For a few seconds they examined each other, mute and frigid, the husband
near the table, the wife stooping down before the sideboard. And they
understood. Each of them turned icy cold, on perceiving that both
had the same thought. And they were overcome with pity and horror
at mutually reading the secret design of the other on their agitated
countenances.
Madame Raquin, feeling the catastrophe near at hand, watched them with
piercing, fixed eyes.
Therese and Laurent, all at once, burst into sobs. A supreme crisis
undid them, cast them into the arms of one another, as weak as children.
It seemed to them as if something tender and sweet had awakened in their
breasts. They wept, without uttering a word, thinking of the vile life
they had led, and would still lead, if they were cowardly enough to
live.
Then, at the recollection of the past, they felt so fatigued and
disgusted with themselves, that they experienced a huge desire for
repose, for nothingness. They exchanged a final look, a look of
thankfulness, in presence of the knife and glass of poison. Therese took
the glass, half emptied it, and handed it to Laurent who drank off the
remainder of the contents at one draught.
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