g woman.

"We shall soon lose her," he murmured in a tearful voice. "We cannot
conceal from ourselves that she is extremely ill. Ah! alas, for our poor
happiness, and our nice tranquil evenings!"

Madame Raquin listened to him with anguish. Laurent even had the
audacity to speak of Camille.

"You see," said he to the mercer, "the death of my poor friend has been
a terrible blow to her. She had been dying for the last two years, since
that fatal day when she lost Camille. Nothing will console her, nothing
will cure her. We must be resigned."

These impudent falsehoods made the old lady shed bitter tears. The
memory of her son troubled and blinded her. Each time the name of
Camille was pronounced, she gave way, bursting into sobs. She would have
embraced the person who mentioned her poor boy. Laurent had noticed
the trouble, and outburst of tender feeling that this name produced. He
could make her weep at will, upset her with such emotion that she failed
to distinguish the clear aspect of things; and he took advantage of this
power to always hold her pliant and in pain in his hand, as it were.

Each evening in spite of the secret revolt of his trembling inner being,
he brought the conversation to bear on the rare qualities, on the tender
heart and mind of Camille, praising his victim with most shameless
impudence. At moments, when he found the eyes of Therese fixed with a
strange expression on his own, he shuddered, and ended by believing
all the good he had been saying about the drowned man. Then he held his
tongue, suddenly seized with atrocious jealousy, fearing that the young
widow loved the man he had flung into the water, and whom he now lauded
with the conviction of an enthusiast.

Throughout the conversation Madame Raquin was in tears, and unable to
distinguish anything around her. As she wept, she reflected that Laurent
must have a loving and generous heart. He alone remembered her son, he
alone still spoke of him in a trembling and affected voice. She dried
her eyes, gazing at the young man with infinite tenderness, and feeling
that she loved him as her own child.

One Thursday evening, Michaud and Grivet were already in the
dining-room, when Laurent coming in, approached Therese, and with gentle
anxiety inquired after her health. He seated himself for a moment beside
her, performing for the edification of the persons present, his part
of an alarmed and affectionate friend. As the young couple sat close