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"Of course," said Grivet, "she wants something. Oh! We thoroughly understand one another. She wants to play dominoes. Eh! Isn't it so, dear lady?" Madame Raquin made a violent sign indicating that she wanted nothing of the kind. She extended one finger, folded up the others with infinite difficulty, and began to painfully trace letters on the table cover.
They did not retire to rest until eleven o'clock at night. At Paris Madame Raquin had found one of her old friends, the commissary of police Michaud, who had held a post at Vernon for twenty years, lodging in the same house as the mercer.
He fancied he loved those who pitied and caressed him; but, in reality, he lived apart, within himself, loving naught but his comfort, seeking by all possible means to increase his enjoyment. When the tender affection of Madame Raquin disgusted him, he plunged with delight into a stupid occupation that saved him from infusions and potions.
In killing Camille, they had succeeded in satisfying their passion. Their crime appeared to have given them a keen pleasure that sickened and disgusted them of their embraces. They had a thousand facilities for enjoying the freedom that had been their dream, and the attainment of which had urged them on to murder. Madame Raquin, impotent and childish, ceased to be an obstacle.
After the coffee, he drank a small glass of brandy which completely restored him. Then he said "good-bye" to Madame Raquin and Therese, without ever kissing them, and strolled to his office. Spring was at hand; the trees along the quays were becoming covered with leaves, with light, pale green lacework.
At times, he imagined a streak of blood was running down his chest, and would bespatter his white waistcoat with crimson. Madame Raquin was inwardly grateful to the newly married couple for their gravity. Noisy joy would have wounded the poor mother. In her mind, her son was there, invisible, handing Therese over to Laurent. Grivet had other ideas.
In this work Zola had evidently struck his gait, and when Therese Raquin followed, in 1867, Zola was fully launched on his great career as a writer of the school which he called "Naturalist." Therese Raquin was a powerful study of the effects of remorse preying upon the mind.
Camille, in his day dreams, had said to himself that Grivet would one day die, and that he would perhaps take his place at the end of a decade or so. Grivet was delighted at the welcome Madame Raquin gave him, and he returned every week with perfect regularity.
You have not even had the feeling to spare my poor aunt the sight of your vile anger. You have never even addressed a word of regret to her." And she embraced Madame Raquin, who shut her eyes. She hovered round her, raising the pillow that propped up her head, and showing her all kinds of attention. Laurent was infuriated. "Oh, leave her alone," he cried.
I lived with one of my college chums, who is a painter, and I set about painting also. It amused me. The calling is droll, and not at all fatiguing. We smoked and joked all the livelong day." The Raquin family opened their eyes in amazement. "Unfortunately," continued Laurent, "this could not last. My father found out that I was telling him falsehoods.
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