flatter the ears and heart of the good old lady. In a friendly way,
he seemed particularly anxious about the health of Therese, like a
tender-hearted man who feels for the sufferings of others. On repeated
occasions, he took Madame Raquin to one side, and terrified her by
appearing very much alarmed himself at the changes and ravages he said
he perceived on the face of the young woman.

"We shall soon lose her," he murmured in a tearful voice. "We cannot
conceal from ourselves that she is extremely ill. Ah! alas, for our poor
happiness, and our nice tranquil evenings!"

Madame Raquin listened to him with anguish. Laurent even had the
audacity to speak of Camille.

"You see," said he to the mercer, "the death of my poor friend has been
a terrible blow to her. She had been dying for the last two years, since
that fatal day when she lost Camille. Nothing will console her, nothing
will cure her. We must be resigned."

These impudent falsehoods made the old lady shed bitter tears. The
memory of her son troubled and blinded her. Each time the name of
Camille was pronounced, she gave way, bursting into sobs. She would have
embraced the person who mentioned her poor boy. Laurent had noticed
the trouble, and outburst of tender feeling that this name produced. He
could make her weep at will, upset her with such emotion that she failed
to distinguish the clear aspect of things; and he took advantage of this
power to always hold her pliant and in pain in his hand, as it were.

Each evening in spite of the secret revolt of his trembling inner being,
he brought the conversation to bear on the rare qualities, on the tender