[CHAPTER I]
[CHAPTER II]
[CHAPTER III]
[CHAPTER IV]
[CHAPTER V]
[CHAPTER VI]
[CHAPTER VII]
[CHAPTER VIII]
[CHAPTER IX]
[CHAPTER X]
[CHAPTER XI]
[CHAPTER XII]
[CHAPTER XIII]
[Transcriber’s Note:]

THÉRÈSE

Thérèse
By
FRANCOIS MAURIAC
New York
Boni & Liveright
1928

THÉRÈSE BY FRANÇOIS MAURIAC
TRANSLATED BY ERIC SUTTON

COPYRIGHT 1928 BY
BONI & LIVERIGHT, Inc.

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES

LORD have pity, O have pity on those who know not what they do. O Creator of the world, can there be any in whom the image of humanity is destroyed, even in the eyes of Him, who alone knows why they exist, HOW THEY HAVE MADE THEMSELVES WHAT THEY ARE, and how they could have made themselves otherwise.

Charles Baudelaire.

I shall be told, Thérèse, that you do not exist, but I know you do, for I have been watching you for years, and I have often stopped you and unmasked you as you passed me by.

When I was young, I remember seeing your little white thin-lipped face, as you stood in a stifling Assize Court, at the mercy of lawyers not half so pitiless as the fine ladies who had come to see your agony.

Later on, I found you in the drawing-room of a country house, looking drawn and pale, bored by the attentions of your aged parents and your simple-minded husband. “But what can be the matter with her?” said they: “she has everything she can possibly want.”

Since then, I have so often admired you as you passed that strong hand of yours so wearily across your firm broad brow. I have so often seen you prowling, like a wild animal, back and forwards behind the living bars of the family in which you are imprisoned, watching me with your evil melancholy eyes.

Many will be surprised that I have been able to conceive a creature yet more odious than all my other heroines. Why, they ask, do I never write about good kind people in whose hearts there is no secret? Alas! where there is no secret there is no story; and I know the secrets of those hearts that are tainted with the clay that covers them.

I could have wished, Thérèse, that sorrow should bring you to God; and I have long wanted you to be worthy of the name of Saint Locusta. But many, though they believe in the downfall and redemption of our poor tormented souls, would have cried “Sacrilege.”

I can only hope that on that street where I bid you farewell you are not alone.

THÉRÈSE

THÉRÈSE

CHAPTER I

The lawyer opened a door. Thérèse Desqueyroux, as she stood in that remote corridor of the law-courts, felt the fog upon her face and inhaled it deeply. She was afraid some one might be waiting for her, and hesitated to go out. A man with his coat collar turned up appeared from the shadow of a plane tree, and she recognised her father.

“All right,” cried the lawyer; “case dismissed”; and, turning to Thérèse, he added, “You can go out now; no one is there.”

She went down the damp steps; the little Square seemed indeed deserted. Her father did not kiss her, did not even look at her. He asked a few questions of Duros, the lawyer, who answered in low tones, as though he were afraid of being overheard. She just managed to catch what they were saying.

“I shall get the official notification to-morrow.”

“I suppose nothing can go wrong now?”

“No, nothing; it’s all over.”

“I suppose after my son-in-law’s statement, it was a certainty?”

“Well, I’m not so sure.... You never can tell.”

“But after he’d said definitely that he had not counted the drops....”

“My dear Larroque, in affairs of this kind the victim’s evidence....”

Here Thérèse broke in; “But there wasn’t any victim.”

“I meant by victim, the victim of his own imprudence, Madame.”

The two men stared at her for a moment as she stood there motionless, wrapped in her cloak, and looked curiously at her expressionless face. She asked where the carriage was; her father had arranged for it to wait on the Budos road, outside the town, so as not to attract attention.

They crossed the Square, where leaves from the plane trees were sticking to the rain-soaked benches. Fortunately the days had grown much shorter: besides, to get to the Budos road, they could go through the most unfrequented streets of the little provincial town. Thérèse walked between the two men (she was nearly half a head taller than either of them), and they began a further discussion as if she had not been there; but finding the intervening feminine presence inconvenient they began unconsciously to elbow her out of the way. She accordingly dropped a little behind, and took the glove off her left hand so as to be able to pick the moss off the ancient stone walls at her side. From time to time a workman on a bicycle, or a trap came past, and she drew close in to the houses to avoid being splashed with mud. But Thérèse was hidden by the gathering dusk, and no one recognised her. The smell of fog and baking bread was for her not merely the usual evening smell of a little town; it was the perfume of the life that had been restored to her at last. She shut her eyes to savour the moist leafy fragrance of the sleeping earth, and tried not to listen to the words of the short bandy-legged gentleman who did not once turn his head towards his daughter. She might have fallen at the roadside and neither he, nor Duros, would have noticed it. They were no longer afraid to raise their voices.

“Monsieur Desqueyroux’s statement was all that could be desired, but there was that prescription,—in point of fact, it was a question of forgery. And it was Doctor Pédemay who had brought the charge....”

“But he withdrew it.”

“I know; but her explanation—this mysterious individual who handed her a prescription....”

Thérèse walked more slowly, not because she was tired, but to get out of earshot of these phrases that had been dinned into her brain for so many weeks; but it was no use. She could not help hearing her father’s raucous accents:

“I told her over and over again that she must try to think of something else.”

He was quite right, he had indeed said so very often. But what was he worrying about now? What he called the honour of the name, was safe: the whole story would have been forgotten by the time of the Senatorial elections, Thérèse thought to herself, as she did her best not to catch up the two men; but in the heat of the discussion, they stopped, gesticulating at each other, half-way down the street.

“My advice to you, Larroque, is to face the thing out: take the offensive in next Sunday’s Semeur: I’ll see about it if you like. Get them to put in a notice headed ‘An Infamous Rumour’ or something like that.”

“I don’t agree with you, my dear fellow: as a matter of fact there is no case to answer, the prosecution obviously had not a leg to stand on; they did not even consult hand-writing experts. I am sure the best thing will be to say nothing, and hush it all up. I will do what is necessary and I won’t spare expense: we can’t afford to have any scandal, for the sake of the family.”

They had walked on again by this time, and Thérèse did not hear Duros’ answer. She inhaled the damp night air once more as though she were afraid of choking; and suddenly there came before her mind the unknown face of her maternal grandmother Julie Bellade: it was indeed unknown, for neither the Larroque nor the Desqueyroux families possessed a single likeness of her, and nothing was known about her except that she had one day disappeared. Thérèse realised that she too might have been wiped out of existence, and later on not even her little daughter Marie would have been allowed to find in an album the likeness of one who had brought her into the world. At that moment Marie was already asleep in a room at Argelouse, where Thérèse would arrive late that evening: she would listen in the darkness to the murmur of that childish slumber; she would lean over the bed and her lips would drink in the sweetness of that sleeping life like a draught of clear water.

The carriage stood waiting by the ditch at the edge of the road; the hood was raised and the two lamps lit up the skinny hind quarters of the horses. Beyond it towered two dark walls of forest. The tops of the lower tiers of pines on either side met overhead, and the road vanished into the darkness under that dim archway. Above it gleamed the sky, fretted by a network of myriad branches.

The coachman watched Thérèse with greedy curiosity. When she asked him if they would get to Nizan station in time to catch the last train, he said they would if they started at once.

“I shall not need to trouble you again, Gardère.”

“Has Madame no more business here, then?”

She shook her head, while the man still devoured her with his eyes. Would she be looked at like that for the rest of her life?

“Well, are you glad?” asked her father. He seemed at last to have noticed her presence. Thérèse glanced at that sallow bilious countenance, those cheeks bristling with a coarse growth of whitish-yellow hair, so painfully distinct in the light of the carriage lamps.

“I have suffered so much,—I am worn out ...” she began, in low tones; but she soon relapsed into silence. It was no use talking; he was not listening, he was not even looking at her. He cared very little about Thérèse’s feelings. One thing and one thing only mattered to him; his upward progress to the Senate might be impeded and even endangered by this wretched daughter of his: all women, in his opinion, were either hysterical or stupid. Fortunately her name was no longer Larroque: she was a Desqueyroux. Now that they had managed to avoid a trial at the Assizes, he breathed again: but it would be difficult to prevent his enemies keeping the wound open. He would go and see the Prefect the very next day. Thank Heaven, he could do what he liked with the Editor of the Lande Conservatrice. There was that story about those little girls!... He took Thérèse’s arm:

“Get in at once, you’ve no time to lose.”

Then the lawyer, perhaps out of malice, or possibly not liking to let Thérèse go without saying a word to her, asked if she was going back to Monsieur Bernard Desqueyroux that very evening. As she replied, “Of course I am; my husband is expecting me,” she realised for the first time since she had left the Law Courts that she would, in fact, in a few hours, cross the threshold of the room in which her husband was lying, still rather ill, and that this was the beginning of an indefinite succession of days through which she must live in this man’s company.

She had been staying with her father, just outside the little town, while the case had been under investigation, but she had, of course, often made this journey; on the previous occasions, however, she had been intent upon the necessity for giving her husband an exact account of what had happened, and her mind was full of Duros’ last words of advice, as she had got into the carriage, on the answers Monsieur Desqueyroux was to make when he was again questioned. Thérèse had then felt no distress or awkwardness at finding herself face to face once more with the sick man: what they had to consider was not what had really happened, but what they had better say, or not say. Husband and wife had never been so closely united as they were by the preparation of this defence,—drawn together across the infant body of their little daughter Marie. They concocted, for the judge’s benefit, a simple and coherent story, calculated to convince that logical mind. She used to get into the same carriage that was waiting for her this evening: but to-night she dreaded the end of that journey through the darkness which in those days she had found so tedious. She remembered how, the moment she got into the carriage, she longed to be back in that room at Argelouse, and she used to go over in her mind the instructions she was to pass on to her husband: he was to be sure, for instance, to say that she had told him one evening about that prescription which an unknown man had asked her to take to the chemist’s, on the pretext that he did not like to go himself because he owed money there,—but Duros did not advise that Bernard should go so far as to pretend that he remembered remonstrating with his wife for doing such a foolish thing.

Now that the nightmare had been exorcised, what would Bernard and Thérèse talk about that evening? She saw in her mind’s eye the desolate house in which he was awaiting her: she pictured the bed in the centre of that stone-floored room, and the lamp, turned low, standing on a table among a litter of newspapers and medicine bottles. The house-dogs, awakened by the noise of the carriage, bark and are quiet: and then the silence would descend once more, the awful silence of those nights when the wretched Bernard lay racked by frightful paroxysms of vomiting. Thérèse tried to imagine the first moment, not far distant now, when their eyes would meet; and then the ensuing night, the next day, the day after, and the weeks to come, in that house at Argelouse, where they would no longer need to compose a presentable version of the drama they had lived. There would be nothing now between them,—except what had really been there, really, and in very truth. Thérèse lost her nerve, and stammered, turning towards the lawyer,—though her words were intended for the older man:

“I expect to stay a few days with Monsieur Desqueyroux, and then, if he goes on improving, I shall come back to my father.”

“Not a bit of it, my dear,” said Monsieur Larroque, and as Gardère began to fidget on his seat, he added, lowering his voice: “Have you taken leave of your senses? You can’t possibly leave your husband at such a time. You must be inseparable,—inseparable, I tell you, for the rest of your lives.”

“Of course, father: what could I have been thinking of? Then you will come to Argelouse?”

“But I shall expect you over for the fair on Thursdays as usual, Thérèse. You will go on coming as you always did.”

She must surely understand that any departure from existing usages would be fatal. She must realise that, once and for all. He felt sure he could depend upon her, she had done the family enough harm already.

“You must do exactly what your husband tells you, and then you won’t go far wrong.”

And he hurried her into the carriage.

Thérèse noticed the lawyer’s outstretched hand, with its coarse dark nails:

“All’s well that ends well,” said he, and indeed he really meant it. If the case had gone any further he would not have got much out of it. The family would have called in Maître Peyrecave of the Bordeaux Bar: so everything was for the best.

