Part 20 (2/2)
When the guests arrived in the evening, Madame Raquin occupied her usual place, between the stove and table. Therese and Laurent feigned to be in good spirits, concealing their shudders and awaiting, in anguish, the incident that was bound to occur. They had brought the lamp-shade very low down, so that the oilcloth table covering alone was lit up.
The guests engaged in the usual noisy, common-place conversation that invariably preceded the first game of dominoes. Grivet and Michaud did not fail to address the usual questions to the paralysed woman, on the subject of her health, and to give excellent answers to them, as was their custom. After which, the company, without troubling any further about the poor old lady, plunged with delight into the game.
Since Madame Raquin had become aware of the horrible secret, she had been awaiting this evening with feverish impatience. She had gathered together all her remaining strength to denounce the culprits. Up to the last moment, she feared she would not be present at the gathering; she thought Laurent would make her disappear, perhaps kill her, or at least shut her up in her own apartment. When she saw that her niece and nephew allowed her to remain in the dining-room, she experienced lively joy at the thought of attempting to avenge her son.
Aware that her tongue was powerless, she resorted to a new kind of language. With astonis.h.i.+ng power of will, she succeeded, in a measure, in galvanising her right hand, in slightly raising it from her knee, where it always lay stretched out, inert; she then made it creep little by little up one of the legs of the table before her, and thus succeeded in placing it on the oilcloth table cover. Then, she feebly agitated the fingers as if to attract attention.
When the players perceived this lifeless hand, white and nerveless, before them, they were exceedingly surprised. Grivet stopped short, with his arm in the air, at the moment when he was about to play the double-six. Since the impotent woman had been struck down, she had never moved her hands.
”Hey! Just look, Therese,” cried Michaud. ”Madame Raquin is agitating her fingers. She probably wants something.”
Therese could not reply. Both she and Laurent had been following the exertion of the paralysed woman, and she was now looking at the hand of her aunt, which stood out wan in the raw light of the lamp, like an avenging hand that was about to speak. The two murderers waited, breathless.
”Of course,” said Grivet, ”she wants something. Oh! We thoroughly understand one another. She wants to play dominoes. Eh! Isn't it so, dear lady?”
Madame Raquin made a violent sign indicating that she wanted nothing of the kind. She extended one finger, folded up the others with infinite difficulty, and began to painfully trace letters on the table cover.
She had barely indicated a stroke or two, when Grivet again exclaimed in triumph:
”I understand; she says I do right to play the double-six.”
The impotent woman cast a terrible glance at the old clerk, and returned to the word she wished to write. But Grivet interrupted her at every moment, declaring it was needless, that he understood, and he then brought out some stupidity. Michaud at last made him hold his tongue.
”The deuce! Allow Madame Raquin to speak,” said he. ”Speak, my old friend.”
And he gazed at the oilcloth table cover as if he had been listening.
But the fingers of the paralysed woman were growing weary. They had begun the word more than ten times over, and now, in tracing this word, they wandered to right and left. Michaud and Olivier bent forward, and being unable to read, forced the impotent old lady to resume the first letters.
”Ah! Bravo!” exclaimed Olivier, all at once, ”I can read it, this time.
She has just written your name, Therese. Let me see: '_Therese and_----'
Complete the sentence, dear lady.”
Therese almost shrieked in anguish. She watched the finger of her aunt gliding over the oilcloth, and it seemed to her that this finger traced her name, and the confession of her crime in letters of fire. Laurent had risen violently, with half a mind to fling himself on the paralysed woman and break her arm. When he saw this hand return to life to reveal the murder of Camille, he thought all was lost, and already felt the weight and frigidity of the knife on the nape of his neck.
Madame Raquin still wrote, but in a manner that became more and more hesitating.
”This is perfect. I can read it very well indeed,” resumed Olivier after an instant, and with his eyes on the married pair. ”Your aunt writes your two names: '_Therese and Laurent_.'”
The old lady made sign after sign in the affirmative, casting crus.h.i.+ng glances on the murderers. Then she sought to complete the sentence, but her fingers had stiffened, the supreme will that galvanised them, escaped her. She felt the paralysis slowly descending her arm and again grasping her wrist. She hurried on, and traced another word.
Old Michaud read out in a loud voice:
”_Therese and Laurent have----_”
And Olivier inquired:
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