling, thinking that it was all over, there was no escape, he was for the guillotine. Every step she
took seemed to him a step nearer his punishment. Fear gave him a sort of blind certainty, which every
one of the young woman’s actions only served to increase. He followed her, going where she went, as
a man goes to the scaffold.
Suddenly, coming out on to the former Place Saint-Michel, Thérèse headed towards a café that was
then on the corner of the Rue Monsieur-le-Prince.2 She sat down in the middle of a group of women
and students at one of the tables on the street. She greeted all these people as friends, shaking their
hands. Then she ordered an absinthe.
She appeared to be at her ease, talking to a young, fair-haired man who had probably been waiting
there some time for her. Two girls came and leaned over the table where she was sitting, and started
to talk familiarly to her in their husky voices. Around her were women smoking cigarettes and men
kissing women openly on the street, in front of passers-by who did not even bother to turn round.
Laurent, standing motionless under a doorway on the far side of the street, could hear their coarse
laughs and swear words.
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When Thérèse had finished her absinthe, she got up, took the arm of the fair-haired man and set off
down the Rue de la Harpe. Laurent followed them to the Rue Saint-André-des-Arts. There, he saw
them go into a lodging-house. He stayed there in the middle of the street looking up towards the front
of the house. His wife appeared for a moment at an open window on the second floor; then he thought
he could see the fair-haired young man’s hands taking her around the waist. The window clanged shut.
Laurent understood. Without waiting any longer, he set off calmly, happy and reassured.
‘Huh!’ he said, as he walked back towards the Seine. ‘That’s better. This way at least she has
something to do and won’t get up to mischief. She’s a lot smarter than I am.’
What astonished him was that he had not been the first to have the idea of relapsing into vice. He
could have found a cure there for his terrors. He had not thought of it, because his flesh was dead and
he no longer felt the slightest desire for debauchery. His wife’s infidelity left him entirely unmoved;
he experienced no revulsion of the blood or the nerves at the idea of her in the arms of another man.
On the contrary, it amused him: he felt as though he had been following the wife of some acquaintance
and chuckled at the trick that she was playing on her husband. Thérèse had become so much a stranger
to him that she no longer had any place in his heart; he would have sold and delivered her to another
man a hundred times for the sake of an hour’s peace.
He started to stroll along, enjoying the sudden, pleasant feeling of having switched from anxiety to
calm. He was almost grateful to his wife for going to join a lover when he had thought she was on her
way to the police. He was pleasantly surprised by the unexpected outcome of this adventure. What
was most clear to him in all this was that he had been wrong to worry, and that he ought to indulge in
a little vice himself to see if it might not relieve him by drowning out his thoughts.
That evening when he got back to the shop, Laurent decided that he would ask his wife for a few
thousand francs and go to any length to get them out of her. It occurred to him that vice is expensive
for a man, and he felt vaguely envious of women, who can sell themselves. He waited patiently for
Thérèse, who was not yet back. When she did come in, he tackled her gently and said nothing of
spying on her that morning. She was a little drunk and her clothes, carelessly buttoned, gave off the
rancid smell of tobacco and liquor that hangs around bars. Tired out, her face blotchy, she could
hardly stand on her feet, heavy with the shameful exhaustion of her day.
There was silence at the table; Thérèse did not eat. At dessert, Laurent put his elbows up and asked
point blank for five thousand francs.
‘No,’ she answered drily. ‘If I gave you a chance, you’d ruin us … Don’t you know how things
stand? We’re heading straight for penury as it is.’
‘Perhaps we are,’ he replied calmly. ‘I don’t care. I want money.’
‘No, a thousand times no! You’ve left your job, we’re not making anything from the haberdashery,
and we’re not going to be able to live off the income from my dowry. Every day, I have to break into
the savings to feed you and give you the hundred francs a month that you squeezed out of me. You
won’t have anything more, do you understand? There’s no point in asking.’
‘Just think a moment, and don’t refuse me like that. I’m telling you, I want five thousand francs, and
I’ll have them. You’ll give them to me, whatever you say.’