CHAPTER II

Thérèse loved the musty leathery smell of old carriages: and she did not mind having left her cigarettes behind, for she hated smoking in the dark. The carriage lamps lit up the sloping banks each side of the road, a strip of ferns and undergrowth, and the feet of the giant pines. At intervals, heaps of stones by the wayside cut across the moving shadow of the carriage. Sometimes a country cart passed them, and the mules instinctively moved to the right-hand side of the road without a sign from the sleeping muleteer. Thérèse began to feel that she would never reach Argelouse; she hoped she never would. It was more than an hour in the carriage to Nizan, where she got into the little local train that stopped, heaven knows how long, at every station. And from Saint Clair, where she got out, to Argelouse, she had to drive ten miles in a trap, for the road was such that no car could be driven along it at night. Fate could rise up at any one of these stages and set her free. Thérèse indulged herself with the fancy that had come over her the day before the Judge had given his decision, supposing the charge against her had been confirmed: the possibility of an earthquake. She took off her hat, leaned her pale cheeks and little throbbing head against the pungent leather, and let her body sway to the jolting of the carriage. Until that evening she had been living on her nerves: now that she was safe she began to realise the extent of her exhaustion. Her hollow cheeks, gaunt cheek-bones, sunken lips, and low broad forehead, were surely the features of one convicted,—although her fellow-men had not pronounced her guilty,—convicted and condemned to eternal solitude. That charm of hers, which every one used to say was irresistible,— was it not the conscious charm of those who must be always on the watch to conceal their secret torment, the stabbing agony of the wound within them? In the darkness of that jolting carriage, on that highway through the dark pine-forest, sat a young woman, now without her mask, whose face, as she passed her hand wearily across her forehead, was the face of one burning at the stake. What would be the first words of Bernard whose perjury had saved her? He would probably not ask any questions that evening,—but to-morrow? Thérèse shut her eyes, opened them again, and, like horses when they drop into a walk uphill, tried to realise the terrible ascent that lay before her. Well, well, she would not look ahead; it would perhaps be easier than she thought; she would not look ahead at all,—just sleep.... But she is no longer in the carriage ... who is that behind the green-baize table? ... the examining Judge ... what, again? But surely he knows that it is all over. No, he shakes his head: the case cannot be dropped, a new fact has come to light. A new fact? Thérèse turns away so that her enemy shall not see her confusion. “Cast your mind back, Madame: In the inner pocket of that old cloak,—the one you used only in October for pigeon-shooting, was there nothing forgotten or concealed?” She cannot speak, the words stick in her throat. Without taking his eyes off his victim, the Judge lays upon the table a tiny packet sealed with red wax. Thérèse knows by heart the formula written on the label, which he proceeds to read out with terrible distinctness.

• Chloroform: 10 grammes.
• Aconitine: 2 grammes.
• Digitaline: 20 centigrammes.

And the Judge bursts out laughing....

The brake rasped against the wheel, and Thérèse awoke. Her heaving lungs were full of mist,—they must be driving down to the “White Brook.” So, in her girlhood, she used to dream that, by some mistake, she had had to take her junior certificate examination over again; and when she awoke this evening she felt as relieved as she used to do in those far-off days: just a touch of anxiety because the decision was not yet official, though she realised, of course, that her lawyer had to be notified first.

She was free: what more could she want? It would be perfectly simple to put herself right with Bernard. She would make a clean breast of the whole thing, omitting nothing. She would have to tell the whole story, without concealment, and tell it that very evening. This resolution made her feel positively cheerful. Before she got to Argelouse, she would have time to ‘prepare her confession,’ as her pious little friend Anne de la Trave used to say every Saturday of their happy holidays together. Indeed, her innocent little sister Anne played no mean part in this tragedy. These simple creatures do not know in what strange happenings they are involved by day and night, and what poisoned growths spring up under their childish footsteps.

The girl was quite right when she had said, as she so often did to Thérèse, then a sceptical, and mocking schoolgirl: “You can’t think how relieved you feel when you have confessed and been forgiven,—when you can begin all over again with a clean slate.” Indeed, the moment Thérèse had made up her mind to tell the whole story she did feel a sort of delicious relief. She would tell Bernard everything: she would say....

Yes, but what should she say? How should she begin? Could any words express that confused succession of desires, resolves, and impulses?

“How do people behave,” she thought, “when they acknowledge their crimes? I don’t acknowledge mine: I didn’t want to commit it. I don’t know what I did want. I never knew the meaning of that dreadful force within me, and yet outside me: and I was myself horrified at all the destruction it left behind.”

A smoky oil lamp lit up the plaster walls of the Nizan station and a carriage outside it: and all about them gathered the encompassing darkness. A train standing in the station whistled and hooted dismally. Gardère took Thérèse’s bag and again stared at her greedily. His wife must have told him to watch carefully how she was looking and behaving. For the benefit of Monsieur Larroque’s coachman Thérèse instinctively assumed that smile that made people say: “Never mind whether she is pretty or plain, you cannot resist her charm.” She asked him to take her ticket, because she did not like to cross the waiting-room, where two farmers’ wives were sitting with baskets on their knees swaying to the rhythm of their knitting-needles.

When he brought back the ticket she told him to keep the change. He touched his cap, and then, gathering up the reins, he turned to have a last, long look at his master’s daughter.

The train was not yet made up. In the old days, at the beginning of the long vacation, or on the way back to school, Thérèse Larroque and Anne de la Trave enjoyed this stop at Nizan station. They used to eat ham and eggs at the local inn and walk with their arms round each other’s waists down that road that looked so dark this evening: but in those vanished years Thérèse always saw it white under the moonlight. And how they used to laugh at their elongated shadows as they melted into each other! They talked, of course, about their mistresses and their school-friends, one standing up for her convent and the other for her school. “Anne!” Thérèse uttered the name aloud in the darkness. She must begin by telling Bernard about Anne. Her Bernard was one of the most precise of men: he classified all emotions, kept them rigidly apart, and ignored the complicated network of sensations that unites them. How could he follow her into those shadowy places where she had lived and suffered? Yet she must try to make him: the only thing to do, when she went into the room later on, would be to sit on the edge of the bed and take him, step by step, through the whole story until he should stop her and say: “Now I understand; get up; I forgive you.”

She felt her way through the station-master’s garden where she could smell the chrysanthemums without seeing them. The first class compartment was empty, and in any case the lamp was much too dim to reveal her face. She could not read: but Thérèse must have found any novel insipid in comparison with the terrible story of her life. She might die of shame, despair, remorse, or exhaustion,—but of boredom, never.

She sat back in her corner and closed her eyes. It was incredible that a woman of her intelligence should not be able to make the tragedy intelligible. When her confession was over, Bernard would of course raise her to her feet and say: “Go in peace, Thérèse: be of good comfort: deeds that are over and done shall never part us now, we will wait for death together in this house at Argelouse. I am thirsty: go down into the kitchen and make me a glass of orangeade: I shall drink it at a draught; no matter what it looks like, nor even if it tastes like my morning chocolate of those days! Do you remember how sick I used to be, darling; and how kindly you held my head, as you stared at that dreadful greenish liquid? You were never frightened when I fainted. And yet how pale you were that night when I noticed that my legs had gone dead and stiff! I was shivering, do you remember? And that old fool Doctor Pédemay who was so astonished because my temperature was so low and my pulse so feverish....”

“No,” Thérèse thought to herself, “he won’t have understood. I shall have to begin at the very beginning.”

But where is the beginning of our acts? The thread of our fate, when we try to lay it bare, is like one of those plants that cannot be torn up with all its roots. Should Thérèse go back to her childhood? But childhood itself is an end and a fulfilment.

Thérèse’s childhood;—snow at the source of a stream now utterly defiled. At school she appeared to live aloof from those petty tragedies that tormented her companions. The mistresses often held up Thérèse Larroque as an example to the rest. “Thérèse,” one of them said, “is an unusually high moral type: she knows it: and her pride in that fact is quite enough to keep her straight without any fear of punishment.”

“But was I happy?” Thérèse asked herself. “And was I sincere? All my life before my marriage has, as I look back on it, this air of innocence, in contrast, no doubt, to the ineffaceable contamination of my marriage. My life at school, before I became a wife and a mother, seems a paradise, though I did not realise it then. How could I know that in those years before my life began I was living my real life? Pure I was: an angel if you like: but a very passionate angel! Whatever my mistresses may have said, I knew what suffering was and I made others feel it. I enjoyed the pain I gave and the pain that my friends inflicted: my suffering was a pure emotion, untainted by remorse: and indeed, there was pain and joy in most simple pleasures.”

But Thérèse was satisfied if she could feel herself worthy of Anne when she met her once more in the summer heats, under the oak trees of Argelouse. She must be able to say to this little offspring of the Convent: “I can be as pure as you are without all those wreaths and ribbons.” Besides, Anne de la Trave’s purity was mainly ignorance. The ladies of the Sacré-Cœur drew many veils between their little charges and the world. Thérèse despised them for confusing virtue and ignorance. “You don’t know anything about life, darling,” she used often to say, in those far-off summers at Argelouse. Those lovely summers; Thérèse, as she sat in the little train, that had at last begun to move, realised that she must go back to them if she was to get a clear view of what had happened. It is incredible, but true, that in those pure dawns of our lives the most dreadful storms are already threatening in the distance. Those azure mornings are an evil omen for the weather of the afternoon and evening. They portend wrecked flower-beds, broken branches, and muddy ruin everywhere. Thérèse did not reflect, or come to a decision at any period of her life; there were no sharp turnings; she went down an imperceptible slope, gradually at first, and then faster. The lost woman of this evening was identical with the radiant creature of those summers at Argelouse, where she was now returning in secret and under cover of the night.

How wearisome it all was! Where was the use in trying to uncover the hidden springs of acts accomplished? She could see nothing through the carriage window except the reflection of her pale expressionless face.

There came a sudden break in the monotonous rhythm of the little train: the engine gave a prolonged whistle and cautiously drew in to a station. An arm held up a swaying lantern: there followed shouted utterances in the local dialect, and squeals from sundry pigs that were being taken off the train: Uzeste already. One more station and then Saint Clair: thence she must drive the rest of the way to Argelouse. Thérèse had very little time left to prepare her defence.

CHAPTER III

Argelouse is literally one of the ends of the earth,—one of those places beyond which you cannot go; in those parts they call them “Quartiers.” A few farms, with no church or cemetery, scattered round a field of rye, over five miles from the market-town of Saint Clair, with which it is connected by a single road in very bad repair. This road, such as it is, fades away beyond Argelouse into sandy tracks: and thence, until the sea, there is nothing but fifty miles of marshes, lagoons, young pines, and sandy heath; and by the end of winter the very sheep look as grey as that bleak landscape.

The best families in Saint Clair come from these lost lands. Towards the middle of the last century, when the sale of resin and timber began to swell their scanty profits from flocks and herds, the grandparents of those living to-day moved to Saint Clair, and their ancestral homes at Argelouse were used as farm buildings. The carved beams of the gables, and here and there a marble mantelpiece, bore witness to their ancient dignity. Every year they came nearer to collapse, and one of the roofs had sagged lower and lower until its eaves nearly touched the ground. Two of these ancient habitations, however, still housed their proprietors. The Larroque and the Desqueyroux families left their homes at Argelouse just as they had received them from their predecessors. Jerôme Larroque, Mayor and County Councillor of B., whose principal residence was just outside that small provincial town, would never allow any alterations at the estate at Argelouse, which had come to him through his wife (who had died in child-bed while Thérèse was still a baby), and where he thought it quite natural that his young daughter should like to spend her holidays. She used to go there at the beginning of July, under the tutelage of an elder sister of her father’s, one Aunt Clara, a deaf old maid, who also liked the lonely place because, as she used to say, she did not have to be constantly watching people’s lips to make out what they were saying, and because she knew that there was nothing to listen to except the wind in the pines. Monsieur Larroque was pleased, because Argelouse relieved him of his daughter’s company and brought her into contact with Bernard Desqueyroux whom she was one day to marry, in accordance with the wishes of both families, though the understanding was not as yet official.

Bernard Desqueyroux had inherited from his father a house at Argelouse, next to that belonging to the Larroques: he was never seen there until the shooting season began, and he did not sleep there until the month of October, when he went pigeon-shooting in the neighbourhood. In the winter this sedate young gentleman studied law in Paris; and in the summer he did not spend much time with his family. He could not endure Victor de la Trave, his mother’s second husband, who had not had a penny when she married him, and whose extravagance was the scandal of Saint Clair; and his half-sister Anne seemed too young to deserve any attention from him. Nor did he think much more about Thérèse. Every one regarded their marriage as inevitable because it seemed such a pity not to combine the two estates, and he very sensibly shared the common opinion on this point. But he left nothing to chance, and took a pride in the management of his life. “If a man is unhappy he has only himself to blame,” this slightly corpulent youth was wont to observe. Until his marriage he divided his time equally between work and pleasure; and although he by no means neglected food, drink, and sport, he worked “like a galley slave,” so his mother said. A husband, he thought, ought to be better informed than his wife: and Thérèse’s intelligence was already famous. She was doubtless clever, but Bernard knew the kind of arguments to influence a woman: moreover, as his mother pointed out, it was not a bad thing to “have a leg in both camps,” and old Larroque might be useful to him.

At twenty-six years of age Bernard Desqueyroux, after a few visits to Italy, Spain, and Holland, which he had carefully “got up” beforehand, would marry the richest and the cleverest girl in the neighbourhood, though not perhaps the prettiest: (“Never mind whether she is pretty or plain, you can’t resist her charm!”)

Thérèse smiled at the caricature of Bernard that she drew in her mind: she reflected that he was, in point of fact, better than most of the young men she could have married. The women of those moorlands by the sea are much superior to the men, who see no one but each other after they have left school and hardly ever lose their boorishness. Their hearts are in their country, and in spirit they never leave it. They are never really happy anywhere else: they would feel that they were being utterly false to it if they gave up their country clothes, the local dialect, and the rustic habits of their home. Under Bernard’s thick skin there was certainly a sort of goodness of heart. When he was at the point of death the tenants said there wouldn’t be another gentleman left when he had gone. Yes, he was certainly kind, just, and fundamentally honest. He never talked of what he did not know; he accepted his own limitations. In his younger days he had not been bad-looking, this unlicked Hyppolytus, though he was far less interested in girls than in the hares he coursed on the moors.

