lady, and it is good, believe me."

Madame Raquin could not, at first, accustom herself to the thought that
her son was already forgotten. Old Michaud had not even pronounced
the name of Camille, and had made a joke of the pretended illness of
Therese. The poor mother understood that she alone preserved at the
bottom of her heart, the living recollection of her dear child, and she
wept, for it seemed to her that Camille had just died a second time.

Then, when she had had a good cry, and was weary of mourning, she
thought, in spite of herself, of what Michaud had said, and became
familiar with the idea of purchasing a little happiness at the cost of a
marriage which, according to her delicate mind, was like killing her son
again.

Frequently, she gave way to feelings of cowardice when she came face to
face with the dejected and broken-down Therese, amidst the icy silence
of the shop. She was not one of those dry, rigid persons who find bitter
delight in living a life of eternal despair. Her character was full of
pliancy, devotedness, and effusion, which contributed to make up her
temperament of a stout and affable good lady, and prompted her to live
in a state of active tenderness.

Since her niece no longer spoke, and remained there pale and feeble, her
own life became intolerable, while the shop seemed to her like a tomb.
What she required was to find some warm affection beside her, some
liveliness, some caresses, something sweet and gay which would help her
to wait peacefully for death. It was these unconscious desires that made
her accept the idea of marrying Therese again; she even forgot her son
a little. In the existence of the tomb that she was leading, came a sort