Free Thérèse Raquin by Émile Zola Page B

Therese. He was chatting with
Laurent, laughing at the jests, at the feats of strength of his friend,
who leapt the ditches and raised huge stones above his head. The young
woman, on the other side of the road, advanced with her head bent
forward, stooping down from time to time to gather an herb. When she had
fallen behind, she stopped and observed her sweetheart and husband in
the distance.
    "Heh! Aren't you hungry?" shouted Camille at her.
    "Yes," she replied.
    "Then, come on!" said he.
    Therese was not hungry; but felt tired and uneasy. She was in ignorance
as to the designs of Laurent, and her lower limbs were trembling with
anxiety.
    The three, returning to the riverside, found a restaurant, where they
seated themselves at table on a sort of terrace formed of planks in an
indifferent eating-house reeking with the odour of grease and wine. This
place resounded with cries, songs, and the clatter of plates and dishes.
In each private room and public saloon, were parties talking in loud
voices, and the thin partitions gave vibrating sonority to all this
riot. The waiters, ascending to the upper rooms, caused the staircase to
shake.
    Above, on the terrace, the puffs of air from the river drove away the
smell of fat. Therese, leaning over the balustrade, observed the quay.
To right and left, extended two lines of wine-shops and shanties of
showmen. Beneath the arbours in the gardens of the former, amid the few
remaining yellow leaves, one perceived the white tablecloths, the dabs
of black formed by men's coats, and the brilliant skirts of women.
People passed to and fro, bareheaded, running, and laughing; and with
the bawling noise of the crowd, was mingled the lamentable strains of
the barrel organs. An odour of dust and frying food hung in the calm
air.
    Below Therese, some tarts from the Latin Quarter were dancing in a ring
on a patch of worn turf singing an infantine roundelay. With hats fallen
on their shoulders, and hair unbound, they held one another by the
hands, playing like little children. They still managed to find a small
thread of fresh voice, and their pale countenances, ruffled by brutal
caresses, became tenderly coloured with virgin-like blushes, while their
great impure eyes filled with moisture. A few students, smoking clean
clay pipes, who were watching them as they turned round, greeted them
with ribald jests.
    And beyond, on the Seine, on the hillocks, descended the serenity
of night, a sort of vague bluish mist, which bathed the trees in
transparent vapour.
    "Heh! Waiter!" shouted Laurent, leaning over the banister, "what about
this dinner?"
    Then, changing his mind, he turned to Camille and said:
    "I say, Camille, let us go for a pull on the river before sitting down
to table. It will give them time to roast the fowl. We shall be bored to
death waiting an hour here."
    "As you like," answered Camille carelessly. "But Therese is hungry."
    "No, no, I can wait," hastened to say the young woman, at whom Laurent
was fixedly looking.
    All three went downstairs again. Passing before the rostrum where the
lady cashier was seated, they retained a table, and decided on a menu,
saying they would return in an hour. As the host let out pleasure boats,
they asked him to come and detach one. Laurent selected a skiff, which
appeared so light that Camille was terrified by its fragility.
    "The deuce," said he, "we shall have to be careful not to move about in
this, otherwise we shall get a famous ducking."
    The truth was that the clerk had a horrible dread of the water. At
Vernon, his sickly condition did not permit him, when a child, to go and
dabble in the Seine. Whilst his schoolfellows ran and threw themselves
into the river, he lay abed between a couple of warm blankets. Laurent
had become an intrepid swimmer, and an indefatigable oarsman. Camille
had preserved that terror for deep water which is inherent in women and
children. He tapped the end of the boat with his foot to make sure of
its solidity.
    "Come, get in,"