Yet it was not Bernard that Thérèse, with half-closed eyes and leaning her head against the carriage windows, pictured to herself bicycling along the road from Saint Clair to Argelouse, about nine o’clock, before the heat of the day had reached its height; not her cold-blooded suitor, but his little sister Anne, her face all afire in the sunshine;—the grasshoppers were already calling from pine to pine, and the murmurous hum of the moorland, like the roar of a furnace, began to rise up to the sky; and myriads of flies hovered above the tall heather.

“You’d better put your cloak on to come into the drawing-room,” she used to say, “it’s like an ice-house”: and Aunt Clara added: “I’ll give you something to drink, dear, when you aren’t quite so hot.” Anne shouted futile words of greeting to the deaf old lady: and Thérèse said: “Don’t make yourself hoarse, darling, she understands everything from the way you move your lips.” But Anne insisted on articulating every word, distorting her young lips in the process, and the Aunt made all sorts of meaningless replies, until the friends had to run away so as to be able to laugh unobserved.

In the far corner of the darkened carriage Thérèse looked back upon those innocent days,—innocent, but gladdened by a fleeting happiness, half understood: and she could not know that this transient gleam was all the happiness ever to be hers. Nothing warned her that her fate was laid in a darkened drawing-room, encompassed by the pitiless summer, on a red-plush sofa by the side of Anne, who sat poring over a photograph album on her knees. Why was she so happy? She and Anne had hardly a single taste in common. Anne hated reading, and did nothing but sew, chatter, and giggle. She had not an idea in her head, while Thérèse devoured with equal voracity the novels of Paul de Kock, the Causeries du Lundi, the History of the Consulate, indeed all that miscellaneous literature that lies about in cupboards in a house in the country. Sometimes Anne got up to see whether the heat had passed: but as the light burst through the half-open shutters, like a splash of molten metal, it seemed to burn the matting on the floor and they had to shut everything up once more and crouch indoors. Even at sunset, when only the feet of the pines glowed in the level rays, and a last persistent grasshopper could still be heard deep down among the herbage, the heat still hovered stagnant under the oak trees. The two friends lay stretched upon the grass at the edge of the field, as they might have sat down on the shore of a lake. Stormy clouds called up fleeting pictures as they passed; but before Thérèse could make out the winged lady that Anne saw in the sky, it had changed, she said, into some strange elongated beast.

In September they could go out after the midday meal and explore that land of thirst: there was not a drop of water to be seen at Argelouse. They had to walk far into the sandy country before they reached the sources of the little river called La Hure, where they bubble up among the alder trees in a low-lying meadow. The girls’ bare feet were benumbed by the icy water, but they soon grew burning hot again, before they were even dry. Like the darkened drawing-room at home, one of the huts used in October by the pigeon-shooters, gave them shelter. They had nothing to say, not one word: they sat in virgin contemplation while time fled by, and no more thought of moving than a sportsman who signals for silence when the birds are coming over. They felt as though the slightest gesture would have put to flight their chaste ingenuous happiness. Anne was the first to break the spell,—it was growing dark and she wanted to go out shooting larks: Thérèse, though she detested the sport, followed her, for she could not bear to lose a minute of her company. Anne went into the entrance hall and took down her .24 which had no recoil. Her friend watched her standing in the field of rye apparently aiming at the sun. Thérèse stopped her ears: a sudden wild cry broke the blue stillness, and the huntress picked up the wounded bird, squeezed it carefully, and, as she was actually brushing the warm feathers against her lips, choked it.

“You will come to-morrow, won’t you?”

“Oh, no, I mustn’t come every day.”

Anne did not want to see her every day: this was perfectly sensible and Thérèse could say nothing; indeed, it would not have occurred to her to object. Anne said she would rather not come back. No, there was nothing to prevent her, but why should they see each other every day? They would end, she said, by hating the sight of each other. “You’re quite right,” Thérèse replied, “don’t make an obligation of it. Come back when you feel like it,—when you have nothing better to do,” and the girl jumped on her bicycle, and disappeared down the darkening road, ringing her bell.

Thérèse walked back towards the house. The tenants greeted her from a distance, though the children stared at her and said nothing. It was that hour of the evening when the sheep stand scattered under the oak trees, and then rush together into a huddled mass when they hear the shepherd’s cry. Her Aunt was looking out for her on the doorstep, and, as deaf people will, talked incessantly, so as to prevent Thérèse saying anything to her. What was this despair in her heart? She did not want to read; she did not want to do anything, and wandered out of doors once more....

“Don’t go far away,” said the Aunt; “dinner will soon be ready.”

She went back to the edge of the road, there was not a soul in sight, as far as the eye could reach. Some one rang the bell for her at the kitchen door. Perhaps the lamp would have to be lit that evening, she thought. Indeed, this rather haggard-looking girl felt she was living in as deep a silence as her deaf companion, who sat motionless with her hands crossed before her on the table-cloth.

But what would Bernard make of this vague world, Bernard who belonged to the blind and ruthless race of men who know their own minds? As soon as she began, Thérèse thought, he would break in with: “Well, why did you marry me, then? I wasn’t running after you.” It was certainly true that he had shown no signs of impatience. Thérèse remembered that Bernard’s mother, Madame Victor de la Trave, used to unburden herself to the casual visitor somewhat as follows:

“He was quite ready to wait, but she would have him. No, she’s not quite all we could wish, I’m sorry to say: for instance, she smokes far too much,—just a pose, of course. But she’s a good girl and absolutely straightforward: and we shall soon put a few wholesome ideas into her head. Of course, there are disadvantages about the marriage. Yes, her grandmother Bellade,—I know all about it, but that’s all forgotten now, isn’t it? Indeed it wasn’t really a scandal, it was so carefully hushed up. Do you believe in heredity? The father has no religion, of course, but he has always set her an excellent example: a saint in a tweed suit, so it seems. Besides, he’s a most influential person and one needs all the help one can get in these days. There’s always something one has to ignore. And—strange as it may seem—she is richer than we are! And she worships Bernard, which is all to the good.”

It was true,—she had worshipped Bernard: no attitude called for less effort on her part. As they sat in the drawing-room at Argelouse, or lay under the oak trees, she had only to look up at him with eyes that she knew so well how to fill with amorous innocence. Such a victim at his feet flattered the young gentleman but did not surprise him. “Don’t play with her,” his mother would say to him, “she’s eating her heart out.”

“I married him because....”

Thérèse, with bent brows and her hand over her eyes, tried to remember. There was the childish joy of becoming Anne’s sister-in-law. But it was Anne who was especially delighted with the idea: such a bond meant little to Thérèse. There was indeed another motive,—and why should she blush for it? She was far from indifferent to Bernard’s five thousand acres. It was always said of her that “property was in her blood.” At the end of interminable dinners, when the liqueurs were put on the table, Thérèse often stayed behind with the men, absorbed in their talk about tenants, pit props, resin and turpentine. Valuations and estimates roused her to enthusiasm. The lordship over so vast a stretch of forest had certainly dazzled her. Besides, she thought, he, too, had fallen in love with her pines. But perhaps Thérèse had been influenced by a deeper feeling which she now tried to bring to light: in this marriage she had possibly looked less for power and possessions than safety. Surely it was something like panic that had hurried her into it. She had shown the practical instincts of a housewife from her earliest childhood, and she was impatient to occupy her proper place in life and society, once and for all. She wanted to be protected against she knew not what. She had never seemed so sensible as at the time of her betrothal: she was becoming part of the family unit, part of the social scheme: she was entering an Order. She was flying for safety.

In that springtime of their betrothal they were walking along the sandy road that leads from Argelouse to Vilméja. The dead leaves on the oak trees still stained the pure azure of the sky: the ground was strewn with dead ferns, and the acid green of the new shoots could be seen here and there above the surface. “Mind your cigarette,” said Bernard, “you might very well start a fire: the soil is quite dried up.”

She asked him whether it was true that ferns contained prussic acid: Bernard said he did not know whether they contained enough to poison any one, and enquired affectionately whether she wanted to die: and she laughed. He expressed the hope that she would try and be more natural: and Thérèse remembered that she had shut her eyes, while two great hands clasped her small head, and a voice said in her ear: “There are still some notions inside this that shouldn’t be there.” And she answered: “Then you must get rid of them, Bernard.”

They watched the builders adding another room to the farm-house at Vilméja. The owners, who came from Bordeaux, wanted to get it ready for their youngest son who, they were told, had got consumption and could not last long. His sister had gone the same way. Bernard looked on the Azévédos with the utmost contempt. “They swear by all that’s holy,” said he, “that they are not of Jewish extraction, but you have only got to look at them! Consumption, too, and Heaven knows what else.”

Thérèse was entirely mistress of herself. Anne would come back from the Convent at San-Sebastian for the wedding: she and young Deguilhem were to take the offertory. She had asked Thérèse to describe the bridesmaids’ dresses by return of post: in fact, she wanted some patterns, as she said it was to everybody’s interest that she should not choose anything that clashed with the rest. Thérèse had never known such peace, or what she thought was peace: it merely meant that the reptile in her bosom was half asleep and torpid.

CHAPTER IV

The day of the wedding was stifling, and it was on that very day, in the narrow church at Saint Clair, where the women’s whispering drowned the wheezes of the harmonium and their scents overpowered the incense, that Thérèse felt that she was lost. She had been in a trance when she entered the cage, and at the sound of the heavy door, as it shut behind her, the poor child awoke. Nothing was changed, but she felt that never again would she walk and dream alone. She was embedded in that dreadful family, where she would smoulder like a malignant fire creeping through the heather and setting one pine alight and then another, until the forest is a mass of flaming torches. There was not one face in all that crowded church on which she cared to rest her eyes, except Anne’s: but the girl’s childish glee made Thérèse draw back. Surely Anne must realise that they would be parted that very evening, and not in space alone: but because of what Thérèse must suffer, that inexpiable thing that her body must so soon endure. Anne stayed behind on the shore in the company of those as yet immaculate: Thérèse was to go down among the herd whom use has soiled. As she bent down in the sacristy to kiss the little laughing lips, she became suddenly aware of the insignificance of this creature who had been, for her, the centre of a world of fantastic joys and sorrows: in those few seconds, she measured the infinite disparity between the dark forces in her heart and this pretty powdered face.

Long afterwards, at Saint Clair and at B., every one who spoke of those magnificent celebrations (more than a hundred tenants and servants had sat down to eat and drink under the oak trees) always alluded to the fact that the bride (“Never mind whether she is pretty or plain, you can’t resist her charm!”) looked ugly, almost repulsive. “She wasn’t like herself,” they would say: “she seemed another person.” To them she merely looked different from usual; and they put it down to the white wedding-dress and the heat. They did not know that it was her real face.

Late in the day of that half-rustic wedding, groups of country people, the girls conspicuous in their gay dresses, made the car of the newly married pair slow down while they cheered them; the road was strewn with acacia blossoms, and they passed a number of country carts pursuing a somewhat zigzag course, driven by certain cheerful fellows who had clearly had a glass or two of wine. As she recalled the night that followed, Thérèse murmured: “It was horrible”: then, correcting herself; “No, not so horrible as all that.”

After all, she did not suffer much while they were travelling in the Italian lakes. She was absorbed in the game of keeping her secret. A fiancé is easily deceived, but a husband—! Any one can tell lies: but physical lying is a different art. It is not given to every one to imitate desire, delight, and the happy lassitude of love. Thérèse discovered how to bend her body to these impersonations, and she took a bitter pleasure in so doing. In that unknown world of sensations, which a man was now compelling her to explore, she could imagine that she, too, might have found a possible happiness. What would it have been like? When we stand before a landscape shrouded in rain and try to picture what it would have looked like in sunshine, so Thérèse became acquainted with desire.

Her young husband Bernard, with his vacant eyes, always worried because the numbers on the pictures did not correspond with those given in Baedeker, content if he had seen the sights in the shortest possible time,—what an easy dupe he was! He was pent up in his pleasures, like those little pigs that are so charming to watch through the palings of their sty, snuffling with satisfaction, in their trough (“I was the trough”: thought Thérèse). He had their hurried, fussy, serious look: he was methodical. “Do you really think we should do that?” ventured Thérèse sometimes, in her stupefaction. He laughed and reassured her: Where had he learnt to classify everything affecting the body,—to distinguish the honest man’s caresses from those of the sadist? He was never in a moment’s doubt. One evening in Paris, where they stopped on their return journey, Bernard ostentatiously left a music-hall at which the performance shocked him: “And to think that foreigners see that! Disgraceful! And that is what they judge by....”

Thérèse marvelled that this modest fellow was the same man whose patient ingenuities of the darkness she would, in less than an hour, have to endure.

“Poor Bernard—no worse than another. But desire transforms the being that lays hands on us into a monster quite unlike himself. Nothing divides us from our accomplice but his frenzy: I have always seen Bernard wallowing in his pleasure: and I,—I lay like one dead, as if this epileptic madman might have risked strangling me if I had moved an inch. More often than not, at the supreme moment, he suddenly realised he was alone; and the dismal ecstasy came abruptly to an end. Bernard retraced his steps and found me lying as if I had been thrown up on a sea shore, cold and with clenched teeth.”