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This placid obstinacy infuriated Thérèse and completed her intoxication.
‘Oh, now I understand!’ she yelled. ‘You want to finish as you started. We’ve been keeping you for
four years. You only came here to eat and drink and since then you’ve been living off us. His
Highness does nothing, his Highness has contrived to live at my expense, with his arms folded. No,
you won’t have anything, not a penny. Do you want me to tell you what you are? Well, I will. You’re
a …’3
She said it. Laurent shrugged his shoulders and began to laugh, replying merely:
‘You’ve picked up some nice words from the company you’re keeping nowadays.’
This was the only reference he chose to make to Thérèse’s adultery. She looked up sharply and
said, in a bitter voice:
‘In any case, I’m not mixing with murderers.’
Laurent went very pale. For a moment he stayed silent, staring at his wife, then he said, in a
trembling voice:
‘Listen here, my girl, let’s not row with each other. It won’t do either of us any good. I’m at the end
of my tether. It would be a good idea if we made a deal, if we don’t want something dreadful to
happen. I asked you for five thousand francs because I need it. I might even tell you that I’m thinking
of using the money to make sure we have a quiet life.’
He gave an odd smile and went on:
‘Now, think and give me your final word.’
‘I’ve thought it all through,’ the young woman replied. ‘As I told you, you won’t get a sou.’
Her husband jumped to his feet. She was afraid he would beat her and hunched up, determined not
to give way to his blows. But Laurent did not even go near her; he just said coldly that he was tired of
life and that he was going to the local police station to tell them all about the murder.
‘You’re driving me to the limit,’ he said. ‘You’re making my life unbearable. I’d rather have done
with it. We’ll both be tried and condemned. That’s it.’
‘Do you think you’re frightening me?’ his wife shouted. ‘I’m as sick of it as you are. I’m the one
who’s going to the police, if you don’t. Oh, yes! I’m ready to follow you to the scaffold, I won’t be
such a coward as you. Come on, let’s go to the police station.’
She had got up and was already walking towards the stairs.
‘That’s right,’ Laurent stammered. ‘We’ll go together.’
When they were down in the shop, they looked at one another, anxious and afraid. It felt as though
someone had just pinned them to the ground. The few seconds that it had taken to come down the
wooden staircase had been enough to show them, in a flash, what would happen if they confessed. At
one and the same time, they saw the gendarmes, prison, the assizes and the guillotine — all at once
and clearly. In their hearts, they felt weak, they were tempted to fall on their knees and beg each other
to stay, not to reveal anything. Fear and confusion kept them there, motionless and silent for two or
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three minutes. Thérèse was the first to speak and give way.
‘After all,’ she said, ‘it’s very silly of me to argue over the money. You’ll manage to squander it
all for me one day or another. I might as well give it to you straight away.’
She made no further attempt to disguise her defeat. She sat down at the counter and signed an order
for five thousand francs, which Laurent could cash at a bank. There was no further talk of police
commissioners that evening.
As soon as Laurent had the money in his pocket, he got drunk, went out with girls and embarked on
a noisy, riotous existence. He spent nights away from home, slept during the day and stayed up late,
looking for excitement and trying to escape from reality. All he managed to do was to make himself
more depressed. When people were yelling and shouting all around, he could hear the great silence
inside him; when a woman was kissing him or when he emptied his glass, he found nothing in his
intoxication but melancholy and sadness. He was no longer able to indulge in lust and gluttony: his
being had cooled and, as it were, gone hard inside; food and kisses only irritated him. Sickened
before he began, he could not manage to arouse his imagination, to excite his senses and his stomach.
The more he drove himself to debauchery, the more he suffered, and that was that. Then, when he got
home and saw Mme Raquin and Thérèse, his lassitude gave way to frightful attacks of terror. He
swore that he would not go out any more, but stick with his suffering, get used to it and overcome it.
