oung woman became calmer, Laurent entrusting her to
the care of the host and his wife, set out to return to Paris, where
he wished to arrive alone to break the frightful intelligence to Madame
Raquin, with all possible precautions. The truth was that he feared the
nervous feverish excitement of Therese, and preferred to give her time
to reflect, and learn her part.

It was the boating men who sat down to the dinner prepared for Camille.

CHAPTER XII

Laurent, in the dark corner of the omnibus that took him back to Paris,
continued perfecting his plan. He was almost certain of impunity, and
he felt heavy, anxious joy, the joy of having got over the crime. On
reaching the gate at Clichy, he hailed a cab, and drove to the residence
of old Michaud in the Rue de Seine. It was nine o'clock at night when he
arrived.

He found the former commissary of police at table, in the company of
Olivier and Suzanne. The motive of his visit was to seek protection, in
case he should be suspected, and also to escape breaking the frightful
news to Madame Raquin himself. Such an errand was strangely repugnant to
him. He anticipated encountering such terrible despair that he feared he
would be unable to play his part with sufficient tears. Then the grief
of this mother weighed upon him, although at the bottom of his heart, he
cared but little about it.

When Michaud saw him enter, clothed in coarse-looking garments that were
too tight for him, he questioned him with his eyes, and Laurent gave an
account of the accident in a broken voice, as if exhausted with grief
and fatigue.

"I have come to you," said he in conclusion, "because I do not know what
to do about the two poor women so cruelly afflicted. I dare not go to
the bereaved mother alone, and want you to accompany me."

As he spoke, Olivier looked at him fixedly, and with so straight a
glance that he terrified him. The murderer had flung himself head down
among these people belonging to the police, with an audacity calculated
to save him. But he could not repress a shudder as he felt their eyes
examining him. He saw distrust where there was naught but stupor and
pity.

Suzanne weaker and paled than usual, seemed ready to faint. Olivier, who
was alarmed at the idea of death, but whose heart remained absolutely
cold, made a grimace expressing painful surprise, while by habit
he scrutinised the countenance of Laurent, without having the least
suspicion of the sinister truth. A