One letter from Anne and one only: the child did not care about writing;—but, it so happened that there was not a line that Thérèse did not read with pleasure. A letter is far less an expression of our real sentiments than of those we ought to feel if our letter is to be welcome. Anne complained that she could not go in the direction of Vilméja since young Azévédo had come; she had seen his wheeled chair among the ferns; consumptives made her shudder.

Thérèse read the letter over and over again and did not expect any others: so she was much surprised when they got their letters (the day after the interrupted evening at the music-hall) to recognise Anne de la Trave’s writing on three envelopes. Various “Postes Restantes” had sent this bundle of letters on to Paris, for they had not stopped at several places on their programme: “they were in a hurry,” Bernard said, “to get back to their nest”; but the real reason was that they could not endure each other any longer. He was dying of boredom away from his guns, his dogs, and the inn, where the bitters and pomegranate syrup tasted better than anywhere else; and he was sick of this cold mocking woman who never seemed to be enjoying herself and could not talk about anything interesting!... Thérèse wanted to get back to Saint Clair, like a convict, who has grown tired of his temporary cell, becomes curious about the island in which the remainder of his life is to be spent. Thérèse had carefully deciphered the date stamped on each of the three envelopes; and she was just opening the first when Bernard uttered an exclamation, shouted several words which she did not catch, for the window was open, and as their hotel was at a street corner the motor-buses changed gears immediately outside. He had stopped shaving to read a letter from his mother. Thérèse could still see his “cellular” vest and his muscular bare arms: the pale skin, and then the sudden coarse crimson of the neck and face. The July morning was already heavy with sulphurous heat: the smoky sunshine made the house fronts opposite, beyond the balcony, look grimier still. He had come up to Thérèse, and shouted: “This is too much. Your little friend Anne is going it! Who’d have said that my young sister....” And as Thérèse looked at him questioningly:

“She’s fallen in love with the Azévédo boy: can you believe it? Yes, really; that consumptive fellow for whom they were enlarging Vilméja.... She says she’ll wait until she’s of age.... Mother says she is completely mad. I only hope the Deguilhems don’t know anything about it. Young Deguilhem would be quite capable of giving up the marriage altogether. Have you got letters from her? Now we shall know all about it then: aren’t you going to open them?”

“I want to read them in order. Besides, I couldn’t show them to you.”

This was just like her: she complicated everything. However, the essential point was that she should bring the girl to her senses again.

“My parents are relying on you. She’ll do anything you tell her.... Oh yes, she will.... You can save the situation.”

While she was dressing, he would go out to send a telegram and book two seats on the Southern Express: and she might begin to pack the trunks.

“Why aren’t you reading the child’s letters? What are you waiting for?”

“I’m waiting till you have gone.”

Long after he had shut the door Thérèse had remained lying on the sofa smoking cigarettes, and staring at the great letters of blackened gilt, fixed to the balcony opposite: then she had torn open the first envelope. No: it could not be that sweet little fool, that light-headed little Convent girl who had conceived these words of flame. It could not be that chilly little heart,—for such it was, and Thérèse ought to know!—which had poured forth that Song of Songs, that long ecstatic lamentation of a woman possessed, of a body almost stricken down with joy, from the first encounter.

“... When I met him, I could not believe it was he: he was chasing one of the dogs and shouting. How could I have imagined it was the invalid ... but he isn’t an invalid: he is simply taking precautions, because of his family history. He isn’t even delicate,—only rather thin: and of course he’s used to being spoilt and pampered ... you would not recognise me: I actually go and fetch his overcoat as soon as it gets cooler.”

If Bernard had come back into the room that minute, he would have noticed that the woman sitting on the bed was not his wife, but some one he did not know, a strange and nameless creature. She threw away her cigarette, and tore open a second envelope.

“... I don’t care how long I have to wait: I don’t mind what they say: indeed, I don’t mind anything since I have been in love. They are keeping me at Saint Clair, but Argelouse is not so far off that Jean and I cannot meet. Do you remember the pigeon-shooters’ hut? Why, it was you, darling, that chose beforehand the places where I was to know such happiness.... Oh, please don’t think we do anything we should not. He is so considerate. You have no idea what a boy of his kind is like. He has studied and read a great deal, like you: but I don’t mind that in a young man and I never think of teasing him about it. I do not know what I would give to be as clever as you are. Oh, my darling, I wonder what your happiness can be like, if the mere approach to it is so exquisite. When I sit beside him in the hut, where you used to like to take our lunch, and his hand lies still on my heart,—and I put my hand on his (it is what he calls: ‘the last caress allowed’), I feel happiness within me like something that I could touch. I tell myself that there is yet another joy beyond this one; and when Jean goes away, quite pale, the memory of our caresses, the thought of the next day and all that it will bring, makes me deaf to the complaints and prayers and insults of those poor people who do not know ... have never known: Darling, forgive me: I talk to you about this happiness as if you did not know it either: and yet I am only a novice beside you: and also I am sure that you will be on our side against these cruel people.”

Thérèse opened the third envelope: only a brief scrawl.

“Do come, darling: they have separated us, and I am not allowed out of sight. They believe that you will be on their side. I have said that I will abide by your judgement. I will explain everything: he is not ill.... I am happy though I suffer. I am happy to suffer because of him and his suffering is a joy to me because it is the proof of his love for me....”

Thérèse read no further. As she slipped the sheet into the envelope, she saw a photograph inside it that she had not noticed; she stood near the window and examined the face: it was that of a youth whose head, owing to his thick hair, seemed too large for him. Thérèse recognized the place where the photograph had been taken: an embankment on which Jean Azévédo stood up like David (behind him was a stretch of heath on which sheep were pasturing). His coat was over his arm: and his shirt a little open ... (“the last caress allowed”). Thérèse raised her eyes and was amazed at the reflection of her face in the mirror. It cost her an effort to unclench her teeth and swallow. She rubbed her temples and forehead with eau-de-Cologne.

“She knows that joy ... what about me, why shouldn’t I know it too?” The photograph lay on the table: she caught the glitter of a pin beside it.

“I did that. I actually did that.” ... In the jolting train, now moving faster down a gradient, Thérèse said slowly to herself: “It is two years ago since, in that hotel bedroom, I picked up the pin and ran it through the boy’s photograph in the region of the heart,—not violently, but coolly, as if I was doing something quite ordinary;—and then I threw the photograph down the lavatory; and pulled the plug.”

When Bernard came back he had remarked how serious she looked, like some one who has been thinking something over, and decided what to do. But she ought not to smoke so much, he said: she was poisoning herself. Thérèse said that too much importance should not be attached to a young girl’s fancies. She promised to bring her to a right view of things. Bernard wanted Thérèse to reassure him,—full of the joy of feeling the return tickets in his pockets; and more especially gratified that his family had already asked for his wife’s help. He announced that, cost what it might, for the last luncheon on their trip they would go to some restaurant in the Bois. In the taxi he talked about his plans for the shooting season; he was in a hurry to try the dog that Balion was breaking in for him. His mother wrote that since the mare had been fired she did not limp any more.

There were not yet many people in the restaurant, where the innumerable waiters made them nervous. Thérèse still remembered the smell—a blend of geraniums and vinegar. Bernard had never tasted Hock (“Good Lord, they don’t give it away: still, Christmas only comes once a year!”). Bernard’s broad shoulders prevented Thérèse seeing much of the room. Behind the great plate-glass windows, motor-cars slid up and stopped, more silently than in a film. She watched what she knew to be the temporal muscles moving behind Bernard’s ears. After the first few glasses he got flushed: for some weeks now this handsome cavalier from the country had had no means of working off his daily ration of food and drink. She did not hate him but how she longed to be alone to think about her pain and find exactly where it lay. She simply wished he was somewhere else, so that she might no longer have to force herself to eat and smile, compose her face, and veil the fire that must be blazing in her eyes: so that her mind might dwell freely on her mysterious despair.... Some one has escaped from the desert island where you thought to have her with you till the end; she crosses the abyss that divides you from the world and is gone;—to another planet, ... and yet: No.... Who has ever been able to do that? Anne was always one of those who were content with life as it came: it was a changeling whose sleeping head Thérèse had watched lying on her lap, in their solitary holidays together: she had never known the real Anne de la Trave, the one who was now meeting Jean Azévédo in the deserted shooting-hut between Saint Clair and Argelouse.

“What is the matter? You aren’t eating. You mustn’t leave anything: it would be a shame considering the price it costs. Is it the heat? You aren’t going to faint, I hope. Or perhaps you’re feeling sick ... already?”

She smiled ... with her lips only. She said she was thinking about Anne’s adventure (she had to talk about Anne). And as Bernard said he was not bothering himself any longer now that she had the matter in hand, his wife asked him why his parents were opposed to the marriage. He thought she was laughing at him, and begged her not to begin her paradoxes.

“In the first place, you know very well they are Jews: Mother knew his grandfather, the one who refused to be baptised.”

But Thérèse pretended that these Portuguese-Jewish names were the oldest in Bordeaux:

“The Azévédos were great people when our ancestors were miserable shepherds, shivering with fever by their marshes.”

“Look here, Thérèse: don’t argue for the pleasure of arguing: all Jews are the same ... and besides they’re a degenerate family—consumptive to the marrow, everybody knows it.”

She lit a cigarette with a gesture that had always offended Bernard:

“Well, then, tell me what your grandfather, and your great-grandfather died of. When you married me did you bother to enquire what illness carried off my mother? Don’t you suppose that we should find enough consumptives and syphilitics among our ancestors to poison the universe?”

“You go too far, Thérèse, let me tell you. Even when you’re joking and trying to get a rise out of me, you ought to respect the family.”

He positively gobbled with annoyance, trying to be impressive and, at the same time, not to look foolish. But she persisted:

“Really, our families make me laugh: they’re too ridiculous. They’re terribly shocked when a thing like this is publicly known, but they’re quite indifferent to all the horrors no one talks about.... Why, you yourself use the expression ‘secret diseases,’ don’t you? Surely the diseases most dangerous to the race are just precisely those. Our families never think of them, though they are so very clever at bundling anything unpleasant out of sight. If it wasn’t for the servants we should know nothing about them: fortunately there are the servants....”

“I shan’t answer you. When you start off like this, the best thing to do is to wait until you’ve finished. With me, it doesn’t matter so very much. But it won’t do at all at home, you know. We don’t make jokes about the family.”

The family! Thérèse let her cigarette go out. With staring eyes, she saw before her that cage with its innumerable and living bars, a cage set with ears and eyes, in which she would crouch motionless, her chin on her knees, and her arms clasping her legs, and wait for death.

“Come, come, Thérèse, don’t look like that: if you could see yourself....”

She smiled and put on her mask again.

“I wasn’t serious ... how silly you are, darling.” But when Bernard tried to come near to her in the taxi, she evaded him and kept him off.

The last evening before they returned home, they went to bed at nine o’clock. Thérèse took a cachet, but she was too impatient for sleep and it would not come. For an instant, her mind began to sink beneath the surface when Bernard, with unintelligible mumblings, turned over; and she felt his great fiery body against her own. She pushed it from her and, shrinking from that odious warmth, she lay on the extreme edge of the bed: but after a few minutes, he again rolled towards her as if the flesh in him survived his absent spirit and, even in sleep, fumbled for its accustomed prey. She again thrust him back, roughly this time, but he did not wake.... Oh! if she could push him away once and for all, hurl him out of bed into the darkness!

Through the Paris night, the motor-horns answered each other like the dogs and cocks at Argelouse when the moon is up. Not a breath of air rose from the street. Thérèse turned on a lamp and, with her elbow on the pillow, looked at this motionless being asleep beside her—her twenty-seven-year-old husband: he had pushed aside the bed-clothes, and she could not hear him breathing. His tumbled hair straggled over his smooth young forehead. He slept, like Adam, naked and unashamed, a deep and seemingly eternal sleep. The woman threw the sheet over him, got out of bed, looked for one of the letters that she had only half-read, and brought it to the lamp.

“If he told me to follow him, I would leave everything and not look back. We stopped at the edge, the furthest edge of the last caress, but because he wanted to, not because I insisted; it is really he who resists me, and I who long to reach those unknown limits the mere approach to which, he often tells me, is beyond all joys there are: but he won’t go any further: he is proud of being able to stop where he says others cannot help letting themselves go.”

Thérèse opened the window, tore up the letters into tiny pieces, bending out over the stone abyss through which, in that hour before the dawn, rumbled a solitary dung-cart. The scraps of paper fluttered down, and came to rest on the balconies of the lower storeys.

That odour of herbage that she could smell—she wondered from what countryside it had blown hither to this asphalt desert? She pictured the splash of her crushed body on the pavement, surrounded by an eddy of policemen and loiterers.... (“You’re too imaginative to kill yourself, Thérèse!”) In truth, she did not want to die; there was a task before her now—not of vengeance or of hatred; but that little fool away at Saint Clair, who thought happiness possible, must learn, like Thérèse, that happiness does not exist. If they possess nothing else in common, let them at least have this: boredom, no rational occupation, nothing to look forward to but the sordid daily round,—irremediable solitude.