Thérèse for her part went out less and less often. For a month, she lived as Laurent did, on the
pavements and in cafés. She would come back for a moment in the evening, give Mme Raquin
something to eat, put her to bed, then go out again until morning. On one occasion, she and her
husband went for four days without seeing one another. Then she felt a profound sense of repulsion
and realized that vice was not doing her any more good than the pretence of remorse. In vain had she
visited all the lodging-houses of the Latin Quarter, in vain had she led an indecent and dissolute life.
Her nerves were shattered; debauchery and physical pleasure no longer gave her a strong enough
shock to bring oblivion. She was like one of those drunkards whose palate is burned out and who
remains indifferent even to the fire of the strongest liquors. Lust left her unmoved and she no longer
sought anything from her lovers except boredom and exhaustion. So she would leave them, telling
them that she had no further use for them. She was seized with a desperate laziness that kept her in the
house, in a stained petticoat, her hair undone, her face and hands unwashed. She found forgetfulness in
filth.
When the two murderers were face to face like this, tired out, having exhausted all means to save
themselves from each other, they realized that they no longer had the strength to fight. Debauchery had
rejected them and cast them back on their anguish. They found themselves once more in the dark,
damp house in the arcade, where from now on they were more or less imprisoned, because, often
though they had tried for salvation, they had never managed to break the bloody chain that bound them
together. They no longer even dreamed of achieving this impossible feat. They felt so driven, crushed
and linked by circumstances that they realized any attempt at rebellion would be ridiculous. They
resumed their life together, but their hatred became fury.
The evening rows began again. In fact, the blows and shouts lasted throughout the day. Mistrust
was added to hatred and this mistrust finally drove them mad.
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They were afraid of one another. The scene that followed Laurent’s demand for five thousand
francs was soon being replayed morning and evening. They had an obsession with betraying one
another. They could not escape from it. When one of them spoke a word or made a movement, the
other imagined that he or she was planning to go to the commissioner of police. At that they would
fight or plead with one another. In their anger, they would shout that they were going to reveal all and
terrified one another to death; then they trembled, humiliated themselves and promised, with bitter
tears, to keep silent. They suffered terribly, but did not feel brave enough to cure their ills by putting a
hot iron on the wound. When they threatened to confess to the crime, it was only to scare each other
and to drive the thought away, because they would never have found the strength to speak and to look
for peace in punishment.
More than twenty times, they went as far as the door of the police station, one following the other.
Sometimes it was Laurent who wanted to confess to the murder, sometimes it was Thérèse who
would hurry to give herself up. And they always met again in the street, deciding to wait a little
longer, after exchanging insults and earnest entreaties.
Each new crisis would leave them more suspicious and afraid.
They spied on one another, from morning to evening. Laurent no longer left the house in the arcade
and Thérèse would not let him go out alone. Their mutual suspicion and their terror of admitting their
guilt brought them together in an awful union. Never since they were married had they lived so
closely together and never had they suffered so much. But despite the pain that they inflicted, they
never took their eyes off one another, preferring to put up with the most agonizing torments rather than
be apart for an hour. If Thérèse went down to the shop, Laurent would follow her, afraid that she
might talk to a customer. If Laurent was standing at the door, watching the people going up and down
the arcade, Thérèse would stand next to him to make sure that he did not speak to anyone. On
Thursday evening, when the guests were there, the murderers would exchange pleading looks, and
listen with terror to what the other was saying, each expecting a confession from his or her
accomplice and discovering compromising meanings in every new sentence the other began.
This state of war could not go on for much longer.
It got to the point where both Thérèse and Laurent, separately, dreamed of escaping by means of a
new crime from the consequences of their first one. It was essential for one of them to disappear for
the other to enjoy a measure of peace. This idea occurred to them both at the same time: both felt the
pressing need for separation and both wanted that separation to be eternal. The murder that they were
each thinking about seemed natural to them, inevitable, a necessary consequence of the murder of
Camille. They did not even discuss it, they just accepted the scheme as their only salvation. Laurent
decided that he would kill Thérèse, because Thérèse was getting in his way, because she could
destroy him with a word and because she caused him unbearable misery. Thérèse made up her mind
to kill Laurent for the same reasons.
