prompt:
Chapter: THE WOMEN'S SHELTER, WHITECHAPEL

This is a place where women, most of them old, so far as my
observation went, are taken in to sleep at a charge of 3_d._ a night.
It used to be 2_d_. until the London County Council made the provision
of sheets, etc., compulsory, when the Army was obliged to raise the
payment. This Shelter, which is almost always so full that people have
to be turned away, holds 261 women. It contains a separate room, where
children are admitted with their mothers, half price, namely
1-1/2_d._, being charged per child. There is a kitchen attached where
the inmates can buy a large mug of tea for a 1/2_d._, and a huge chunk
of bread for a second 1/2_d._; also, if I remember right, other
articles of food, if they can afford such luxuries.

The great dormitory in this Shelter, it may be mentioned, was once a
swimming-bath. Some of the women who come to this place have slept in
it almost every night for eighteen or twenty years. Others make use of
it for a few months, and then vanish for a period, especially in the
summer, when they go hop or strawberry picking, and return in the
winter. Every day, however, fresh people appear, possibly to depart on
the morrow and be seen no more.

I asked whether the aged folk had not been benefited by the Old Age
Pensions Act. The lady Officer in charge replied that it had been a
blessing to some of them. One old woman, however, would not apply for
her pension, although she was urged to take a room for herself
somewhere. She said that she was afraid if she did so, she might be
turned out and be lonely.

I visited this Shelter in the late afternoon, before it was filled up.
A number of dilapidated and antique females were sitting about in the
rooms, talking or sewing. One old lady was doing crochet work. She
told me that she made her living by it, and by flower-selling. Another
informed me that it was years since she had slept anywhere else, and
that she did not know what poor women like her would do without this
place. Another was cooking the broth. Her husband was a sea captain,
and when he died, her father had allowed her _L1_ a week until he
died. Afterwards she took to drink, and drifted here, where, I was
informed, she is doing well. And so on, and so on, _ad infinitum_. The
Hanbury Street Women's Shelter is not a cheerful spot to visit on a
dull and rainy evening.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Rivers goes to consult with Head about his feelings of guilt. Head is surprised, and he reassures Rivers that there is no one person who could be more different from Yealland. Head tells Rivers that no matter how much influence he thinks he has, Sassoon has a mind of his own and it was Sassoon's personal decision to go back to the war. Rivers talks about his trip to the Solomon Islands as an anthropologist. The natives asked him about his way of living; when he told them some of his culture's practices, they laughed uncontrollably because the things he described were so bizarre to them. At that moment Rivers felt incredible freedom, realizing that there was no measure of culture, of morality, or of right and wrong. It was "the Great White God dethroned. Rivers returns to Craiglockhart for the monthly Board meeting and finds the hospital much quieter than when he left it. Anderson has worsened; he has not lost his fear of blood and he appears to be growing increasingly dependent on psychological help. Rivers visits Sassoon and finds him in his room in the same position as when he left him. Sassoon has finished a book, entitled Counter Attack, and has tried to remain out of trouble. He has also received some effusive letters from Owen, and he has begun to suspect that Owen had a crush on him. Rivers brings Sassoon the news that it seems very likely, if all goes well in the Board meeting the next day, that Sassoon will be sent back to France. At the Board meeting the next day, they decide to give Anderson a desk job in the War Office rather than force him to go back to civilian medicine right away. When Sassoon comes in, he salutes the three officers and gives very satisfactory answers to all their questions. He admits that he has not changed his views on the war in the least; he is still very strongly opposed to it. Nevertheless, he considers it his duty to return to France and continue to serve his country. The Board agrees, and sends him back to active military duty. Rivers says goodbye to Sassoon and reflects on the irony of the situation, that he himself should be changed so much by someone whom it is his job to change. Rivers worries about Sassoon, believing that he is going back to the war with the intention of being killed, that underneath his desire to watch over his men, Sassoon has a strong desire for death. Though Rivers has always respected authority, it is his turn to rebel. Morally, he must challenge a government that would kill an entire generation.


prompt:
Chapter: At the end of the Rue Guenegaud, coming from the quays, you find the
Arcade of the Pont Neuf, a sort of narrow, dark corridor running from
the Rue Mazarine to the Rue de Seine. This arcade, at the most, is
thirty paces long by two in breadth. It is paved with worn, loose,
yellowish tiles which are never free from acrid damp. The square panes
of glass forming the roof, are black with filth.

