She barely looked at
him, rarely exchanged a word with him, treating him with perfect
indifference. Madame Raquin, who in her goodness of heart, felt pained
at this attitude, sometimes said to the young man:
"Do not pay attention to the manner of my niece, I know her; her face
appears cold, but her heart is warm with tenderness and devotedness."
The two sweethearts had no more meetings. Since the evening in the
Rue Saint-Victor they had not met alone. At night, when they found
themselves face to face, placid in appearance and like strangers to one
another, storms of passion and dismay passed beneath the calm flesh of
their countenance. And while with Therese, there were outbursts of fury,
base ideas, and cruel jeers, with Laurent there were sombre brutalities,
and poignant indecisions. Neither dared search to the bottom of their
beings, to the bottom of that cloudy fever that filled their brains with
a sort of thick and acrid vapour.
When they could press the hands of one another behind a door, without
speaking, they did so, fit to crush them, in a short rough clasp. They
would have liked, mutually, to have carried off strips of their flesh
clinging to their fingers.
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