This firm decision to murder calmed them a little. They made their plans. As it happens, they were
acting impulsively, without taking many precautions; they were only vaguely thinking about the
probable consequences of a murder committed without taking into consideration the need for flight
and protection against repercussions. They felt an imperious need to kill one another and obeyed this
need like wild animals. They would not have given themselves up for their first crime, which they had
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so skilfully concealed, yet they were risking the guillotine by committing a second one and not even
considering how to hide it. They were not even aware of this contradiction in their behaviour. They
told themselves simply that if they did manage to escape, they would go and live abroad after taking
all the money. Over a period of a fortnight to three weeks, Thérèse had withdrawn the few thousand
francs that remained of her dowry and was keeping them locked up in a drawer, which Laurent knew
about. They did not for an instant consider what would happen to Mme Raquin.
A few weeks earlier, Laurent had met one of his old school-friends, who was now an assistant to a
famous chemist much concerned with toxicology. This friend had shown him round the laboratory
where he worked, pointing out the equipment and identifying the drugs. One evening, when he had
made up his mind to murder and Thérèse was drinking a glass of sugar water in front of him, Laurent
remembered having seen a little stone flask in the laboratory containing prussic acid. Recalling what
the young assistant had told him about the terrible effects of this poison, which strikes its victims
down, leaving few traces, he decided that this was the poison he needed. The next day, he managed to
get away, went to see his friend and, while his back was turned, stole the little stone flask.
The same day, Thérèse took advantage of Laurent’s absence to sharpen a large kitchen knife that
they used to crush sugar and which was quite blunt. She hid the knife in a corner of the sideboard.
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XXXII
The following Thursday, the evening at the Raquins’ (as their guests continued to call the family), was
an especially merry one. It went on until half past eleven. As he was leaving, Grivet said that he had
never spent such an agreeable few hours.
Suzanne, who was pregnant, spoke constantly to Thérèse about her pains and joys. Thérèse
appeared to be listening with much interest; with staring eyes and tight lips, she would bend her head
forward from time to time and her lowered eyelids cast a shadow across her whole face. Laurent for
his part was paying close attention to the stories of Old Michaud and Olivier. These gentlemen had an
unfailing fund of anecdotes and Grivet managed only with difficulty to get a word in between two
sentences from the father and son. In any case, he had some respect for them and considered them
good talkers. That evening, talk had replaced games and he gauchely announced that he found the
former police commissioner’s conversation almost as amusing as a game of dominoes.
In the more than four years that the Michauds and Grivet had spent Thursday evenings at the
Raquins‘, they had not once grown tired of these monotonous evenings, which returned with
infuriating regularity. As they entered, they had never for a moment suspected the drama that was
being played out in this house, so peaceful and so mild. Olivier would commonly remark, in a
policeman’s joke, that the dining room had ‘a whiff of honesty’ about it. Grivet, not to be outdone,
called it the Temple of Peace. Recently, on two or three occasions, Thérèse had explained the bruises
on her face by telling her guests that she had fallen over. In any case, none of them would have
recognized the signs of Laurent’s fist. They were convinced that their hosts’ family was a model one,
all sweetness and love.
The paralysed woman no longer attempted to reveal the infamous truth behind the dreary
tranquillity of their Thursday evenings. Watching the murderers tearing into one another and guessing
the crisis that was bound to erupt one day or another, as the inevitable result of the chain of events,
she soon realized that the situation would resolve itself without her help. From then on, she remained
calm and allowed the consequences of Camille’s murder, which would kill the murderers in their
turn, to take their natural course. She merely begged heaven to leave her enough life to witness the
violent outcome that she foresaw. Her last wish was to feast her eyes on the spectacle of the ultimate
suffering that would destroy Thérèse and Laurent.
That evening, Grivet sat down beside her and talked at length, filling in the questions and answers
as he usually did. But he could not even get a glance out of her. When half past eleven struck, the
guests got up briskly.
