found roar of her
affliction. She would have dragged herself along the ground, had not
Suzanne taken her round the waist, weeping on her knees, and raising
her pale countenance towards her. Olivier and his father on their feet,
unnerved and mute, turned aside their heads, being disagreeably affected
at this painful sight which wounded them in their egotism.

The poor mother saw her son rolling along in the thick waters of the
Seine, a rigid and horribly swollen corpse; while at the same time, she
perceived him a babe, in his cradle, when she drove away death bending
over him. She had brought him back into the world on more than ten
occasions; she loved him for all the love she had bestowed on him during
thirty years. And now he had met his death far away from her, all at
once, in the cold and dirty water, like a dog.

Then she remembered the warm blankets in which she had enveloped him.
What care she had taken of her boy! What a tepid temperature he had been
reared in! How she had coaxed and fondled him! And all this to see him
one day miserably drown himself! At these thoughts Madame Raquin felt a
tightening at the throat, and she hoped she was going to die, strangled
by despair.

Old Michaud hastened to withdraw. Leaving Suzanne behind to look after
the mercer, he and Olivier went to find Laurent, so that they might
hurry to Saint-Ouen with all speed.

During the journey, they barely exchanged a few words. Each of them
buried himself in a corner of the cab which jolted along over the
stones. There they remained motionless and mute in the obscurity that
prevailed within the vehicle. Ever and anon a rapid flash from a gas
lamp, cast a bright gleam on their faces. The sinister event that had
brought them together, threw a sort of dismal dejection upon them.

When they at length arrived at the restaurant beside the river, they
found Therese in bed with burning head and hands. The landlord told them
in an undertone, that the young woman had a violent fever. The truth was
that Therese, feeling herself weak in character and wanting in courage,
feared she might confess the crime in one of her nervous attacks, and
had decided to feign illness.

Maintaining sullen silence, she kept her lips and eyes closed, unwilling
to see anyone lest she should speak. With the bedclothes to her chin,
her face half concealed by the pillow, she made herself quite small,
anxiously listening to all that was said around her. And, amidst the