“Of course,” answered the old man, with that frank brutality he had acquired in the performance of his former functions, “I have noticed for some time past that Thérèse has been looking sour, and I know very well why her face is quite yellow and overspread with grief.” “You know why!” exclaimed the widow. “Speak out at once. If we could only cure her!” “Oh! the treatment is simple,” resumed Michaud with a laugh. “Your niece finds life irksome because she had been alone for nearly two years. She wants a husband; you can see that in her eyes.” The brutal frankness of the former commissary, gave Madame Raquin a painful shock. She fancied that the wound Thérèse had received through the fatal accident at Saint-Ouen, was still as fresh, still as cruel at the bottom of her heart. It seemed to her that her son, once dead, Thérèse could have no thought for a husband, and here was Michaud affirming, with a hearty laugh, that Thérèse was out of sorts because she wanted one. “Marry her as soon as you can,” said he, as he took himself off, “if you do not wish to see her shrivel up entirely. That is my advice, my dear lady, and it is good, believe me.” Madame Raquin could not, at first, accustom herself to the thought that her son was already forgotten. Old Michaud had not even pronounced the name of Camille, and had made a joke of the pretended illness of Thérèse. The poor mother understood that she alone preserved at the bottom of her heart, the living recollection of her dear child, and she wept, for it seemed to her that Camille had just died a second time. Then, when she had had a good cry, and was weary of mourning, she thought, in spite of herself, of what Michaud had said, and became familiar with the idea of purchasing a little happiness at the cost of a marriage which, according to her delicate mind, was like killing her son again. Frequently, she gave way to feelings of cowardice when she came face to face with the dejected and broken-down Thérèse, amidst the icy silence of the shop. She was not one of those dry, rigid persons who find bitter delight in living a life of eternal despair. Her character was full of pliancy, devotedness, and effusion, which contributed to make up her temperament of a stout and affable good lady, and prompted her to live in a state of active tenderness. Since her niece no longer spoke, and remained there pale and feeble, her own life became intolerable, while the shop seemed to her like a tomb. What she required was to find some warm affection beside her, some liveliness, some caresses, something sweet and gay which would help her to wait peacefully for death. It was these unconscious desires that made her accept the idea of marrying Thérèse again; she even forgot her son a little. In the existence of the tomb that she was leading, came a sort of awakening, something like a will, and fresh occupation for the mind. She sought a husband for her niece, and this search gave her matter for consideration.