At
night, broken down with fatigue, without an idea in his head, he enjoyed
infinite delight in the doltishness that settled on him. He had to
quarrel with his mother to go with the dealer in linen. She wanted to
keep him always with her, between a couple of blankets, far from the
accidents of life.
But the young man spoke as master. He claimed work as children claim
toys, not from a feeling of duty, but by instinct, by a necessity of
nature. The tenderness, the devotedness of his mother had instilled into
him an egotism that was ferocious. 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 the evening, on his return from the office, he ran to the bank of the
Seine with his cousin Therese who was then close upon eighteen. One day,
sixteen years previously, while Madame Raquin was still a mercer, her
brother Captain Degans brought her a little girl in his arms. He had
just arrived from Algeria.
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