Thérèse Raquin Read Online Free PDF Page B

father
found out that I was telling him falsehoods. He stopped my 100 francs
a month, and invited me to return and plough the land with him. I then
tried to paint pictures on religious subjects which proved bad business.
As I could plainly see that I was going to die of hunger, I sent art to
the deuce and sought employment. My father will die one of these days,
and I am waiting for that event to live and do nothing."
    Laurent spoke in a tranquil tone. In a few words he had just related a
characteristic tale that depicted him at full length. In reality he was
an idle fellow, with the appetite of a full-blooded man for everything,
and very pronounced ideas as to easy and lasting employment. The only
ambition of this great powerful frame was to do nothing, to grovel in
idleness and satiation from hour to hour. He wanted to eat well, sleep
well, to abundantly satisfy his passions, without moving from his place,
without running the risk of the slightest fatigue.
    The profession of advocate had terrified him, and he shuddered at
the idea of tilling the soil. He had plunged into art, hoping to find
therein a calling suitable to an idle man. The paint-brush struck him
as being an instrument light to handle, and he fancied success easy.
His dream was a life of cheap sensuality, a beautiful existence full of
houris, of repose on divans, of victuals and intoxication.
    The dream lasted so long as daddy Laurent sent the crown pieces. But
when the young man, who was already thirty, perceived the wolf at the
door, he began to reflect. Face to face with privations, he felt himself
a coward. He would not have accepted a day without bread, for the utmost
glory art could bestow. As he had said himself, he sent art to the
deuce, as soon as he recognised that it would never suffice to satisfy
his numerous requirements. His first efforts had been below mediocrity;
his peasant eyes caught a clumsy, slovenly view of nature; his muddy,
badly drawn, grimacing pictures, defied all criticism.
    But he did not seem to have an over-dose of vanity for an artist; he was
not in dire despair when he had to put aside his brushes. All he really
regretted was the vast studio of his college chum, where he had been
voluptuously grovelling for four or five years. He also regretted the
women who came to pose there. Nevertheless he found himself at ease in
his position as clerk; he lived very well in a brutish fashion, and he
was fond of this daily task, which did not fatigue him, and soothed
his mind. Still one thing irritated him: the food at the eighteen sous
ordinaries failed to appease the gluttonous appetite of his stomach.
    As Camille listened to his friend, he contemplated him with all the
astonishment of a simpleton. This feeble man was dreaming, in a childish
manner, of this studio life which his friend had been alluding to, and
he questioned Laurent on the subject.
    "So," said he, "there were lady models who posed before you in the
nude?"
    "Oh! yes," answered Laurent with a smile, and looking at Therese, who
had turned deadly pale.
    "You must have thought that very funny," continued Camille, laughing
like a child. "It would have made me feel most awkward. I expect you
were quite scandalised the first time it happened."
    Laurent had spread out one of his great hands and was attentively
looking at the palm. His fingers gave slight twitches, and his cheeks
became flushed.
    "The first time," he answered, as if speaking to himself, "I fancy I
thought it quite natural. This devilish art is exceedingly amusing, only
it does not bring in a sou. I had a red-haired girl as model who was
superb, firm white flesh, gorgeous bust, hips as wide as . . ."
    Laurent, raising his head, saw Therese mute and motionless opposite,
gazing at him with ardent fixedness. Her dull black eyes seemed like
two fathomless holes, and through her parted lips could be perceived the
rosy tint of the inside of her mouth. She seemed as if overpowered by
what she heard, and lost in thought. She