The dawn lit up the roofs; she rejoined her motionless companion on the bed; but the moment she lay down beside him he drew nearer.

She awoke, clear-headed and self-possessed. What were these wandering desires? Her family had asked for her help and she would do as they wished; then she could not go astray. Thérèse agreed with Bernard when he said that if Anne missed the Deguilhem marriage it would be a disaster. The Deguilhems did not belong to their world: the grandfather had been a shepherd.... Yes, but they had the finest pines in the district: and, after all, Anne was not particularly well off: she had nothing to expect from her father except the vines in the marsh, near Langon—which were under water one year out of two. Anne must on no account miss the Deguilhem marriage. The smell of chocolate in the room upset Thérèse; this slight feeling of sickness confirmed other signs: she was going to have a baby already. “Much better to have it at once,” said Bernard, “and then we won’t have to think anything more about it.” And he eyed respectfully the woman who bore within her the sole owner of innumerable pines.

CHAPTER V

Saint Clair! They would soon be there.

Thérèse measured with her eye the distance that her thought had traversed; could she get Bernard to follow her so far? She did not dare to hope that he would consent to move so slowly along that tortuous road. And yet the essential had not yet been spoken:

“Even when I have brought him as far as this, I shall still have everything to tell him.” She brooded over the enigma that was herself, she passed in review the young married women of her class whose virtues were so highly praised by every one, at the time she settled down at Saint Clair; and she reconstructed the first weeks of her life in the cool dark house of her parents-in-law. The shutters were always closed on the side looking on to the Market Square; but, on the left, through a barred window, could be seen the garden, on fire with heliotrope, geraniums, and petunias. Thérèse came and went, a confidant and an accomplice, between the La Trave couple ambushed in the depths of a little dark sitting-room, on the ground floor, and Anne wandering in the garden which she was forbidden to leave. She said to the La Traves:

“Try and conciliate her by giving way a little, suggest that you should all go abroad for a time before anything is settled: I’ll see that she obeys you on this point: and while you are away, I’ll do what I can.” What would she do? The La Traves gathered that she would strike up an acquaintance with young Azévédo: “A direct attack is hopeless, mother.” So far as Madame de la Trave knew, nothing had come out as yet, thank Heaven. The postmistress, Mademoiselle Monod, was the only person in the secret: she had intercepted several of Anne’s letters: “but that girl’s like a grave.... Anyhow, she daren’t give anything away.”

“Let us try to give her as little pain as possible....” Hector de la Trave used to say: but he who used to give way to Anne’s absurdest caprices, could only agree with his wife, saying: “You can’t make omelettes without breaking eggs ...”: and again: “She’ll be grateful to us one day.” Yes, but before that day came, wouldn’t she collapse? And the pair sat in silence with troubled eyes: they pictured their child wasting away in the blazing sunshine, and turning with loathing from all food: trampling on the flowers that she could not see and pacing back and forwards along the railings like a fawn looking for a way of escape.... Madame de la Trave shook her head: “I can’t drink her meat-juice instead of her, can I? She stuffs herself with fruit in the garden so as to be able to leave her plate empty at meals.”

And Hector de la Trave: “She would blame us later on for having given our consent ... even if only for the sake of the unhappy children that she might bring into the world....”

His wife was annoyed with him for seeming to try and find excuses for the girl: “Fortunately the Deguilhems are not back yet. We may think ourselves lucky that they’re most anxious for the marriage....”

They waited until Thérèse had left the room to ask each other: “But what can they have put into her head at the Convent? She has had nothing but good examples here; we have supervised her reading.... Thérèse says that there is nothing worse for turning young girls’ heads than the love stories in the Sunday Reading Series ... but then she’s so paradoxical.... Besides, I’m thankful to say Anne never did care about reading: she is quite domesticated on that point. I believe if we could only manage to get her a change of air. Do you remember how much good Salies did her when she had bronchitis after the measles? We will go wherever she likes, I can’t say more than that. Really, I’m truly sorry for the child.” Monsieur de la Trave sighed dubiously: “Well, but a holiday with us.... Nothing, nothing,” he added hurriedly in answer to his wife who, being a little deaf, had asked him what he had said. From the refuge of his wife’s fortune, in which he had come so comfortably to rest, what memories of passionate pilgrimages did the old gentleman suddenly call to mind, what hallowed hours of his amorous youth?

Thérèse had then gone out into the garden to Anne, whose last year’s dresses had already grown too loose for her. “Well?” cried the girl, as soon as her friend came up. The ashes on the garden paths, the dry harsh grass of the lawns, the smell of the parched geraniums, and Anne herself more wasted than any plant on that August afternoon,—Thérèse could recall every detail of the scene. Sometimes stormy showers forced them to take refuge in the hot-house, while the hailstones rattled on the glass roof.

“Why do you mind going away, since you don’t see him?”

“I don’t see him, but I know he is living and breathing four miles away. When the wind is in the east, I know he hears the church bell at the same time as I do. Would you not care whether Bernard was at Argelouse or Paris? I don’t see Jean, but I know he’s not far off. On Sunday, at Mass, I do not even try to turn my head, because we can only see the altar from where we sit, and we are shut off from the congregation by a pillar. But as we go out....”

“Wasn’t he there on Sunday?”

Thérèse knew it; she knew that as Anne was being led away by her mother she had searched in vain among the crowd for a face that was not there.

“Perhaps he was ill.... They stop his letters. I’m not allowed to know anything.”

“Still, it’s strange he can’t find some means of getting a word to you.”

“If you only would, Thérèse.... Yes, I know your position is delicate....”

“Agree to go away, and then, perhaps....”

“I can’t go away from him.”

“But he’ll go away in any case, darling. He’ll be leaving Argelouse in a few weeks.”

“Oh, don’t, don’t. It’s too dreadful. And not a word from him to help me to live. I can’t bear it much longer: every moment I can’t help remembering the words of his that made me happiest: but I have said them over to myself so often, I’ve begun to be not quite sure whether he really did say them. Why, I can still hear his voice as he said to me, when we last met: ‘There is no one in my life but you....’ That is what he said,—or it may have been:—‘You are what is dearest to me in life.’ I can’t remember exactly.”

And with knitted brows she tried to recall the echo of those consoling words whose meaning seemed to her so overwhelming.

“Well, tell me what the young man is like.”

“You can’t imagine.”

“Is he so unlike the others?”

“I should like to describe him ... but he is so much beyond anything I could say.... After all, you might think him quite ordinary.... But I’m sure you wouldn’t.”

She could no longer see any individual traits in the youth whose image glowed with all the love she bore him. “Passion,” thought Thérèse, “would make me more clear-sighted: nothing would escape me in the human being I wanted for my own.”

“Thérèse, if I gave in about this trip, you would see him, wouldn’t you, and tell me exactly what he said? And you would take my letters to him? If I go away, if I can bear to go away....” Thérèse left the kingdom of light and fire and penetrated once more, like some ill-omened wasp, into the study where the parents waited until the heat had passed, and their daughter’s resistance had broken down. It was not until after many such comings and goings that Anne finally consented to go away. And Thérèse would no doubt never have succeeded had it not been for the imminent return of the Deguilhems. The girl trembled at this further danger. Thérèse said to her more than once that, “for a rich young man, Deguilhem wasn’t at all bad.”

“But, Thérèse, I’ve hardly looked at him: he wears glasses, he’s bald,—why, he’s an old man.”

“He’s twenty-nine.”

“Exactly what I said, he’s an old man,—and besides, old or not....”

At dinner in the evening, the La Traves were talking about Biarritz, and began to consider the question of hotels. Thérèse watched Anne, a body without movement and without soul. “Make an effort”; Madame de la Trave kept on saying: “you can if you try.” Anne raised the spoon to her lips with a mechanical gesture. There was no light in her eyes. Nothing and nobody had any existence for her except the one who was not there. Sometimes a smile wandered over her lips at the recollection of a word or caress of Jean Azévédo at the time when they used to sit in that hut with its walls of heather, and those strong fingers, stronger than he knew, tore her blouse a little....

Thérèse looked at Bernard’s head and shoulders bent over his plate: as he was sitting with his back to the light she could not see his face; but she heard him slowly masticating, ruminating that sacred substance, his food. She left the table. Her mother-in-law said: “She would sooner we did not take any notice of her: I should like to make a fuss of her, but she does not care to be looked after. These feelings of sickness are the least she can expect in her condition. But she may say what she likes; she does smoke too much.” And the good lady recalled her own memories of pregnancy. “I remember when I was expecting you, I had to sniff an india-rubber ball: it was the only thing that would settle my stomach.”

“Thérèse, where are you?”

“Here, on the seat.”

“Ah, yes; I can see your cigarette.”

Anne sat down, leaned her head against a motionless shoulder, looked up at the sky, and said: “He sees these very stars, he hears the Angelus....”

And she asked Thérèse to kiss her. But Thérèse did not bend down to that confiding little face. She merely asked:

“Are you unhappy?”

“Not this evening: I have realised that by some means or another I shall come to him again. The main thing is that he should know it; and he will know it through you: I have made up my mind to go away. But when I return, no walls shall keep me back: sooner or later, I shall lay my head upon his heart: I am as sure of that as I am that I’m alive. No, Thérèse, no: you, at least, must not talk morality to me, or about the family....”

“I’m not thinking of the family, darling, but of him: you can’t drop into a man’s life just like that: he has his family, too, his own interests, his work, a love-affair perhaps....”

“No, he once said to me: ‘There is only you in my life ...’ and another time: ‘Our love is the only thing I care for now....’”

“Yes, now....”

“You don’t suppose he was only thinking of the present moment, do you?”

Thérèse had no longer any need to ask her if she was unhappy. She could feel her misery in the darkness: but she did not pity her. Why should she? How delightful it must be to repeat a name, a Christian name, that stands for a certain being to whom one’s heart is bound so closely! The mere thought that he is living, breathing, and sleeping at night with his head upon his folded arm; that he wakes at dawn, and his young body moves through the mists of morning....

“Why, you’re crying, Thérèse: is it because of me? You must be fond of me.”

The child had knelt down and laid her head against Thérèse’s side, when she suddenly started back:

“I felt something moving against my forehead....”

“Yes, it began to move a few days ago.”

“The little one?”

“Yes, it’s alive already.”

They had come back to the house, with their arms round each other as they used to do along the road to Nizan, or Argelouse. Thérèse remembered that she had been afraid of that fluttering burden. How many passions were to make their way into that as yet unformed flesh. She saw herself as she had sat that evening in her bedroom, by the open window (Bernard had shouted up from the garden: “Don’t light the lamp because of the mosquitoes”). She counted the months before the birth, she would have liked to have known a God who might answer her prayer that this unknown creature, still intermingled with her body, might never see the light.

CHAPTER VI

It was strange that Thérèse only remembered the days that followed the departure of Anne and of the La Traves as of a period of torpor. At Argelouse, where it had been agreed that she should find the best means of working on Azévédo and making him give the girl up, she thought of nothing but rest and sleep. Bernard had agreed not to live in his own house, but in Thérèse’s, which was much more comfortable and where Aunt Clara spared them all the worries of housekeeping. What did other people matter to Thérèse? Let them arrange their own affairs. She refused to emerge from her stupor until the child was born. Bernard annoyed her every morning by reminding her of her promise to see Jean Azévédo. But Thérèse snubbed him: she began to be less able to endure his company. It may be that her pregnancy, as Bernard believed, had something to do with her ill-humour. He himself was just undergoing the first attacks of an obsession so common in the men of his race, though it rarely shows itself before the thirtieth year: the fear of death, that seemed at first so astonishing in a young man of his solid physique. But what could one say when he protested: “You don’t know what I feel like.” Men like him, mighty eaters, sprung from a lazy and overfed race, have only the appearance of strength. A pine tree planted in a manured field shoots up quickly: but very soon the heart of the tree grows rotten, and it must be cut down in the height of its strength. “It’s nerves”: people would say to Bernard: but he himself felt the flaw in the metal. Besides, though it was almost inconceivable, he hardly ate, he was no longer hungry. “Why don’t you see a doctor?” He shrugged his shoulders with affected indifference: as a matter of fact, uncertainty seemed to him less terrible than a possible verdict of death. In the night Thérèse was sometimes awakened with a start by his gasps for breath: Bernard’s hand sought hers and he laid it against his left chest so that she could feel the intermittent beating of his heart. She lit the candle, got up, and poured some valerian into a glass of water. How lucky it was, she thought, that this mixture was harmless! Why wasn’t it mortal? Nothing really soothes, and brings sleep, unless it does so for all eternity. Why was this querulous creature so frightened of what would bring him relief once and for all? He went to sleep before she did. How could she lie and wait for sleep beside this great carcass whose snorings sometimes turned to choking agony? Thank God, he no longer came near her,—he thought love-making the most dangerous of all activities for his heart. The cocks of dawn brought the farms to life. The Angelus of Saint Clair tinkled in the east wind; Thérèse’s eyes at last closed. Then the man’s body began to stir once more: he dressed himself quickly, like a peasant (he scarcely put his head into cold water). He crept like a dog down to the kitchen, sniffing after the scraps in the larder: breakfasted on the remains of a bird, or a wedge of cold spiced meat, or even on a bunch of grapes and a crust of bread rubbed with garlic: his only decent meal in the day. He threw some bits to Flambeau and Diane whose jaws were chattering. The mist had the smell of Autumn. It was the hour when Bernard was no longer in pain, when he felt his all-powerful youth once more within him. The pigeons would soon be coming over: it was time to see about the decoy-birds, and take their eyes out. At eleven o’clock he found Thérèse still in bed.