‘We’re so happy here,’ Grivet said, ‘that we never consider leaving.’
‘The fact is,’ Michaud added, ‘that I’m never sleepy here, though my usual bedtime is half past
nine.’
Olivier thought it was time for his little joke.
‘You see,’ he said, exhibiting his yellow teeth, ‘there’s a whiff of honesty hereabouts, that’s why
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we’re so happy.’
Grivet, annoyed that Olivier had got in first, declaimed with an expansive gesture: ‘This room is
the Temple of Peace.’
Meanwhile, knotting the ribbons on her bonnet, Suzanne said to Thérèse: ‘I’ll be here tomorrow at
nine.’
‘No,’ the young woman replied, quickly. ‘Don’t come until the afternoon. I’ll probably go out in the
morning.’
She spoke in an odd, anxious voice. She accompanied her guests into the passage; Laurent came
down, too, with a lamp in his hand. When they were alone, the couple gave a sigh of relief; they must
have been suffering a vague feeling of impatience the whole evening. Since the previous day, they had
been in a more sombre mood and were behaving more anxiously. They avoided looking at one
another and went back upstairs in silence. Their hands were twitching convulsively and Laurent had
to put the lamp down on the table to avoid dropping it.
Before putting Mme Raquin to bed, they were in the habit of tidying up the dining room, getting a
glass of sugar water for the night and coming and going around the cripple, until everything was
prepared. But that evening, when they came back up, they sat down for a moment, staring into space
and pale-lipped. After a moment’s silence, Laurent seemed to start, as though coming out of a dream,
and asked: ‘Well, then! Aren’t we going to bed?’
‘Yes, yes, we’re going to bed,’ Thérèse replied shivering, as though feeling very cold.
She got up and took the water jug.
‘Leave it!’ her husband shouted, trying to control his voice. ‘I’ll make the sugar water. You look
after your aunt.’
He took the jug out of his wife’s hands and filled a glass with water. Then, half turning away, he
emptied the little stone flask into it and added a piece of sugar. While this was going on, Thérèse was
crouching in front of the sideboard. She had taken the kitchen knife and was trying to slip it into one of
the large pockets hanging from her belt.
At that moment, the strange sensation that warns one of the approach of danger made the couple
instinctively turn round. They looked at one another. Thérèse saw the flask in Laurent’s hands and
Laurent saw the silver flash of the knife shining in the folds of Thérèse’s dress. For a few seconds,
silently, coldly, they stared at one another, the husband beside the table, the wife crouching next to the
sideboard. They understood. Each one felt a cold chill on discovering that they had both had the same
thought. As they mutually read their secret plans on their devastated faces, they felt pity and horror for
themselves and each other.
Mme Raquin, sensing that the end was nigh, was watching them with a keen stare.
And, suddenly, Thérèse and Laurent burst into tears. A supreme crisis overwhelmed them and
drove them into each other’s arms, as weak as children. They felt as though something soft and loving
had awoken in their breasts. They wept, without speaking, thinking of the degraded life they had led,
and that they would continue to lead, if they were cowards enough to go on living. So, remembering
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the past, they felt so weary and sickened by themselves, that they had a vast need for rest, for
oblivion. They looked at each other one last time, with a look of gratitude, considering the knife and
the glass of poison. Thérèse took the glass, half emptied it and handed it to Laurent, who finished it in
a gulp. It was like a shaft of lightning. They fell, one on top of the other, struck down, finding
consolation at last in death. The young woman’s mouth fell against the scar on her husband’s neck left
by Camille’s teeth.
The bodies stayed throughout the night on the dining-room floor, twisted, arched and lit by the
streaks of yellowish light cast by the shade of the lamp. And for nearly twelve hours, until the
following day around noon, Mme Raquin, silent and unmoving, stared at them where they lay at her
feet, unable to have enough of the spectacle, crushing them with her merciless gaze.
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Notes
PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION (1868)
1 temperament, not character: See Introduction, pp. xxvi-xxvii.
2 compelled to call their ‘remorse’: See Introduction, p. xxix.
