rivet then made himself
remarkable by the clumsiness of his offers. He mentioned, haphazard,
everything that came into his head, invariably offering the contrary to
what Madame Raquin desired. But this circumstance did not prevent him
repeating:

"I can read in her eyes as in a book. Look, she says I am right. Is it
not so, dear lady? Yes, yes."

Nevertheless, it was no easy matter to grasp the wishes of the poor old
woman. Therese alone possessed this faculty. She communicated fairly
well with this walled-up brain, still alive, but buried in a lifeless
frame. What was passing within this wretched creature, just sufficiently
alive to be present at the events of life, without taking part in them?
She saw and heard, she no doubt reasoned in a distinct and clear
manner. But she was without gesture and voice to express the thoughts
originating in her mind. Her ideas were perhaps choking her, and yet
she could not raise a hand, nor open her mouth, even though one of her
movements or words should decide the destiny of the world.

Her mind resembled those of the living buried by mistake, who awaken
in the middle of the night in the earth, three or four yards below the
surface of the ground. They shout, they struggle, and people pass over
them without hearing their atrocious lamentations.

Laurent frequently gazed at Madame Raquin, his lips pressed together,
his hands stretched out on his knees, putting all his life into his
sparkling and swiftly moving eyes. And he said to himself:

"Who knows what she may be thinking of all alone? Some cruel drama must
be passing within this inanimate frame."

Laurent made a mistake. Madame Raquin was happy, happy at the care and
affection bestowed on her by her dear children. She had always dreamed
of ending in this gentle way, amidst devotedness and caresses. Certainly
she would have been pleased to have preserved her speech, so as to be
able to thank the friends who assisted her to die in peace. But she
accepted her condition without rebellion. The tranquil and retired
life she had always led, the sweetness of her character, prevented her
feeling too acutely the suffering of being mute and unable to make a
movement. She had entered second childhood. She passed days without
weariness, gazing before her, and musing on the past. She even tasted
the charm of remaining very good in her armchair, like a little girl.

Each day the sweetness and brightness of her eyes became more
penetrati