Thérèse Raquin is a novel about what it’s like to commit a terrible act of violence and then live with the consequences. But what makes the story unique is that there aren’t any consequences, or at least not the kind that usually come along with cold-blooded murder. Laurent and Thérèse aren’t arrested for killing Camille, nor does anyone suspect them of foul play. In fact, for an entire year after Camille’s death, not much happens to either of them: they simply go about their lives, biding their time until they can get married. Despite this lack of punishment, though, their lives start to change. The novel suggests that they aren’t wracked with guilt, explicitly noting that Laurent doesn’t “in the least regret having killed Camille,” but there’s no denying that their lives—and emotional states—get worse after the murder. Neither of them, for example, can sleep through the night on their own, so they delude themselves with the thought that they’ll protect each other from their night terrors when they’re married. However, their nights become even more torturous after they get married. Although they originally thought being together would calm their minds, they realize that they only remind each other of what they’ve done. Accordingly, they try to distance themselves from each other, but that doesn’t work, either: nothing they do will allow them to move on. It therefore becomes clear that it was delusional for them to think they could commit such a significant act of violence and then lead a carefree life. Though the book avoids making explicit moral judgments, the fact that Laurent and Thérèse come to such a tragic end illustrates the grave psychological consequences of cruel and immoral behavior.
One of the most surprising aspects of Laurent and Thérèse’s story is that they don’t experience guilt—at least not in the way most people would likely experience it. In the immediate aftermath of Camille’s death, for example, the novel makes it quite clear that Laurent doesn’t feel bad about what he’s done. In fact, he’d readily do it again if it were necessary. Although he was often “choked” with “panic” before killing Camille, his fears seem to recede after he actually goes through with the plan. He even feels like a “weight” has been “lifted from his chest,” as if the thing that bothered him was merely the “anticipation” of carrying out the murder, not the actual immorality of the act. Thérèse is a bit more unsettled in the days after the murder, but even she manages to go back to normal before too long. Both Thérèse and Laurent spend the 15 months after the murder leading fairly untroubled lives, worrying more about getting caught than about the moral implications of what they’ve done. They don’t, in other words, feel particularly guilty about committing murder.
Eventually, though, Thérèse and Laurent’s crime does begin to take a toll on their lives, suggesting that even people with no concern for morality find it difficult to completely ignore the consequences of their own wretched behavior. After finally deciding to start planning the wedding, they spend many sleepless nights writhing in fear because they can’t stop thinking about Camille—reestablishing their connection (after 15 months of avoiding each other) awakens troubling memories of the murder. To make themselves feel better, they take comfort in the idea that getting married and spending time together will banish their night terrors. But such an idea is delusional. The (obvious) reason they’re struggling emotionally isn’t that they sleep alone, but that they killed a human being. And yet, they’re unwilling to admit to themselves that they feel remorseful for murdering Camille, so they optimistically assume that being together will solve their problems and make them forget about the entire incident. Nothing, of course, could be further from the truth, since they wind up reminding each other of what they’ve done. Consequently, they come to fiercely resent each other after getting married. They resent each other so much, in fact, that their relationship fills with a violent “hatred,” as they actively seek out ways to enrage and hurt each other. Needless to say, the quality of their lives plummets, so although they might not care about the moral implications of committing murder, it’s evident that they still have to live with the messy consequences of behaving so unconscionably.
More than making any sort of moral statement, though, the novel is mainly focused on illustrating how one tragedy can lead to another. In the novel’s preface, the author, Émile Zola, announces his disinterest in making moral judgments, implying that Thérèse Raquin is like a scientific study of Laurent and Thérèse—it simply explores their wretched tendencies and, more importantly, the terrible situations that come about because of those tendencies. It doesn’t necessarily matter, then, whether or not Laurent or Thérèse feel guilty for murdering Camille. Instead, what matters is that the murder creates more and more misery. By the end of the novel, Thérèse and Laurent are so distraught that they plan to kill each other, suggesting that their initial act of violence only leads to more violence. Regardless of the characters’ own moral outlooks, then, the novel outlines a simple, straightforward idea—namely, that immorality just ends up creating more immorality.
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Consequences and Delusion Quotes in Thérèse Raquin
It is true that he found Thérèse plain and did not love her, but then she would not cost him anything; the women he usually picked up cheaply were certainly no prettier, nor any better loved. On grounds of economy alone, it was a good idea to take his friend’s wife. […] Then again, when he came to think about it, an affair like this could hardly lead to any trouble: it would be in Thérèse’s interests to cover it up, and he could easily jilt her when he felt like it; even if Camille did find out and get annoyed, he would just thump him if he started to throw his weight around. Whichever way he looked at it, the prospect seemed an easy and alluring one to Laurent.
