the dessert, they chatted about a thousand trifles of the day, about
incidents that had occurred the day before, about their hopes for the
morrow.

Camille liked Laurent, as much as he was capable of liking anybody,
after the fashion of a contented egotist, and Laurent seemed to show him
equal attachment. Between them there was an exchange of kind sentences,
of obliging gestures, and thoughtful attentions. Madame Raquin, with
placid countenance, contributed her peacefulness to the tranquillity
of the scene, which resembled a gathering of old friends who knew one
another to the heart, and who confidently relied on the faith of their
friendship.

Therese, motionless, peaceful like the others, observed this joy, this
smiling depression of these people of the middle class, and in her heart
there was savage laughter; all her being jeered, but her face maintained
its frigid rigidity. Ah! how she deceived these worthy people, and how
delighted she was to deceive them with such triumphant impudence. Her
sweetheart, at this moment, was like a person unknown to her, a comrade
of her husband, a sort of simpleton and interloper concerning whom she
had no need to concern herself. This atrocious comedy, these duperies of
life, this comparison between the burning kisses in the daytime, and the
indifference played at night, gave new warmth to the blood of the young
woman.

When by chance Madame Raquin and Camille went downstairs, Therese
bounded from her chair, to silently, and with brutal energy, press her
lips to those of her sweetheart, remaining thus breathless and choking
until she heard the stairs creak. Then, she briskly seated herself
again, and resumed her glum grimace, while Laurent calmly continued the