gging along his feet, and looking silly and vain. It
made Therese suffer to be seen arm in arm with such a man.

On these walking-out days, Madame Raquin accompanied her children to the
end of the arcade, where she embraced them as if they were leaving on a
journey, giving them endless advice, accompanied by fervent prayers.

"Particularly, beware of accidents," she would say. "There are so many
vehicles in the streets of Paris! Promise me not to get in a crowd."

At last she allowed them to set out, but she followed them a
considerable distance with her eyes, before returning to the shop. Her
lower limbs were becoming unwieldy which prohibited her taking long
walks.

On other occasions, but more rarely, the married couple went out of
Paris, as far as Saint-Ouen or Asnieres, where they treated themselves
to a dish of fried fish in one of the restaurants beside the river.
These were regarded as days of great revelry which were spoken of a
month beforehand. Therese engaged more willingly, almost with joy, in
these excursions which kept her in the open air until ten or eleven
o'clock at night. Saint-Ouen, with its green isles, reminded her of
Vernon, and rekindled all the wild love she had felt for the Seine when
a little girl.

She seated herself on the gravel, dipped her hands in the water, feeling
full of life in the burning heat of the sun, attenuated by the fresh
puffs of breeze in the shade. While she tore and soiled her frock on
the stones and clammy ground, Camille neatly spread out his
pocket-handkerchief and sank down beside her with endless precautions.
Latterly the young couple almost invariably took Laurent with them. He
enlivened the excursion by his laughter and strength of a peasant.

One Sunday, Camille, Therese and Laurent left for Saint-Ouen after
breakfast, at about eleven o'clock. The outing had been projected a long
time, and was to be the last of the season. Autumn approached, and the
cold breezes at night, began to make the air chilly.

On this particular morning, the sky maintained all its blue serenity.
It proved warm in the sun and tepid in the shade. The party decided that
they must take advantage of the last fine weather.

Hailing a passing cab they set out, accompanied by the pitiful
expressions of uneasiness, and the anxious effusions of the old mercer.
Crossing Paris, they left the vehicle at the fortifications, and gained
Saint-Ouen on foot. It was noon. The dusty road, brightly lit