her cousin, beside a dying child, and had the softened movements, the
periods of silence, the placidity, the faltering speech of an old woman.

When she saw the garden, the clear river, the vast green hillocks
ascending on the horizon, she felt a savage desire to run and shout. She
felt her heart thumping fit to burst in her bosom; but not a muscle of
her face moved, and she merely smiled when her aunt inquired whether she
was pleased with her new home.

Life now became more pleasant for her. She maintained her supple gait,
her calm, indifferent countenance, she remained the child brought up
in the bed of an invalid; but inwardly she lived a burning, passionate
existence. When alone on the grass beside the water, she would lie down
flat on her stomach like an animal, her black eyes wide open, her body
writhing, ready to spring. And she stayed there for hours, without a
thought, scorched by the sun, delighted at being able to thrust her
fingers in the earth. She had the most ridiculous dreams; she looked
at the roaring river in defiance, imagining that the water was about
to leap on her and attack her. Then she became rigid, preparing for the
defence, and angrily inquiring of herself how she could vanquish the
torrent.

At night, Therese, appeased and silent, stitched beside her aunt, with
a countenance that seemed to be dozing in the gleam that softly glided
from beneath the lamp shade. Camille buried in an armchair thought
of his additions. A word uttered in a low voice, alone disturbed, at
moments, the peacefulness of this drowsy home.

Madame Raquin observed her children with serene benevolence. She had
resolved to make them husband and wife. She continued to treat her son