“Well: and the Azévédo boy? You know my mother is waiting for news at Biarritz, at the Poste Restante.”

“And your heart?”

“Don’t talk about my heart. You’ve only got to start talking about it and I begin to feel it again. That shows it’s nervous: don’t you think so?”

She never gave him the answer he wanted.

“You never know: you alone can say what you feel like. There’s no reason because your father died of angina pectoris ... especially at your age.... Evidently the heart is the weak point of the Desqueyroux family. How absurd you are, Bernard, with your fear of death! Don’t you ever feel as I do, profoundly convinced of your own uselessness? No? Don’t you think that the life of people like us is already terribly like death?”

He shrugged his shoulders: her paradoxes were really too tiresome. It is easy enough to be witty, he said: you have only to say exactly the opposite to what is sensible. But she was wrong to waste her efforts on him: she had better save herself for her interview with young Azévédo. “You know he is going to leave Vilméja about the middle of October?”

At Villandraut, the station before Saint Clair, Thérèse thought: “How shall I persuade Bernard that I was never in love with that young man? He will certainly believe I adored him. Like every one who knows nothing about love, he imagines that a crime like mine could only be a crime of passion.”

Bernard would have to understand that at that time she was far from hating him, although she often found him a nuisance: but she did not suppose that any other man could help her. Bernard, all things considered, was not so bad. She hated the descriptions in novels of marvellous creatures that no one ever meets in real life. The only outstanding personality she thought she had ever known was her father. She tried to persuade herself that this obstinate, suspicious old radical was something of a figure. He was a man of many interests: manufacturer, landed proprietor (besides a saw-mill at B——, he handled his own resin and that of his numerous relatives in a factory at Saint Clair)—but, above all, a politician, whose brusque manner had done him harm but made him much respected at the Prefecture. And how he did despise women! He even despised Thérèse, when every one was praising her intelligence. And now since the tragedy: “They’re all hysterics when they aren’t fools,” he used to say to his lawyer. And this old anticlerical had his ideas of decency. Though he would often hum a refrain from Béranger, he could not endure certain subjects being mentioned in his presence,—indeed, he blushed like a schoolboy. Bernard had heard from Monsieur de la Trave that Monsieur Larroque had been a virgin when he married: “and since he has been a widower I have always understood there was never any talk of a mistress. He’s a character, your father!”

Yes, he was a character. But if Thérèse’s view of him, at a distance, was rather highly coloured, as soon as he was with her, she took the measure of his mean soul. He seldom came to Saint Clair, but more often to Argelouse, as he did not like meeting the La Traves. In their presence, although politics were forbidden, the old stupid quarrel began the moment the soup was brought in and soon became embittered. Thérèse would have been ashamed to take part in it: she took a pride in never opening her mouth, except when they touched on the religious question. Then she rushed to Monsieur Larroque’s assistance. Everybody shouted, so much so that Aunt Clara caught a few scattered phrases, joined the mêlée and, in the raucous tones of the deaf, let loose all the fury of the hardened radical, “who knows all about what goes on in convents”; she was, Thérèse thought, really more of a believer than any of the La Traves, but she was in open war against the Almighty who had allowed her to be deaf and ugly, and to die without ever having known love nor passion. Since one day when Madame de la Trave had left the table, by common consent they avoided metaphysics. However, politics were quite enough to make them all lose their tempers; though they all, whether they belonged to the Right or the Left, were in full agreement on this essential principle: “Property is the only good thing in the world, and the ownership of land is the only thing worth living for. Must we give up anything and, if so, how much?”

Thérèse, “who had property in her blood,” was quite willing for the question to be put in that cynical way, but she hated the pretences under which the Larroques and the La Traves masked their common greed. When her father announced his “irrevocable devotion” to democracy, she would interrupt him, with “Oh, spare us that sort of thing; we are all friends here.” She said that lofty sentiments in politics made her feel sick: the horror of the class-war was not very obvious in a country where the poorest own property, and their only ambition is to own more: where the common love of land, sport, eating and drinking, draws every one together, middle-class and peasant, in the closest fellowship. Moreover, Bernard had some education: he was generally considered a very promising young man, and Thérèse even congratulated herself on the fact that he was a man one could talk to: “A good deal above the average in fact.” Such was the view she took of him until the day of her meeting with Jean Azévédo.

It was the time of year when the coolness of the night lasts through the morning: and by the early afternoon, hot as the sun had been, a faint mist foretold the dusk. The first pigeons were beginning to come over, and Bernard hardly ever came home before evening. On that day, however, after a bad night, he had gone straight off to Bordeaux to get himself examined.

“I was feeling at peace with the world,” thought Thérèse: “I was walking along the road, I forget at what time, because a woman who is going to have a baby ought to take a little exercise. I avoided the woods where shooting was going on because you have to stop every minute, whistle, and wait until you hear a shout for you to go on: but sometimes a long whistle answers yours: a flight of birds has settled among the oaks, and you must crouch down and wait. Then I came back: I was dozing in front of the fire in the drawing-room or the kitchen, and Aunt Clara was bringing me anything I wanted. I paid no more attention to the old creature, who was always droning out stories about the kitchen and the farm, than a goddess does to her serving-maid: she talked and talked so as not to have to try and listen: mostly depressing anecdotes about the peasants whom she looked after with a sort of cynical kindness: old men who could do no more than die of hunger, others condemned to work until they died, sick men with none to care for them, and women broken by toil and exhaustion. Aunt Clara quoted some of their most shocking remarks in the ingenuous rustic patois, with a sort of amusement. As a matter of fact, I was the only person she cared for, though I never even noticed her kneel down, unlace my shoes, take off my stockings, and warm my feet with her old hands.

“Balion came for orders when he was going in to Saint Clair on the following day. Aunt Clara drew up the list of commissions, and put together the prescriptions for the sick of Argelouse. ‘You will go to the chemist in the first place; Darquey will want quite the whole day to make them all up....’”

“My first meeting with Jean.... I must remember every detail: I had decided to go to that deserted shooting-hut where I used to eat my lunch with Anne and where I knew, since then, she had so loved to meet her Azévédo. No, I did not look upon it as a pilgrimage. But the pines in that neighbourhood have grown so tall that it is no longer possible to watch for pigeons there, so I ran no risk of disturbing the sportsmen. That shooting-hut was useless now, for the surrounding forest hid the horizon; the tree-tops were no longer far enough apart to reveal those broad vistas of sky against which the watcher sees the rising flights of birds. How well I remember: the October sun was still hot: I toiled along that sandy road, tormented by flies. And how heavy I felt! I longed to sit down on the mouldering bench inside the hut.”

As I opened the door a young man came out, bareheaded; at the first glance I recognised Jean Azévédo, and at first I thought I was intruding on a rendezvous, his expression looked so confused. I wanted to go away but he would not let me; it was strange that he was so intent on my remaining: ‘Not at all, please come in, Madame; I assure you that you are not disturbing me in the least.’ Why did he ask me if one could see from outside what was going on inside the hut? I was astonished that there was no one there when I went in, as he insisted. Perhaps the shepherdess had fled by another exit? But I had not heard the rustle of a single twig. He, too, had recognised me, and he was the first to mention Anne de la Trave’s name. I was sitting down; he standing up, just as in the photograph. I looked through his tussore shirt at the place where I had stuck the pin: mere curiosity, without any warmer feeling; I remembered without the slightest irritation what Anne had written to me: ‘I press my hand against the place where I can feel his heart beating ... what he calls the last caress allowed.’ Handsome? A high forehead, the velvet eyes of his race,—cheeks too large;—and, what I so dislike in young men of his age,—spots, the signs of overheated blood; a general unpleasant clamminess; and worst of all, moist palms,—which he had to wipe with a handkerchief before shaking hands. But he had fine burning eyes, and I liked his wide mouth, always a little open to display his pointed teeth, like a puppy panting with the heat.

And how did I behave? I was very strong on the family, I remember. I already tried to be very severe and accused him in grave tones, ‘of bringing distress and dissension into an honourable household.’ Heavens! how I remember his amazement, his boyish burst of laughter: ‘So you think I want to marry her? You think I aspire to that honour?’ I was astounded as I measured with a glance the abyss between Anne’s infatuation and the young man’s indifference. He defended himself vigorously: why on earth should he not yield to the charm of a delightful child? He was not aware that flirtations were forbidden, and just because there could not be the slightest question of marriage between them, this one had seemed to him quite innocuous. Of course, he had pretended to share Anne’s intentions.... And when I tried to wave all this haughtily aside, he vehemently burst out that Anne herself could bear him witness that he had been careful not to go too far; that in any case he was quite sure that Mademoiselle de la Trave owed him the only hours of true passion that she was likely to know in her dreary existence: ‘You tell me she is unhappy, Madame; but do you think that she has anything better to look forward to than this same unhappiness? I know you by reputation: I know you aren’t like the people round here, and I can talk to you frankly. Before she sets out on her dreadful voyage in one of those old houses of Saint Clair I have provided Anne with a stock of sensations and dreams,—enough to save her, perhaps, from despair and, in any case, from becoming brutalised.’ I forget if I was irritated by this shocking conceit and affectation, or even if I noticed it. As a matter of fact he spoke so quickly that at first I did not follow what he said; but my mind soon got used to his flow of speech: ‘Fancy thinking I could possibly want such a marriage; settle down in this sandy desert, or burden myself with a girl of her age in Paris? I shall always have the most delightful recollections of Anne; and at the moment, when you surprised me, I was indeed thinking of her.... But how can one tie oneself down, Madame? Each minute should bring its own joy,—and a different one.’

“This combination of intelligence and the greed of a young animal in one and the same being seemed so strange to me that I listened without interrupting him. Yes, I was certainly fascinated: cheaply enough, in all conscience, but I was. I remember the trampling of hooves, the tinkling of bells, the wild cries of the shepherds which announced the approach of a herd of cattle. I told the young man that our being together in the hut might perhaps seem odd: and I wanted him to answer that it would be best to keep quiet until the herd had passed; I should have enjoyed the silence side by side, the feeling that we shared a secret (for I, too, was becoming exacting, and wanted each minute to bring me something that would help me to live). But Jean Azévédo opened the door of the hut without protest and politely withdrew. He only followed me to Argelouse after having made certain that I saw no objection in it. How quickly we seemed to get home again, although my companion found the time to touch on many subjects: and he threw a strangely fresh light on those I thought I knew something of: on the religious question, for instance; as I was repeating what I used to say at home, he broke in: ‘Yes, no doubt ... but it’s more complicated than that....’ Indeed, some of his remarks seemed admirably new and illuminating.... Were they really so admirable?... I am pretty sure I should think it all poor stuff to-day: he said that he had long believed that nothing was of any importance except the search for, the pursuit of, God: ‘One must set forth across the sea; and avoid like the plague those who think they have found what they want, settle down, and build themselves shelters to sleep in; I have long despised them....’”

“He asked me if I had read the Life of Father de Foucauld by René Bazin: and as I pretended to laugh, he assured me that the book had been a revelation to him: ‘Perhaps,’ he added, ‘to live dangerously, in the deeper meaning of the words, lies not so much in seeking God, as in finding Him, and having discovered Him, living within His orbit.’ He described to me, ‘the great adventure of the mystics,’ and complained of his temperament that prevented him attempting it; ‘he could not remember having ever been pure.’ Such shamelessness, such absence of reserve, was such an utter change from our rustic caution, the silence which we all maintain about our inner life. The gossip of Saint Clair does not go below the surface: hearts are never laid bare. What do I really know about Bernard? There must be infinitely more in him than that caricature which seems adequate when I have to bring him to mind. Jean talked, and I said nothing: nothing came to my lips but the usual phrases of our family discussions. Just as in these parts, all the vehicles are built to the same gauge, that is to say, broad enough for the wheels to fit exactly into the ruts made by the farm carts, all my thoughts until that day had been built to fit the mental gauge of my father and my parents-in-law. Jean Azévédo was wearing no hat. I can still see his shirt open over his boyish chest, his rather heavy neck. Was I physically attracted at all? Oh, no, indeed! But he was the first man I had met for whom the life of the mind counted above everything. His masters, his Paris friends, whose sayings or whose books he so constantly mentioned, prevented my thinking of him as in any way unique: he was one of a large and distinguished company,—‘those who live,’ as he called them. He quoted names, not imagining for a moment that I might not know them; and I pretended that it was not the first time I had heard them.