3 the back stage: The accusation of hypocrisy had been made in similar terms by the Goncourts in the
Preface to Germinie Lacerteux: the public, they said, ‘likes saucy little books, the memoirs of
whores, bedroom confessions, erotic filth …’
4 two or three men who can read, understand and judge a book: Zola is thinking in particular of the
critics Hippolyte Taine and Charles-Augustin Sainte-Beuve.
5 to the background of a novel: Taine, in a letter early in 1868, makes comparisons with
Shakespeare, Dickens and Balzac, as well as criticisms which are very similar to the ones that Zola
mentions: ‘a book should always be, more or less, a portrait of the whole, a mirror to an entire
society … You need to enlarge your framework and balance your effects.’ (Quoted in the Petits
Classiques Larousse edition of Thérèse Raquin (see Further Reading), p. 441 .)
6 ‘putrid literature’: A reference to the review of Thérèse Raquin in Le Figaro, 23 January 1868,
by Louis Ulbach (see Introduction, p. xiii).
CHAPTER I
1 Passage du Pont-Neuf… Rue Mazarine … Rue de Seine: ‘You describe the Passage du Pont-Neuf,’
Sainte-Beuve said in his letter to Zola (10 June 1868). ‘I know this arcade as well as anyone … [it is]
flat, banal, ugly and, above all, narrow, but it does not possess the deeply melancholy colour and the
Rembrandtesque shades that you ascribe to it …’ The arcade in question is on the Left Bank of the
Seine, but in 1912 it was rebuilt and renamed Rue Jacques-Callot. The Rue Mazarine, a street leading
towards the river, forms a junction with the eastern end of the Rue Saint-André-des-Arts. The Rue de
Seine runs from the Quai Malaquais to the Boulevard Saint-Germain, at right angles to the Passage du
Pont-Neuf.
2 fifteen sous: The unit of currency was the franc, divided into a hundred centimes. A sou was worth
five centimes, but in the plural the word was (and still is) commonly used to mean a small amount of
money. Five francs was worth about one American dollar or four English shillings (one-fifth of a
pound sterling).
CHAPTER II
1 . Vernon: A small town in Normandy on the Seine.
2 Algeria: The French conquest of Algeria began in 1830 and was more or less complete by the time
this novel was written, though, as one can see from the fate of Captain Degans, it was not an entirely
safe posting for the army. The country became an important colony with a large population of settlers
from around the Mediterranean, and was to remain French until the war of independence (1954-62). It
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forms the background to travel writings and novels, and is frequently mentioned in nineteenth-century
literature.
CHAPTER III
1 . the Orléans Railway Company: One of five railway companies in France, set up in 1838, it had
its headquarters in the Gare d‘Orléans, now the Gare d’Austerlitz, which was rebuilt in 1867-8.
2 from the Institut to the Jardin des Plantes: The Institut is the building housing the five former
royal academies, including the Académie Française. It moved to this building on the Left Bank of the
Seine in 1806. The Jardin des Plantes is the botanical garden founded in 1635, which had the great
scientist Georges-Louis Buffon (see note 4, below) as superintendent during the eighteenth century,
when it was known as the Jardin du Roi. In 1792 it acquired a menagerie and in the following year
the Museum of Natural History was set up in the garden, close to the Gare d’Orléans.
3 Port aux Vins: Situated on the Quai Saint-Bernard, where wine was offloaded on its way to the
wine market, the Halle aux Vins, was in the area between the Rue Jussieu and the Quai Saint-Bernard,
now occupied by the Faculty of Sciences of the Universities of Paris VI and VII.
4 Buffon: Georges-Louis Leclerc, Comte de Buffon (1707-88) (see note 2, above), was also the
author of a 36-volume natural history covering cosmology, geology, zoology and botany, which was
virtually an encyclopaedia of the scientific knowledge of his time.