On fine days in the summer, when the streets are burning with heavy sun,
whitish light falls from the dirty glazing overhead to drag miserably
through the arcade. On nasty days in winter, on foggy mornings, the
glass throws nothing but darkness on the sticky tiles--unclean and
abominable gloom.

To the left are obscure, low, dumpy shops whence issue puffs of air as
cold as if coming from a cellar. Here are dealers in toys, cardboard
boxes, second-hand books. The articles displayed in their windows are
covered with dust, and owing to the prevailing darkness, can only be
perceived indistinctly. The shop fronts, formed of small panes of glass,
streak the goods with a peculiar greenish reflex. Beyond, behind
the display in the windows, the dim interiors resemble a number of
lugubrious cavities animated by fantastic forms.

To the right, along the whole length of the arcade, extends a wall
against which the shopkeepers opposite have stuck some small cupboards.
Objects without a name, goods forgotten for twenty years, are spread
out there on thin shelves painted a horrible brown colour. A dealer in
imitation jewelry has set up shop in one of these cupboards, and there
sells fifteen sous rings, delicately set out on a cushion of blue velvet
at the bottom of a mahogany box.

Above the glazed cupboards, ascends the roughly plastered black wall,
looking as if covered with leprosy, and all seamed with defacements.

The Arcade of the Pont Neuf is not a place for a stroll. You take it to
make a short cut, to gain a few minutes. It is traversed by busy
people whose sole aim is to go quick and straight before them. You see
apprentices there in their working-aprons, work-girls taking home their
work, persons of both sexes with parcels under their arms. There are
also old men who drag themselves forward in the sad gloaming that falls
from the glazed roof, and bands of small children who come to the arcade
on leaving school, to make a noise by stamping their feet on the tiles
as they run along. Throughout the day a sharp hurried ring of footsteps
resounds on the stone with irritating irregularity. Nobody speaks,
nobody stays there, all hurry about their business with bent heads,
stepping out rapidly, without taking a single glance at the shops. The
tradesmen observe with an air of alarm, the passers-by who by a miracle
stop before their windows.

The arcade is lit at night by three gas burners, enclosed in heavy
square lanterns. These jets of gas, hanging from the glazed roof whereon
they cast spots of fawn-coloured light, shed around them circles of pale
glimmer that seem at moments to disappear. The arcade now assumes the
aspect of a regular cut-throat alley. Great shadows stretch along the
tiles, damp puffs of air enter from the street. Anyone might take the
place for a subterranean gallery indistinctly lit-up by three funeral
lamps. The tradespeople for all light are contented with the faint rays
which the gas burners throw upon their windows. Inside their shops, they
merely have a lamp with a shade, which they place at the corner of their
counter, and the passer-by can then distinguish what the depths of these
holes sheltering night in the daytime, contain. On this blackish line
of shop fronts, the windows of a cardboard-box maker are flaming: two
schist-lamps pierce the shadow with a couple of yellow flames. And, on
the other side of the arcade a candle, stuck in the middle of an argand
lamp glass, casts glistening stars into the box of imitation jewelry.
The dealer is dozing in her cupboard, with her hands hidden under her
shawl.

A few years back, opposite this dealer, stood a shop whose bottle-green
woodwork excreted damp by all its cracks. On the signboard, made of a
long narrow plank, figured, in black letters the word: MERCERY. And on
one of the panes of glass in the door was written, in red, the name of
a woman: _Therese Raquin_. To right and left were deep show cases, lined
with blue paper.

During the daytime the eye could only distinguish the display of goods,
in a soft, obscured light.

