Thérèse Raquin by Émile Zola

slabs, and upon them, here and there, the naked
bodies formed green and yellow, white and red patches. While some
retained their natural condition in the rigidity of death, others seemed
like lumps of bleeding and decaying meat. At the back, against the wall,
hung some lamentable rags, petticoats and trousers, puckered against the
bare plaster. Laurent at first only caught sight of the wan ensemble of
stones and walls, spotted with dabs of russet and black formed by
the clothes and corpses. A melodious sound of running water broke the
silence.
    Little by little he distinguished the bodies, and went from one to the
other. It was only the drowned that interested him. When several human
forms were there, swollen and blued by the water, he looked at them
eagerly, seeking to recognise Camille. Frequently, the flesh on the
faces had gone away by strips, the bones had burst through the mellow
skins, the visages were like lumps of boned, boiled beef. Laurent
hesitated; he looked at the corpses, endeavouring to discover the lean
body of his victim. But all the drowned were stout. He saw enormous
stomachs, puffy thighs, and strong round arms. He did not know what to
do. He stood there shuddering before those greenish-looking rags, which
seemed like mocking him, with their horrible wrinkles.
    One morning, he was seized with real terror. For some moments, he had
been looking at a corpse, taken from the water, that was small in build
and atrociously disfigured. The flesh of this drowned person was so soft
and broken-up that the running water washing it, carried it away bit by
bit. The jet falling on the face, bored a hole to the left of the nose.
And, abruptly, the nose became flat, the lips were detached, showing the
white teeth. The head of the drowned man burst out laughing.
    Each time Laurent fancied he recognised Camille, he felt a burning
sensation in the heart. He ardently desired to find the body of his
victim, and he was seized with cowardice when he imagined it before him.
His visits to the Morgue filled him with nightmare, with shudders that
set him panting for breath. But he shook off his fear, taxing himself
with being childish, when he wished to be strong. Still, in spite of
himself, his frame revolted, disgust and terror gained possession of his
being, as soon as ever he found himself in the dampness, and unsavoury
odour of the hall.
    When there were no drowned persons on the back row of slabs, he breathed
at ease; his repugnance was not so great. He then became a simple
spectator, who took strange pleasure in looking death by violence in the
face, in its lugubriously fantastic and grotesque attitudes. This sight
amused him, particularly when there were women there displaying their
bare bosoms. These nudities, brutally exposed, bloodstained, and in
places bored with holes, attracted and detained him.
    Once he saw a young woman of twenty there, a child of the people, broad
and strong, who seemed asleep on the stone. Her fresh, plump, white form
displayed the most delicate softness of tint. She was half smiling, with
her head slightly inclined on one side. Around her neck she had a black
band, which gave her a sort of necklet of shadow. She was a girl who had
hanged herself in a fit of love madness.
    Each morning, while Laurent was there, he heard behind him the coming
and going of the public who entered and left.
    The morgue is a sight within reach of everybody, and one to which
passers-by, rich and poor alike, treat themselves. The door stands open,
and all are free to enter. There are admirers of the scene who go out of
their way so as not to miss one of these performances of death. If the
slabs have nothing on them, visitors leave the building disappointed,
feeling as if they had been cheated, and murmuring between their teeth;
but when they are fairly well occupied, people crowd in front of them
and treat themselves to cheap emotions; they express horror, they joke,
they applaud or whistle, as at the theatre, and withdraw