lmed Madame Raquin with her tearful despair. The paralysed
woman became of daily use to her. She served as a sort of praying-desk,
as a piece of furniture in front of which Therese could fearlessly
confess her faults and plead for forgiveness. As soon as she felt
inclined to cry, to divert herself by sobbing, she knelt before the
impotent old lady, and there, wailing and choking, performed to her
alone a scene of remorse which weakened but relieved her.

"I am a wretch," she stammered, "I deserve no mercy. I deceived you, I
drove your son to his death. Never will you forgive me. And yet, if
you only knew how I am rent by remorse, if you only knew how I suffer,
perhaps you would have pity. No, no pity for me. I should like to die
here at your feet, overwhelmed by shame and grief."

She spoke in this manner for hours together, passing from despair to
hope, condemning and then pardoning herself; she assumed the voice,
brief and plaintive in turn, of a little sick girl; she flattened
herself on the ground and drew herself up again, acting upon all the
ideas of humility and pride, of repentance and revolt that entered her
head. Sometimes even, forgetting she was on her knees before Madame
Raquin, she continued her monologue as in a dream. When she had made
herself thoroughly giddy with her own words, she rose staggering and
dazed, to go down to the shop in a calmer frame of mind, no longer
fearing to burst into sobs before her customers. When she again felt
inclined for remorse, she ran upstairs and knelt at the feet of the
impotent woman. This scene was repeated ten times a day.

Therese never reflected that her tears, and display of repentance must
impose ineffable anguish on her aunt. The truth was that if she had
desired to invent a torment to torture Madame Raquin, it would not have
been possible to have found a more frightful one than the comedy of
remorse she performed before her. The paralysed woman could see the
egotism concealed beneath these effusions of grief. She suffered
horribly from these long monologues which she was compelled to listen to
at every instant, and which always brought the murder of Camille before
her eyes. She could not pardon, she never departed from the implacable
thought of vengeance that her impotency rendered more keen, and all day
long she had to listen to pleas for pardon, and to humble and cowardly
prayers.

She would have liked to give an answer; certain sentences of her niece
brou