On one side were a few linen articles: crimped tulle caps at two and
three francs apiece, muslin sleeves and collars: then undervests,
stockings, socks, braces. Each article had grown yellow and crumpled,
and hung lamentably suspended from a wire hook. The window, from top to
bottom, was filled in this manner with whitish bits of clothing, which
took a lugubrious aspect in the transparent obscurity. The new caps, of
brighter whiteness, formed hollow spots on the blue paper covering the
shelves. And the coloured socks hanging on an iron rod, contributed
sombre notes to the livid and vague effacement of the muslin.

On the other side, in a narrower show case, were piled up large balls
of green wool, white cards of black buttons, boxes of all colours and
sizes, hair nets ornamented with steel beads, spread over rounds of
bluish paper, fasces of knitting needles, tapestry patterns, bobbins of
ribbon, along with a heap of soiled and faded articles, which doubtless
had been lying in the same place for five or six years. All the tints
had turned dirty grey in this cupboard, rotting with dust and damp.

In summer, towards noon, when the sun scorched the squares and streets
with its tawny rays, you could distinguish, behind the caps in the other
window, the pale, grave profile of a young woman. This profile issued
vaguely from the darkness reigning in the shop. To a low parched
forehead was attached a long, narrow, pointed nose; the pale pink lips
resembled two thin threads, and the short, nervy chin was attached
to the neck by a line that was supple and fat. The body, lost in the
shadow, could not be seen. The profile alone appeared in its olive
whiteness, perforated by a large, wide-open, black eye, and as though
crushed beneath thick dark hair. This profile remained there for hours,
motionless and peaceful, between a couple of caps for women, whereon the
damp iron rods had imprinted bands of rust.

At night, when the lamp had been lit, you could see inside the shop
which was greater in length than depth. At one end stood a small
counter; at the other, a corkscrew staircase afforded communication
with the rooms on the first floor. Against the walls were show cases,
cupboards, rows of green cardboard boxes. Four chairs and a table
completed the furniture. The shop looked bare and frigid; the goods were
done up in parcels and put away in corners instead of lying hither and
thither in a joyous display of colour.

As a rule two women were seated behind the counter: the young woman with
the grave profile, and an old lady who sat dozing with a smile on her
countenance. The latter was about sixty; and her fat, placid face looked
white in the brightness of the lamp. A great tabby cat, crouching at a
corner of the counter, watched her as she slept.

Lower down, on a chair, a man of thirty sat reading or chatting in
a subdued voice with the young woman. He was short, delicate, and in
manner languid. With his fair hair devoid of lustre, his sparse beard,
his face covered with red blotches, he resembled a sickly, spoilt child
arrived at manhood.

Shortly before ten o'clock, the old lady awoke. The shop was then
closed, and all the family went upstairs to bed. The tabby cat followed
the party purring, and rubbing its head against each bar of the
banisters.

The lodging above comprised three apartments. The staircase led to a
dining-room which also did duty as drawing-room. In a niche on the
left stood a porcelain stove; opposite, a sideboard; then chairs were
arranged along the walls, and a round table occupied the centre. At the
further end a glazed partition concealed a dark kitchen. On each side of
the dining-room was a sleeping apartment.

The old lady after kissing her son and daughter-in-law withdrew. The
cat went to sleep on a chair in the kitchen. The married couple
entered their room, which had a second door opening on a staircase that
communicated with the arcade by an obscure narrow passage.

The husband who was always trembling with fever went to bed, while the
young woman opened the window to close the shutter blinds. She remained
there a few minutes facing the great black wall, which ascends and
stretches above the arcade. She cast a vague wandering look upon this
wall, and, without a word she, in her turn, went to bed in disdainful
indifference.

Madame Raquin had formerly been a mercer at Vernon. For close upon
five-and-twenty years, she had kept a small shop in that town. A few
years after the death of her husband, becoming subject to fits of
faintness, she sold her business. Her savings added to the price of this
sale placed a capital of 40,000 francs in her hand which she invested so
that it brought her in an income of 2,000 francs a year. This sum amply
sufficed for her requirements. She led the life of a recluse. Ignoring
the poignant joys and cares of this world, she arranged for herself a
tranquil existence of peace and happiness.

