ir duty to laugh to cheer up this worthy family who
were good enough to receive them.

Henceforth, Grivet and Michaud, who for nearly eighteen months had
visited the house under the pretext of consoling Madame Raquin, could
set their little hypocrisy aside, and frankly come and doze opposite one
another to the sharp ring of the dominoes.

And each week brought a Thursday evening, each week those lifeless and
grotesque heads which formerly had exasperated Therese, assembled round
the table. The young woman talked of showing these folk the door; their
bursts of foolish laughter and silly reflections irritated her. But
Laurent made her understand that such a step would be a mistake; it was
necessary that the present should resemble the past as much as possible;
and, above all, they must preserve the friendship of the police, of
those idiots who protected them from all suspicion. Therese gave way.
The guests were well received, and they viewed with delight a future
full of a long string of warm Thursday evenings.

It was about this time that the lives of the couple became, in a way,
divided in two.

In the morning, when day drove away the terror of night, Laurent hastily
dressed himself. But he only recovered his ease and egotistic calm when
in the dining-room, seated before an enormous bowl of coffee and milk,
which Therese prepared for him. Madame Raquin, who had become even more
feeble and could barely get down to the shop, watched him eating with a
maternal smile. He swallowed the toast, filled his stomach and little by
little became tranquillised. After the coffee, he drank a small glass of
brandy which completely restored him. Then he said "good-bye" to Madame
Raquin and Therese, without ever kissing them, and strolled to his
office.

Spring was at hand; the trees along the quays were becoming covered with
leaves, with light, pale green lacework. The river ran with caressing
sounds below; above, the first sunny rays of the year shed gentle
warmth. Laurent felt himself another man in the fresh air; he freely
inhaled this breath of young life descending from the skies of April
and May; he sought the sun, halting to watch the silvery reflection
streaking the Seine, listening to the sounds on the quays, allowing
the acrid odours of early day to penetrate him, enjoying the clear,
delightful morn.

He certainly thought very little about Camille. Sometimes he listlessly
contemplated the Morgue on the other side of the