5 the History of the Consulate and the Empire by Thiers and Lamartine’s History of the
Girondins: The historian Adolphe Thiers (1797-1877) was the author of authoritative works on both
the Revolution and the period of Napoleon I’s rule. The poet Alphonse de Lamartine (1790-1869)
published his history of the revolutionary faction of the Girondins in 1847. Both men were opponents
of the regime of Napoleon III.
CHAPTER V
1 Jeufosse: A small town built around an island upriver from Vernon.
2 sanguine beauty: From the start, Zola stresses that Laurent’s temperament is sanguine (as opposed
to bilious, nervous or lymphatic (see Introduction, p. xxvi)). The physical description of Laurent
corresponds to a person of sanguine type and the association of the colour red with him reinforces it.

CHAPTER VI
1 . Rue Saint-Victor: The Rue Saint-Victor runs across the angle formed by the meeting of the Rue
Monge and the Rue des Écoles. Zola had a room in the Rue Saint-Victor during his first years in
Paris.
2 gloria: A sugared coffee or tea with brandy or rum.
CHAPTER VII
1 called each other ‘tu’: Using the familiar second-person singular form of the verb.
2 a sort of diabolical trance: For the first time, the cat François is given some of the sinister
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attributes that make him such a memorable presence in the novel.
CHAPTER IX
1 La Pitié: The Hospice de la Pitié in the Rue Lacépède was not far from the Rue Saint-Victor. It was
built in 1612, originally as a hostel for the homeless, and was later used as an orphanage. In 1809, it
became a general hospital attached to the Hôtel-Dieu, staffed by the nuns of Sainte-Marthe. It was
demolished in 1912.
CHAPTER XI
1 Saint-Ouen or Asnières: Two towns north of Paris on the Seine, which were popular sites for
weekend/day excursions. A number of painters also worked or relaxed here, including Édouard
Manet.
2 fortifications: Paris was surrounded by an inner city wall, which chiefly served for customs
purposes and to mark the administrative boundary of the city. In 1840, under Louis-Philippe, the
fortifications were rebuilt both as a protection for the city and to mark its boundary, along the line of
the present boulevards extérieurs. Beyond them was a so-called military zone, which was wasteland
that no one was allowed to build on.
3 aspens and oaks: François-Marie Mourad, in his edition of the novel (see Further Reading), points
out the similarities between the landscape described here and Édouard Manet’s painting Le Déjeuner
sur l‘herbe, as well as other paintings, including Claude Monet’s study for a painting, also called Le
Déjeuner sur l’herbe (pp. 376-8).
4 the Tuileries: The gardens in Paris laid out by Le Nôtre in 1649, a classic example of a French
formal garden, usually opposed to the more ‘natural’ style favoured by the English. It is not clear why
Camille should think of the Tuileries as an English garden (though a painting by Manet, La Musique
aux Tuileries (1862), does show a crowded scene in a relatively informal, almost wood-land
setting).
CHAPTER XIII
1 the Morgue: Situated after 1863 at the eastern point of the Île Saint-Louis, where it was moved
from the end of the Pont Saint-Michel, on the Île de la Cite, where it was to be found at the time when
the novel is set. Here unidentified bodies were kept for three days, behind a glass screen, under cold
running water, to delay the process of decay. The description in Adolphe Joanne’s Paris illustré en
1878 (Paris: Hachette, 1878), pp. 921-4, corresponds well to that given by Zola in the novel. Joanne
concludes by saying
despite the horror of the spectacle and the customary respect of the people of Paris for death, it is not
unusual to find a more or less solid crowd in the Morgue of men, women and children from the lower
ranks of society. When the newspapers announce the discovery of some crime, curious people arrive
in large numbers, making a queue from morning until evening that sometimes reaches the number of
between 1,000 and 1,500 persons.
2 like a necklace of shadow: Several writers have commented on the similarity of this description of
the hanged girl to Manet’s painting Olympia (where the girl is wearing a black velvet choker around
her neck).
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CHAPTER XVI
1 her temperament: At the start, Thérèse appears to be passive by nature. Her affair with Laurent has
brought out her repressed, passionate nature, while the aftermath of Camille’s death is accentuating
the nervous element in her.