“When the fields of Argelouse came into sight at the turn of the road: ‘Already!’ I cried. Smoke from burning grass drifted over the surface of the desolate soil now barren of its rye; through a gap in the embankment poured a herd of cattle looking like a stream of dirty milk, and they wandered off over the sandy heath. Jean had to cross the fields, to reach Vilméja, and I said: ‘I’ll come with you: I’ve been so thrilled by all this.’ But we found no more to say to each other. The rye stubble hurt me through my country sandals. I had the feeling that he wanted to be alone, no doubt to follow up at leisure some thought that had come to him. I pointed out that we had not talked about Anne; he assured me that we were not free to choose the subjects of our conversations, nor even of our meditations: ‘or else,’ he said loftily, ‘one would have to submit to the methods invented by the mystics.... Creatures like ourselves always are borne upon the stream, and walk down inevitable slopes....’ He related everything, in fact, to what he was reading at the moment. We agreed to meet again to arrange some method of dealing with the question of Anne. He talked absent-mindedly, and when I asked him a question, did not answer: suddenly he bent down, and with a boyish gesture picked a mushroom, showed it me, and then put it to his nose and lips.”

CHAPTER VII

Bernard was on the door-step waiting for Thérèse to return: “There’s nothing wrong with me at all,” he shouted, as soon as he saw her dress in the darkness: “Can you imagine that a man of my physique could be anæmic? It’s incredible, but I am: you can’t rely on appearances: I’m to follow a treatment ... the Fowler treatment: It’s arsenic ... the main thing is to get back my appetite.”

Thérèse remembered that she had felt no irritation at first: everything connected with Bernard seemed to make less impression on her than usual (as if the blow had been dealt her from further off). She did not hear him: for her body and her soul were turned towards another world full of eager creatures who wanted to know and to understand,—and, in a phrase which Jean had repeated with an air of deep satisfaction, “to become what they really were.” And when at dinner, she at last mentioned her meeting, Bernard cried, “Why, you hadn’t said anything about it: what an odd girl you are! Well, and what did you decide?”

She devised on the spot the plan which was, in fact, adopted. Jean Azévédo agreed to write a letter to Anne in which he would contrive as gently as possible to make it clear that all was over. Bernard had jeered when Thérèse had maintained that the young man did not want the marriage in the least: an Azévédo not want to marry Anne de la Trave! “Why, you must be mad! He knows very well there’s nothing doing: people like that don’t take a risk when they know they must lose. You’re still very simple-minded, my child.”

Bernard would not have the lamp lit because of the mosquitoes; so he did not see Thérèse’s look. “He had recovered his appetite,” as he said. The Bordeaux doctor had saved his life already.

“Did I see Jean Azévédo many times after that? He left Argelouse about the end of October.... We took perhaps five or six walks together; the only one that stands out was the one we spent in concocting the letter to Anne. The simple-minded youth insisted on what he thought were soothing, pacifying phrases: of course I could see how dreadful they were, though I did not say so. But our last expeditions are all confused in one single memory. Jean Azévédo described Paris and his friends to me, and I imagined a kingdom in which the law was self-realization. ‘Here you are condemned to deceit until you die.’ Did he speak such words intentionally? Of what did he suspect me? He thought I should never stand that stifling atmosphere: ‘Look,’ he said, ‘at the vast level frozen surface under which every soul in this place is embedded: sometimes it cracks and you can see the dark water beneath: some one has struggled and disappeared; the ice sets again.... Yet here, too, each one is born with his own law within him: here, too, each man’s destiny is his alone; and yet you are all victims of this same gloomy fate. Some resist: hence the tragedies about which our families do not talk. There is a great deal about which we do not talk!’

“‘Indeed, yes,’ I cried. ‘I have sometimes asked about some great-uncle or grandfather, whose photographs have disappeared from all the albums, and I have never got any answer except once, when I was told: ‘He disappeared: he was forced to disappear.’”

“Did Jean Azévédo dread this destiny for me? He assured me that it would have never occurred to him to talk about such matters to Anne, because apart from her affections, she was quite a simple soul, with little power of resistance, and would soon have sunk into slavery: ‘But you! I feel in all your words a hunger and thirst for truth.’ Shall I report faithfully all these conversations to Bernard? It is madness to hope that he would understand a word of them. He must realise, in any case, that I did not surrender without a struggle. I remember arguing against the lad that he was adorning with clever phrases what in fact was moral degradation. I even had recourse to memories of the lectures on ethics at the Lycée. ‘Self-realisation?’ I repeated: ‘but we only exist in so far as we make ourselves what we are.’ Azévédo denied that there was any degradation worse than that of self-betrayal. He maintained there was not a hero nor a saint, who had but once or twice explored the mysteries of his soul, without soon reaching all its limits: ‘We must go beyond ourselves to find God,’ he would say. And again: ‘To accept ourselves as we are, compels the best among us to meet ourselves face to face, openly and in fair fight. And that is why it often happens that these enlightened souls become converted to the narrowest creed.’”

She would not discuss with Bernard the justification for this morality;—she would even admit that these were doubtless the feeblest sophisms; “but he must understand, he must make an effort to understand, how deeply a woman like myself could be affected by them and what I felt in the evening in the dining-room at Argelouse: Bernard, ensconced in the neighbouring kitchen, was taking off his boots, and relating in dialect the result of the day’s shooting. The captive pigeons struggled in the heaving bag on the table: Bernard ate slowly, full of the joy of his reconquered appetite,—lovingly counted out the drops of ‘Fowler’: ‘That is health,’ he used to say. There was a large fire burning and at dessert he had only to turn his chair to stretch out his feet, in their felt shoes, to the flames. His eyes closed over La Petite Gironde. Sometimes he snored, but as often as not I did not even hear him breathe. Balionte’s slippers still shuffled about the kitchen; then she brought in the candlesticks. After that, silence: the silence of Argelouse. People who do not know those deserted moors do not know what silence is: it encircles the house as if embodied in that thick mass of forest in which nothing lives, except from time to time a hooting owl (we seem to be listening in the night to the sound of the sob we dare not utter).

“It was more especially after Azévédo’s departure that I became acquainted with that silence. So long as I knew that when it was daylight Jean would come once more, his presence robbed the outer darkness of its terror: while he slept near by, the moor and the night were populous. The moment he had left Argelouse, after that last conversation when he arranged to meet me in a year’s time, full of hope, he said, that I should then know how to free myself (I still do not know whether in this he spoke lightly, or whether he meant more than he said. I rather suspect that our young friend from Paris could not endure the silence, the silence of Argelouse, and that his regard for me was a regard for the only available audience), as soon as I had left him, I felt as though I was entering an endless tunnel, plunging into a darkness that grew ever thicker: and sometimes I wondered whether I should reach the open air before I were suffocated. Until my baby was born, in January, nothing more happened.”

Here, Thérèse hesitated: and she tried to detach her thoughts from what took place in the house at Argelouse the day following Jean’s departure: “No,” she thought: “that has nothing to do with what I shall soon have to explain to Bernard; I have no time to lose on trails that lead nowhere.” But the thought would not be dismissed; it haunted her mind. Thérèse will never destroy the memory of that October evening. Bernard was going to bed on the first floor: Thérèse was waiting until the log was quite burnt out before she joined him,—happy to be alone for a moment: what was Jean Azévédo doing at that hour? Perhaps he was drinking in that little bar he had told her about, or perhaps (the night was so warm) he was driving in a motor-car, with a friend, through the deserted Bois de Boulogne. Perhaps he was working at his table, while Paris murmured far away: the silence was his own handiwork,—he had won it against the turmoil of the world: it was not imposed on him from without like the silence which was stifling Thérèse: it was his own, and reached no further than the light of the lamp, or the shelves packed with books.... Such were Thérèse’s thoughts, when suddenly the dog barked, then began to howl, and a familiar, but exhausted voice soothed him outside in the vestibule. Anne de la Trave opened the door: she had walked from Saint Clair in the dark—her shoes were full of mud. Her eyes blazed in her worn little face. She flung her hat on to a chair: and asked: “Where is he?”

Thérèse and Jean, when the letter had been written and posted, had thought the affair was over,—far from supposing that Anne would not let go,—just as if any human creature listened to reasons or to reasonings, when its whole life was at stake! She had succeeded in eluding her mother and got into a train. She had made her way along the dark Argelouse road by the strip of clear sky between the tree-tops. “She must see him again: if she could see him again, he was hers once more: she must see him.” She had stumbled along, twisting her feet in the cart tracks, she was in such a hurry to reach Argelouse. Thérèse told her that Jean was gone and was now in Paris. Anne shook her head, she did not believe it: she could not let herself believe it, if she was not to collapse with fatigue and despair:

“You are lying as you have always lied.”

And as Thérèse protested, she added:

“Oh, you’ve got the family spirit with a vengeance! You pose as emancipated, but since your marriage you’ve become a woman of the family, pretty quick.... Yes, yes, of course, you did it for the best: you betrayed me to save me, didn’t you? I will spare you your explanations.” As she was opening the door, Thérèse asked her where she was going.

“To Vilméja, to his house.”

“I tell you he left it two days ago.”

“I don’t believe you.”

She went out; Thérèse then lit the lantern hanging in the entrance hall and went out after her:

“You’re going wrong, my little Anne: you’re on the road to Biourge. Vilméja is over there.”

They made their way through the mist. Dogs began to bark. The oaks of Vilméja at last, and the house, not asleep, but dead. Anne prowled round the empty sepulchre, and hammered on the door with both fists. Thérèse, standing motionless, had put the lantern down on the grass. She watched her friend’s slender ghost clinging to each window on the ground floor. Anne was no doubt whispering a name to herself, but not calling it aloud, for she knew that it was quite useless. For a few moments she was hidden behind the building; then she reappeared, went up to the door, and sank down upon the threshold, and hid her face in her knees which she clasped with her arms. Thérèse lifted her up and led her away. Anne kept on saying, as she stumbled along: “I shall go to Paris to-morrow morning: Paris is not so very big: I shall find him in Paris....” But she spoke like an exhausted child who had already given up hope.

Bernard, awakened by the sound of their voices, had put on a dressing-gown and was waiting for them in the drawing-room. Thérèse was wrong to banish the memory of that scene that broke out between brother and sister. This man, who could seize a poor worn-out child so roughly by the wrists, drag her up to a room on the second floor, and bolt the door, is your husband, Thérèse: that Bernard, who, in two hours’ time, will be your judge. The spirit of the family inspired him, and not for one instant did he waver. He always knew, in every sort of situation, what was due to the family. You, in the agony of your remorse, Thérèse, are preparing a long appeal: but only men with no principles can listen to a reason that is not their own. Bernard will laugh at your arguments: “I know what I have to do.” He always knows what he has to do. If he sometimes hesitates, he says: “The family have discussed it and we have decided that....” How can you doubt that he has prepared his sentence: Your destiny is fixed for ever: you may as well go to sleep.

CHAPTER VIII

After the La Traves had brought Anne back, defeated, to Saint Clair Thérèse had not left Argelouse until just before her baby was born. She knew the silence of the place only too well during those interminable November nights. A letter addressed to Jean Azévédo had remained unanswered. He doubtless considered that this country-bred creature was not worth the trouble of a correspondence. In the first place, a pregnant woman is never an agreeable recollection. Perhaps, at a distance, this foolish fellow, who would have been captivated by poses and sham complications, thought her dull. But what could he understand of that deceptive simplicity of mind, that frank expression, those bold unhesitating gestures? In point of fact, he believed her capable, like little Anne, of taking him at his word, and leaving everything for his sake. Jean Azévédo mistrusted women who surrendered too soon to give the assailant time to raise the siege. Nothing dismayed him so much as victory, and the fruits of victory. Yet Thérèse made an effort to live in this young man’s world: but some books which Jean admired, and which she had got from Bordeaux, she could not understand. How empty her life was! She was not to be asked to work at baby-linen: “That was not her business,” Madame de la Trave used to say. Many women die in childbirth in the country. Thérèse made Aunt Clara cry by assuring her that she would end like her mother, that she was certain she would not escape. She did not fail to add that she was content to die: which was untrue! She had never longed so ardently to live: nor had Bernard ever displayed so much solicitude for her. “He was not concerned about me, but about what I carried within me. He used to say, in his dreadful accent: ‘Have some more soup ... don’t eat any fish ... you have walked enough to-day....’ I did not care: I was no more touched than a foreign nurse might be who is pampered for the quality of her milk. The La Traves revered in me a sacred vessel: the mould which held their offspring; there was not a doubt that, if necessity arose, they would have sacrificed me to the life I held within me. I lost the feeling of individual existence. I was nothing more than the branch that bore the fruit which, in the family’s opinion, was all that counted.”

“Until the end of December we had to live in darkness. And as if the darkness of the pines were not enough, rain unceasing encompassed the gloomy house with its myriad moving rods. When the only road to Saint Clair threatened to become impassable, I was conveyed into the town, where the house was hardly less dark than that of Argelouse. The old plane trees on the Square still defended their leaves against the gusts of wind and rain. Aunt Clara, who could not live anywhere but at Argelouse, was not able to look after me: but she often made the journey, in any sort of weather, in her rustic dog-cart, and brought me all those little dainties that I used to be so fond of as a girl, and that she thought I still liked, little grey balls of rye and honey, called miques: and the cake that goes by the name of fougasse or roumadjade. I only saw Anne at meals, and she never spoke to me now: resigned, so it would seem, and broken, she had lost all her youthful freshness at a blow. Her hair, drawn too far back, revealed ugly pallid ears. The Deguilhem boy’s name was not mentioned, but Madame de la Trave asserted that if Anne did not yet say yes, neither did she say no. Ah! Jean had judged her rightly: it had not taken long to bridle her and break her in. Bernard was not so well because he had begun to drink aperitifs again.

