Madame Raquin. Laurent opened the shop door as if he were master of
the house, seated himself astride a chair, smoking and expectorating as
though at home.

The presence of Therese did not embarrass him in the least. He treated
the young woman with friendly familiarity, paying her commonplace
compliments without a line of his face becoming disturbed. Camille
laughed, and, as his wife confined herself to answering his friend in
monosyllables, he firmly believed they detested one another. One day he
even reproached Therese with what he termed her coldness for Laurent.

Laurent had made a correct guess: he had become the sweetheart of the
woman, the friend of the husband, the spoilt child of the mother. Never
had he enjoyed such a capital time. His position in the family struck
him as quite natural. He was on the most friendly terms with Camille,
in regard to whom he felt neither anger nor remorse. He was so sure of
being prudent and calm that he did not even keep watch on his gestures
and speech. The egotism he displayed in the enjoyment of his good
fortune, shielded him from any fault. All that kept him from kissing
Therese in the shop was the fear that he would not be allowed to come
any more. He would not have cared a bit about hurting Camille and his
mother.

Therese, who was of a more nervous and quivering temperament, was
compelled to play a part, and she played it to perfection, thanks to the
clever hypocrisy she had acquired in her bringing up. For nearly fifteen
years, she had been lying, stifling her fever, exerting an implacable
will to appear gloomy and half asleep. It cost her nothing to keep this
mask on her face, which gave her an appearance of icy frigidity.