2 the Salon: The official exhibition of painting and sculpture (see Introduction, p. xix).
3 Bacchante: A female follower of the god Bacchus, whose devotees were driven mad by wine. This
theme from classical mythology would be a typical motif for a painting at the Salon.
CHAPTER XVIII
1 her organism demanded Laurent’s violent embrace: Thérèse, with her nervous temperament,
needs the complement of Laurent’s animal and sanguine one.
CHAPTER XX
1 Belleville: A working-class district in the north-east of Paris.
2 the Code: Weddings in France may consist in a religious service, but must include a civil
ceremony, conducted by the Mayor of the commune or arrondissement in which they take place. As
part of the ceremony, the Mayor reads out the sections of the Civil Code relating to marriage.
CHAPTER XXI
1 looking pale: Zola continues to insist on Thérèse’s pale colouring, characteristic of a person of
nervous temperament.
CHAPTER XXII
1 nervous erethism: A medical term meaning a state of nervous hysteria or overexcitement. The use
of such medical vocabulary shows Zola trying to back up his study of character with the latest
scientific understanding of human psychology. As he shows here, temperament was not thought to be
fixed: after the shock of Camille’s murder, Laurent’s sanguine nature is becoming more nervous, like
Thérèse’s, while she is moving into a state of hysterical hyper-nervousness.
2 a time of perfect living: The ideal situation for an individual was to achieve a balance between the
temperaments, especially between the nervous and sanguine elements in his or her nature.
3 His remorse was purely physical: Zola, who was a non-believer, was keen to emphasize that the
Christian idea of conscience had no part to play in the story: the awful terrors experienced by Laurent
and Thérèse are not a result of Christian remorse, but a physiological reaction to circumstances,
including fear of the consequences of their crime.
4 hysteria: Another medical term, to describe an affliction that was particularly associated at the time
with women. Thérèse has communicated her feminine disease to Laurent and he has become more of a
‘woman’ now that his sanguine temperament has been altered to a nervous one.

CHAPTER XXV
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1 . a tasteful pallor: Another sign of the change in Laurent’s temperament is that he has lost his ruddy,
sanguine complexion, as well as his fleshy face and coarse manner.
2 neurosis: Zola subscribed to the belief that art came from a kind of disorder of the nervous system.
CHAPTER XXVI
1 dumb and immobile: Mme Raquin recalls the paralysed M. Noirtier in Alexandre Dumas’s The
Count of Monte Cristo (1844-5), who also plays a key role in the mechanics of the plot of that novel,
even though he cannot move or speak. In Noirtier’s case, however, he has a willing and sensitive
interpreter in the person of his niece, to whom he communicates by moving his eyebrow.
2 buried… under two or three metres of soil: Edgar Allan Poe’s Tales of Mystery and Imagination,
including ‘The Premature Burial’, were translated into French by Charles Baudelaire between 1848
and 1865. The American writer became even more popular in France than in his own country. His
interest in morbid psychological states provided a link between the Gothic novel of the Romantic
period and the taste for the macabre in the ‘decadent’ later years of the century.
CHAPTER XXX
1 cold of the instrument on his neck: Reminding him of the blade of the guillotine.
CHAPTER XXXI
1 Rue de l‘École-de-Médecine: The street that more or less continues the line of the Rue Mazarine on
the far side of what is now the Boulevard Saint-Germain.
2 Rue Monsieur-le-Prince: The streets in this part of Paris were changing as a result of Haussmann’s
rebuilding programme, but it is clear that Thérèse has turned up the Boulevard Saint-Michel and
headed towards the Luxembourg Gardens.
3 ‘You’re a …’: The missing word presumably is ‘pimp’.
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Title Page
Copyright Page
Introduction
THERESE RAQUIN
Preface to the Second Edition (1868)
I
II
III
IV
V
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
XVII
XVIII
XIX
XX
XXI
XXII
XXIII
XXIV
XXV
XXVI
XXVII
XXIX
XXX
XXXI
XXXII
Notes

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