“What did these creatures round me talk about? They discussed the clergyman a great deal, I remember (we lived opposite the presbytery). They wondered, for instance, ‘why he had crossed the Square six times in the course of the day, and each time he had had to come back a different way.’”

As a result of certain remarks of Jean Azévédo, Thérèse paid a little more attention to the priest, who was still young, and not on good terms with his parishioners who found him stand-offish: “He’s not the kind we want here”: In the course of his rare visits to the La Traves, Thérèse noticed his white temples and high forehead. He had no friends. How did he spend his evenings? Why had he chosen this life? “He is very punctilious,” said Madame de la Trave: “He prays every evening: but he is wanting in unction. I don’t think he is genuinely devout. He doesn’t really do anything in the Parish.” She deplored the fact that he had given up the Church Lads’ Brigade: and the parents complained that he did not go with the children to the football-field. “It’s all very well for him to be buried in his books, but a Parish soon goes to pieces.” Thérèse used to go to church to hear him preach (“My dear, you’ve decided to go just when your condition would have excused you”). The Curé’s sermons, which dealt with dogma or morals, were impersonal. But Thérèse was struck by an intonation, a gesture, or a word that seemed specially significant.... Ah! perhaps he could have helped her to unravel the confusion of her soul: unlike the rest, his also had been a tragic rôle: to his own inner solitude was added the isolation that the cassock brings upon its wearer. What comfort did he draw from those daily rites? Thérèse would have liked to have been present at Mass during the week when, with no other witness but a choir-boy, he bent muttering over a piece of bread. But such a proceeding would have seemed odd to her family and the neighbours, who would have raised the cry of “Conversion.”

Much as Thérèse suffered at that time, it was just after the birth of the child that she began to find life really unendurable. There was no outward sign of this, no scene between Bernard and herself: and she behaved with more deference to her parents-in-law than her husband himself. There lay the tragedy: there had been no reason for a rupture: it was impossible to conceive an event that would have prevented things taking the course that led to death. Misunderstanding presupposes some common ground of conflict; but Thérèse never came into contact with Bernard and still less with her parents-in-law; their words barely reached her: she hardly conceived it necessary to answer them. Had they even a vocabulary in common? They attached a different meaning to the most unimportant words. If Thérèse was ever tempted into saying something she really meant, the family had agreed, once and for all, that the poor child could not resist a paradox. “I pretend not to hear,” Madame de la Trave used to say: “and if she persists, not to take any notice. She knows it’s no good trying it on us.”

None the less, Madame de la Trave found it hard to tolerate Thérèse’s affectation of hating people to exclaim over her likeness to little Marie. The usual cries of “She’s the very image of you!...” produced violent reactions which she could not always conceal. “She’s not like me in the least,” she would insist. “Look at her dark skin, and jet-black eyes: you can see from my photographs I was pale when I was a baby.”

She would not have it that Marie was like her. She refused to possess anything in common with this flesh that had now parted company with her own. People began to be aware that she was not exactly remarkable for her maternal affection. But Madame de la Trave maintained that she loved her daughter in her own way: “Of course we can’t expect her to bathe the child or change her napkins: that wouldn’t be like her: but I have seen her sit for a whole evening by the cradle, not smoking, so as to watch the baby asleep.... Besides, we have a very reliable nurse: and then Anne is there. Ah! She’ll make a wonderful little mother....” It was true that, since a child had come into the house, Anne had begun to live again. A cradle always attracts women: but Anne especially loved to look after the infant. So as to have freer access to her, she had made peace with Thérèse, though nothing remained of their old affection but certain familiarities of address. The girl particularly dreaded Thérèse’s maternal jealousy: “The child knows me better than her mother: she laughs as soon as she sees me. The other day, I had her in my arms; she began to scream as soon as Thérèse wanted to take her. She likes me so much better that I feel quite embarrassed sometimes....”

Anne need not have felt embarrassed. At that moment in her life, Thérèse felt as aloof from her daughter as from everything else. She saw human beings and inanimate things, her own body and even her mind, like a mirage or vapour suspended outside her. In this void, Bernard alone assumed a dreadful reality: his corpulence, his nasal voice, his peremptory tone, his self-satisfaction. If she could only get away.... But how? And where? Thérèse was overcome by the first heat of summer. She had not the slightest presentiment of what she was about to do. What did happen that year? She could not remember a single incident, a single quarrel: she remembered having loathed her husband more than usual, on the day of Corpus Christi, when she watched the procession through the half-closed shutters. Bernard was almost the only man behind the canopy. The village had become a desert in a few moments, just as if there had been a lion, not a lamb, let loose in the streets.... People went behind doors so as not to be obliged to take their hats off or fall on their knees. Once the danger had passed, the doors began to open one by one. Thérèse observed the Curé, who was walking with his eyes nearly shut, carrying the strange object in both his hands. His lips moved: to whom was he speaking with that dejected air? And immediately behind him walked Bernard, “doing his duty as usual.”

Weeks followed without a drop of rain. Bernard lived in terror of fires, and his heart was troubling him again. More than twelve hundred acres had been burnt in the Louchat district: “If the wind had been in the north my Balisac pines would have been done for.” Thérèse waited for some blow to fall from that unchanging sky. It would never rain any more.... One day the whole forest round them would burst into crackling flames, and even the town would not escape. How is it that the villages in the Landes country are never burnt down? She thought it unfair that the flames should always fall upon the pines and never on the human population. At home, there were endless discussions on the causes of the disaster: a cigarette-end very likely, or perhaps some one had done it for revenge? Thérèse dreamt that she got up one night, went into the forest where the undergrowth was thickest, threw away her cigarette, and waited until the sky of dawn was darkened with vast clouds of smoke.... But she banished the thought, for love of the pines was in her blood: it was not upon the trees that her hatred lay.

The time had now come when she must face the act she had committed. What explanation should she give to Bernard? She could only remind him, point by point, how the thing happened. It was the day of the great fire at Mano. Various men came into the dining-room where the family were having a hasty lunch. Some said that the fire seemed a very long way from Saint Clair: others insisted that the tocsin should be rung. The torrid air was full of the smell of burning resin and the face of the sun looked dull and tarnished. Thérèse saw Bernard once more, sitting with his head turned, listening to Balion’s report, and his strong hairy hand poised absent-mindedly above the glass as the “Fowler’s drops” fell into the water. He swallowed the physic at a gulp before Thérèse, who was stupefied with the heat, had thought to warn him that he had doubled his usual dose. Every one but herself had left the table; she stayed on, cracking almonds, indifferent, untouched by all this anxiety, without interest in the tragedy, as indeed in any tragedy that was not her own. The tocsin did not ring. Bernard came back at last: “For once you were right not to be anxious: the fire is over towards Mano.... Have I taken my drops?” he asked, and without waiting for the answer he began again to pour them out into his glass. She said nothing, no doubt from laziness or fatigue; what was her intention in that instant? “I couldn’t have really meant not to answer.”

And yet that night, when Doctor Pédemay questioned her on the incidents of the day, as she stood by Bernard’s bedside, where he lay vomiting and groaning, she did not mention what she had seen at table. It would, however, have been easy, without compromising herself, to have reminded the doctor about the arsenic which Bernard was taking. She might have said something of this sort: “I did not think about it at the moment.... We were all distracted by the fire ... but I would swear, now, that he took a double dose....” She remained dumb: she did not even feel moved to speak. The deed which during lunch had been unwitting began then to emerge from the depths of her being,—as yet incomplete, but half-endured with consciousness.

After the doctor’s departure she had watched Bernard as he lay asleep at last: she thought to herself: “There is nothing to prove it was that; it may be an attack of appendicitis, though there were no other symptoms ... or an attack of gastric influenza.” But Bernard was up again two days later. “It looks as if it must have been that.” Thérèse would not have sworn to it; she would like to have been sure. “Yes, I had no sort of feeling of being at the mercy of a horrible temptation: it was merely a matter of curiosity rather dangerous to satisfy. The first day on which I poured the ‘Fowler’s drops’ into his glass, before he came into the room, I remember saying to myself: ‘Just once, so as to make quite sure.... I shall know if it was that which made him ill. Just once and no more.’”

The train slowed down, whistled for some time, and then moved on again. Two or three lights in the distance: Saint Clair station. But Thérèse’s self-examination was at an end: she had taken the plunge and the dark waters had closed over her head. What followed was murder, and Bernard knew as much about it as she did: the sudden recurrence of his trouble, and Thérèse watching over him day and night, although she seemed at the end of her strength and incapable of swallowing anything, so much so that he persuaded her to try the Fowler treatment, and she got a prescription from Doctor Pédemay! Poor Doctor! He was astonished by the greenish liquid that Bernard brought up: he would not have believed that there could be such a discrepancy between an invalid’s pulse and his temperature: he had many times observed, in cases of para-typhoid, a regular pulse, notwithstanding a high degree of fever;—but what could be the meaning of this violent pulse with a temperature below the normal?... Gastric influenza, no doubt (influenza covers everything).

Madame de la Trave contemplated calling in an eminent consultant but did not want to hurt the doctor’s feelings as he was an old friend; besides, Thérèse was afraid of giving Bernard a shock. Still, about the middle of August, after a more than usually alarming attack, Pédemay of his own accord asked for a second opinion; fortunately, on the very next day Bernard was better: and three weeks later they were talking of convalescence.

“A fortunate escape,” said Pédemay. “If there had been time to call in the great man, he would have got all the credit for the case.”

Bernard had himself taken to Argelouse, in the conviction that the pigeon-shooting would cure him. Thérèse was much exhausted about this time: Aunt Clara was in bed with an acute attack of rheumatism: two invalids and one child to look after, not to mention all Aunt Clara’s various avocations that had to be attended to. Thérèse took particular care to see that the Argelouse poor did not suffer from the aunt’s illness. She went around to all the farms, and, just as her aunt did, saw that all the prescriptions were made up, and paid for the medicines out of her own pocket. It did not occur to her to be depressed because the Vilméja farm was shut. She thought no more of Azévédo, nor of any one at all. She was travelling alone through a tunnel at lightning speed, and she was at the darkest point. She must not think: she must dash, like an animal, through the darkness and smoke and get out into the free air once more.

At the beginning of December Bernard was again laid up with the same complaint: one morning he awoke shivering, his legs lifeless and cold. Ah, what happened then! A consultant fetched one evening from Bordeaux by Monsieur de la Trave: his long silence after he had examined the sick man (Thérèse held the lamp and Balionte still remembers that she looked whiter than the sheets): on the dim landing, Pédemay, lowering his voice in case Thérèse might be listening, explaining to his colleague that Darquey the chemist, had shown him two of his prescriptions falsified: on the first a criminal hand had added: Fowler drops; on the other appeared fairly large doses of chloroform, digitaline and aconitine. Balion had brought them to the pharmacy together with many others. Darquey, in a panic at having sent out these poisons, rushed round the next day to see Pédemay.... Yes, Bernard knew all this as well as Thérèse herself. He had been hurriedly conveyed in an ambulance to a nursing-home at Bordeaux: and from that day he had begun to get well. Thérèse had remained alone at Argelouse; but lonely as she was, she was aware of a kind of vast and ominous murmur bearing down on her, and she crouched like an animal that hears the hounds drawing near; she felt as if she had been brought down in a frantic race,—as if when near the goal, her hand already outstretched to clasp it, she had been suddenly dashed to the ground and both her legs broken. Her father had come one evening, and begged her to make a clean breast of it: all might yet be saved. Pédemay had agreed to withdraw his charge, and pretended to be no longer sure whether one of the prescriptions was not entirely from his hand. As for the aconitine, chloroform and digitaline, he could not have prescribed such heavy doses: but since no trace of them had been found in the patient’s blood....

Thérèse remembered the scene with her father, by Aunt Clara’s bed. The room was lit up by a wood fire; none of them wanted a lamp. In her monotonous childish voice she delivered a lesson, the lesson that she went over again and again during her sleepless nights. “I met a man on the road who did not come from Argelouse, and who said to me that since I was sending some one to Darquey’s, he hoped I would not mind sending his prescriptions too: he owed money to Darquey and did not want to go to the shop.... He promised to come to the house for the medicine, but he did not tell me his name nor his address....”

“Try to think of something else, Thérèse, for God’s sake, for the sake of the family: wretched woman, try to think of something else.”

Old Larroque repeated his adjurations with obstinate emphasis; the deaf woman, half raised upon her pillows, and feeling that a mortal menace was weighing on Thérèse, groaned out: “What is he saying to you? What do they want you to do? Why are they hurting you?”

She had found enough strength to smile at her aunt and hold her hand, while, like a little girl at her catechism, she recited: “It was a man on the road: it was too dark for me to see his face; he did not say what farm he belonged to....”

He had come another evening for the medicine; but unfortunately no one in the house had seen his face.