calm. On such occasions her lips alone made almost imperceptible little
motions. Nothing could be read on her expressionless countenance, which
an inexorable will always maintained gentle and attentive. Therese
became grave when the conversation turned to her marriage, contenting
herself with approving all that Madame Raquin said by a sign of the
head. Camille went to sleep.

On summer evenings, the two young people ran to the edge of the water.
Camille, irritated at the incessant attentions of his mother, at times
broke out in open revolt. He wished to run about and make himself ill,
to escape the fondling that disgusted him. He would then drag Therese
along with him, provoking her to wrestle, to roll in the grass. One day,
having pushed his cousin down, the young girl bounded to her feet with
all the savageness of a wild beast, and, with flaming face and bloodshot
eyes, fell upon him with clenched fists. Camille in fear sank to the
ground.

Months and years passed by, and at length the day fixed for the marriage
arrived. Madame Raquin took Therese apart, spoke to her of her father
and mother, and related to her the story of her birth. The young girl
listened to her aunt, and when she had finished speaking, kissed her,
without answering a word.

At night, Therese, instead of going into her own room, which was on
the left of the staircase, entered that of her cousin which was on the
right. This was all the change that occurred in her mode of life. The
following day, when the young couple came downstairs, Camille had
still his sickly languidness, his righteous tranquillity of an egotist.
Therese still maintained her gentle indifference, and her restrained
expression of frightful calmness.