Therese, who had sudden fits of impatience, to turn round, or in
consoling Madame Raquin, whose tears began to flow as soon as a voice
drew her from her prostration.

On the third day, Therese, rapidly and with a sort of feverish decision,
threw the sheet from her, and seated herself up in bed. She thrust back
her hair from her temples, and for a moment remained with her hands to
her forehead and her eyes fixed, seeming still to reflect. Then, she
sprang to the carpet. Her limbs were shivering, and red with fever;
large livid patches marbled her skin, which had become wrinkled in
places as if she had lost flesh. She had grown older.

Suzanne, on entering the room, was struck with surprise to find her
up. In a placid, drawling tone, she advised her to go to bed again, and
continue resting. Therese paid no heed to her, but sought her clothes
and put them on with hurried, trembling gestures. When she was dressed,
she went and looked at herself in a glass, rubbing her eyes, and passing
her hands over her countenance, as if to efface something. Then, without
pronouncing a syllable, she quickly crossed the dining-room and entered
the apartment occupied by Madame Raquin.

She caught the old mercer in a moment of doltish calm. When Therese
appeared, she turned her head following the movements of the young widow
with her eyes, while the latter came and stood before her, mute and
oppressed. The two women contemplated one another for some seconds, the
niece with increasing anxiety, the aunt with painful efforts of memory.
Madame Raquin, at last remembering, stretched out her trembling arms,
and, taking Therese by the neck, exclaimed:

"My poor child, my poor Camille!"