He had a certain respect
for these two men whom he considered good talkers. On that particular
evening, a gossip having taken the place of the usual game, he naively
blurted out that the conversation of the former commissary of police
amused him almost as much as dominoes.
During the four years, or thereabouts, that the Michauds and Grivet had
been in the habit of passing the Thursday evenings at the Raquins', they
had not once felt fatigued at these monotonous evenings that returned
with enervating regularity. Never had they for an instant suspected the
drama that was being performed in this house, so peaceful and harmonious
when they entered it. Olivier, with the jest of a person connected with
the police, was in the habit of remarking that the dining-room savoured
of the honest man. Grivet, so as to have his say, had called the place
the Temple of Peace.
Latterly, on two or three different occasions, Therese explained the
bruises disfiguring her face, by telling the guests she had fallen down.
But none of them, for that matter, would have recognised the marks of
the fist of Laurent; they were convinced as to their hosts being a model
pair, replete with sweetness and love.
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