Vernon, his sister barely put a
question to him concerning the little girl he had brought her. She
understood vaguely that the dear little creature was born at Oran, and
that her mother was a woman of the country of great beauty. The Captain,
an hour before his departure, handed his sister a certificate of birth
in which Therese, acknowledged by him to be his child, bore his name. He
rejoined his regiment, and was never seen again at Vernon, being killed
a few years later in Africa.

Therese grew up under the fostering care of her aunt, sleeping in the
same bed as Camille. She who had an iron constitution, received the
treatment of a delicate child, partaking of the same medicine as her
cousin, and kept in the warm air of the room occupied by the invalid.
For hours she remained crouching over the fire, in thought, watching the
flames before her, without lowering her eyelids.

This obligatory life of a convalescent caused her to retire within
herself. She got into the habit of talking in a low voice, of moving
about noiselessly, of remaining mute and motionless on a chair with
expressionless, open eyes. But, when she raised an arm, when she
advanced a foot, it was easy to perceive that she possessed feline
suppleness, short, potent muscles, and that unmistakable energy and
passion slumbered in her soporous frame. Her cousin having fallen
down one day in a fainting fit, she abruptly picked him up and
carried him--an effort of strength that turned her cheeks scarlet. The
cloistered life she led, the debilitating regimen to which she found
herself subjected, failed to weaken her thin, robust form. Only her face
took a pale, and even a slightly yellowish tint, making her look
almost ugly in the shade. Ever and anon she went to the window, and
contemplated the opposite houses on which the sun threw sheets of gold.

When Madame Raquin sold her business, and withdrew to the little place
beside the river, Therese experienced secret thrills of joy. Her aunt
had so frequently repeated to her: "Don't make a noise; be quiet," that
she kept all the impetuosity of her nature carefully concealed within
her. She possessed supreme composure, and an apparent tranquillity that
masked terrible transports. She still fancied herself in the room of
her cousin, beside a dying child, and had the softened movements, the
periods of silence, the placidity, the faltering speech of an old woman.

When she saw the garden, the clear river, the vast