“Hey! Just look, Thérèse,” cried Michaud. “Madame Raquin is agitating her fingers. She probably wants something.” Thérèse could not reply. Both she and Laurent had been following the exertion of the paralysed woman, and she was now looking at the hand of her aunt, which stood out wan in the raw light of the lamp, like an avenging hand that was about to speak. The two murderers waited, breathless. “Of course,” said Grivet, “she wants something. Oh! We thoroughly understand one another. She wants to play dominoes. Eh! Isn’t it so, dear lady?” Madame Raquin made a violent sign indicating that she wanted nothing of the kind. She extended one finger, folded up the others with infinite difficulty, and began to painfully trace letters on the table cover. She had barely indicated a stroke or two, when Grivet again exclaimed in triumph: “I understand; she says I do right to play the double-six.” The impotent woman cast a terrible glance at the old clerk, and returned to the word she wished to write. But Grivet interrupted her at every moment, declaring it was needless, that he understood, and he then brought out some stupidity. Michaud at last made him hold his tongue. “The deuce! Allow Madame Raquin to speak,” said he. “Speak, my old friend.” And he gazed at the oilcloth table cover as if he had been listening. But the fingers of the paralysed woman were growing weary. They had begun the word more than ten times over, and now, in tracing this word, they wandered to right and left. Michaud and Olivier bent forward, and being unable to read, forced the impotent old lady to resume the first letters. “Ah! Bravo!” exclaimed Olivier, all at once, “I can read it, this time. She has just written your name, Thérèse. Let me see: ‘_Thérèse and_----’ Complete the sentence, dear lady.” Thérèse almost shrieked in anguish. She watched the finger of her aunt gliding over the oilcloth, and it seemed to her that this finger traced her name, and the confession of her crime in letters of fire. Laurent had risen violently, with half a mind to fling himself on the paralysed woman and break her arm. When he saw this hand return to life to reveal the murder of Camille, he thought all was lost, and already felt the weight and frigidity of the knife on the nape of his neck. Madame Raquin still wrote, but in a manner that became more and more hesitating. “This is perfect. I can read it very well indeed,” resumed Olivier after an instant, and with his eyes on the married pair. “Your aunt writes your two names: ‘_Thérèse and Laurent_.’” The old lady made sign after sign in the affirmative, casting crushing glances on the murderers. Then she sought to complete the sentence, but her fingers had stiffened, the supreme will that galvanised them, escaped her. She felt the paralysis slowly descending her arm and again grasping her wrist. She hurried on, and traced another word. Old Michaud read out in a loud voice: “_Thérèse and Laurent have----_” And Olivier inquired: