e of bottles of champagne. Madame Raquin went down to the
shop, and the artist was alone with Therese.

The young woman had remained seated, gazing vaguely in front of her.
Laurent hesitated. He examined the portrait, and played with his
brushes. There was not much time to lose. Camille might come back, and
the opportunity would perhaps not occur again. The painter abruptly
turned round, and found himself face to face with Therese.

They contemplated one another for a few seconds. Then, with a violent
movement, Laurent bent down, and pressed the young woman to him.
Throwing back her head he crushed her mouth beneath his lips. She made
a savage, angry effort at revolt, and, then all at once gave in. They
exchanged not a word. The act was silent and brutal.

CHAPTER VII

The two sweethearts from the commencement found their intrigue
necessary, inevitable and quite natural. At their first interview they
conversed familiarly, kissing one another without embarrassment, and
without a blush, as if their intimacy had dated back several years. They
lived quite at ease in their new situation, with a tranquillity and an
independence that were perfect.

They made their appointments. Therese being unable to go out, it was
arranged that Laurent should come to see her. In a clear, firm voice the
young woman explained to him the plan she had conceived. The interview
would take place in the nuptial chamber. The sweetheart would pass by
the passage which ran into the arcade, and Therese would open the door
on the staircase to him. During this time, Camille would be at his
office, and Madame Raquin below, in the shop. This was a daring
arrangement that ought to succeed.

Laurent accepted. There was a sort of brutal temerity in his prudence,
the temerity of a man with big fists. Choosing a pretext, he obtained
permission from his chief to absent himself for a couple of hours, and
hastened to the Arcade of the Pont Neuf.

The dealer in imitation jewelry was seated just opposite the door of
the passage, and he had to wait until she was busy, until some young
work-girl came to purchase a ring or a brooch made of brass. Then,
rapidly entering the passage, he ascended the narrow, dark staircase,
leaning against the walls which were clammy with damp. He stumbled
against the stone steps, and each time he did so, he felt a red-hot iron
piercing his chest. A door opened, and on the threshold, in the midst of
a gleam of white light he pe