As soon as she felt
inclined to cry, to divert herself by sobbing, she knelt before the
impotent old lady, and there, wailing and choking, performed to her
alone a scene of remorse which weakened but relieved her.
"I am a wretch," she stammered, "I deserve no mercy. I deceived you, I
drove your son to his death. Never will you forgive me. And yet, if
you only knew how I am rent by remorse, if you only knew how I suffer,
perhaps you would have pity. No, no pity for me. I should like to die
here at your feet, overwhelmed by shame and grief."
She spoke in this manner for hours together, passing from despair to
hope, condemning and then pardoning herself; she assumed the voice,
brief and plaintive in turn, of a little sick girl; she flattened
herself on the ground and drew herself up again, acting upon all the
ideas of humility and pride, of repentance and revolt that entered her
head. Sometimes even, forgetting she was on her knees before Madame
Raquin, she continued her monologue as in a dream. When she had made
herself thoroughly giddy with her own words, she rose staggering and
dazed, to go down to the shop in a calmer frame of mind, no longer
fearing to burst into sobs before her customers.
Pages:
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287