Before Thérèse had come he had not had any thought of murdering Camille; then, under the pressure of events and in exasperation at the thought that he would not see his lover ever again, he had talked of his death. Thus a new corner of his unconscious nature had revealed itself: carried away by his adultery, he had started dreaming of murder.
He had decided to go there to cover himself in case anyone should suspect him, and to avoid having to break the dreadful news to Madame Raquin in person. That was something he felt peculiarly loath to do, for he fully expected her to be so grief-stricken that he would be unable to summon sufficient tears to act his own part credibly; moreover, he found the thought of her maternal anguish oppressive, although he didn’t really care about it otherwise.
He was relieved to have committed his crime at last. He had killed Camille and now the whole thing was over and done with; nothing more would ever be said. From now on he was going to live in peace and quiet, until it was time to take possession of Thérèse. The thought of committing a murder had choked him at times with panic; now that he had succeeded, a weight had been lifted from his chest, he could breathe easily again, and he was free of the anxiety which fear and hesitation had inflicted.
He turned down his shirt-collar and studied the wound in a cheap, tarnished mirror on the wall. It was a red gash the size of a two-sous coin; the skin had been torn away to expose the pinkish flesh, which had black spots in it; trickles of blood had run down as far as the shoulder, leaving congealed trails which were now flaking off. Against the white of the neck, the bite stood out a deep and powerful brown; it was on the right, below the ear. Laurent stooped forward and stretched his neck out to see, and the greenish mirror distorted his expression into an atrocious grimace.
His visits to the Morgue gave him nightmares and fits of shuddering which left him panting for breath. He shook off his fears and told himself not to act like a child; he wanted to be strong, but, despite himself, his body refused, and his whole being was overcome by revulsion and horror as soon as he found himself in the damp, sickly-smelling atmosphere of the mortuary.
The two lovers no longer made any attempt to see each other on their own. They never sought a rendez-vous or exchanged a furtive kiss. For the moment, the murder had as it were smothered the sensual fire in their flesh; by killing Camille, they had managed to assuage those fierce and insatiable desires which had remained unsatisfied while they had lain locked in each other’s arms. The crime had given them a feeling of acute pleasure which made their embraces seem insipid and loathsome in comparison.
Whenever he reflected that he might have been found out and guillotined, all his caution and cowardice rushed back, making him shudder and bringing a cold sweat to his brow as he felt the icy kiss of the blade on the back of his neck. While he had been busily occupied he had gone straight ahead, with the blind tenacity of a dumb beast. Now, when he looked back at the chasm which he had just crossed, he was overcome by terror and faintness of heart.
‘I must really have been drunk,’ he thought; ‘that woman must have intoxicated me with her caresses. Good God, what a crazy fool I’ve been! To risk the guillotine for something like that…It went off all right in the end, but if I had my time again I wouldn’t even consider it.’
If they were in a hurry to get marriage over with, it was because they could no longer stand being apart and on their own. Every night they were visited by the drowned man, and insomnia laid them on a bed of burning coals, turning them over with red-hot irons. The state of nervous irritation in which they were living still kindled new desires in them each evening, setting atrocious hallucinations before their eyes.
But in the dreadful silence that followed, the two murderers still went on conversing about their victim. […] They could not have understood each other better if they had both screamed in heart-rending tones: ‘We killed Camille, and his body is still here between us, turning our limbs to ice.’ And the terrible confessions went on flowing between them, more visible and resounding than ever, in the calm, damp air of the room.
His remorse was purely physical. Only his body, with its over-stretched nerves and trembling flesh, was afraid of the drowned man. His conscience had nothing to do with the terror he felt, and he did not in the least regret having killed Camille; in periods of calm when the ghost was not there, he would have committed the murder all over again if he had thought it was in his interests to do so. […] His body was suffering terribly but his soul remained absent; the wretched fellow did not feel in the least repentant. Thérèse’s passion had infected him with a terrible sickness, and that was all.
Meanwhile, Thérèse and Laurent continued to lead their double lives. It was as if there were two quite distinct people in each of them: one, nervy and terrified, who started shaking as soon as darkness fell, the other sluggish and unconcerned, who breathed easily as soon as the sun was up. They were living two different existences, screaming in terror when they were left on their own, smiling serenely when there were other people there.
Suddenly, Thérèse and Laurent burst into tears. An overwhelming crisis broke them and flung them into each other’s arms, as weak as children. They both felt something gentle and tender awakening in their bosom. They cried, unable to speak, thinking of the sordid life they had led and would go on leading, if they were cowardly enough to go on at all. Then, as they thought back over the past, they felt so weary and disgusted with themselves that they were filled with an immense need for rest, oblivion. They exchanged a final glance, a glance of gratitude, before the knife and the glass of poison. Then Thérèse took the glass, drank half of it, and handed it to Laurent, who swallowed the rest straight down.