At an annual rental of 400 francs she took a small house with a garden
descending to the edge of the Seine. This enclosed, quiet residence
vaguely recalled the cloister. It stood in the centre of large fields,
and was approached by a narrow path. The windows of the dwelling opened
to the river and to the solitary hillocks on the opposite bank. The good
lady, who had passed the half century, shut herself up in this solitary
retreat, where along with her son Camille and her niece Therese, she
partook of serene joy.

Although Camille was then twenty, his mother continued to spoil him like
a little child. She adored him because she had shielded him from death,
throughout a tedious childhood of constant suffering. The boy contracted
every fever, every imaginable malady, one after the other. Madame Raquin
struggled for fifteen years against these terrible evils, which arrived
in rapid succession to tear her son away from her. She vanquished them
all by patience, care, and adoration. Camille having grown up, rescued
from death, had contracted a shiver from the torture of the repeated
shocks he had undergone. Arrested in his growth, he remained short and
delicate. His long, thin limbs moved slowly and wearily. But his mother
loved him all the more on account of this weakness that arched his back.
She observed his thin, pale face with triumphant tenderness when she
thought of how she had brought him back to life more than ten times
over.

During the brief spaces of repose that his sufferings allowed him,
the child attended a commercial school at Vernon. There he learned
orthography and arithmetic. His science was limited to the four rules,
and a very superficial knowledge of grammar. Later on, he took lessons
in writing and bookkeeping. Madame Raquin began to tremble when advised
to send her son to college. She knew he would die if separated from her,
and she said the books would kill him. So Camille remained ignorant, and
this ignorance seemed to increase his weakness.

At eighteen, having nothing to do, bored to death at the delicate
attention of his mother, he took a situation as clerk with a linen
merchant, where he earned 60 francs a month. Being of a restless nature
idleness proved unbearable. He found greater calm and better health in
this labour of a brute which kept him bent all day long over invoices,
over enormous additions, each figure of which he patiently added up. At
night, broken down with fatigue, without an idea in his head, he enjoyed
infinite delight in the doltishness that settled on him. He had to
quarrel with his mother to go with the dealer in linen. She wanted to
keep him always with her, between a couple of blankets, far from the
accidents of life.

But the young man spoke as master. He claimed work as children claim
toys, not from a feeling of duty, but by instinct, by a necessity of
nature. The tenderness, the devotedness of his mother had instilled into
him an egotism that was ferocious. He fancied he loved those who pitied
and caressed him; but, in reality, he lived apart, within himself,
loving naught but his comfort, seeking by all possible means to increase
his enjoyment. When the tender affection of Madame Raquin disgusted him,
he plunged with delight into a stupid occupation that saved him from
infusions and potions.

In the evening, on his return from the office, he ran to the bank of the
Seine with his cousin Therese who was then close upon eighteen. One day,
sixteen years previously, while Madame Raquin was still a mercer, her
brother Captain Degans brought her a little girl in his arms. He had
just arrived from Algeria.

"Here is a child," said he with a smile, "and you are her aunt. The
mother is dead and I don't know what to do with her. I'll give her to
you."

The mercer took the child, smiled at her and kissed her rosy cheeks.
Although Degans remained a week at Vernon, his sister barely put a
question to him concerning the little girl he had brought her. She
understood vaguely that the dear little creature was born at Oran, and
that her mother was a woman of the country of great beauty. The Captain,
an hour before his departure, handed his sister a certificate of birth
in which Therese, acknowledged by him to be his child, bore his name. He
rejoined his regiment, and was never seen again at Vernon, being killed
a few years later in Africa.

Therese grew up under the fostering care of her aunt, sleeping in the
same bed as Camille. She who had an iron constitution, received the
treatment of a delicate child, partaking of the same medicine as her
cousin, and kept in the warm air of the room occupied by the invalid.
For hours she remained crouching over the fire, in thought, watching the
flames before her, without lowering her eyelids.

This obligatory life of a convalescent caused her to retire within
herself. She got into the habit of talking in a low voice, of moving
about noiselessly, of remaining mute and motionless on a chair with
expressionless, open eyes. But, when she raised an arm, when she
advanced a foot, it was easy to perceive that she possessed feline
suppleness, short, potent muscles, and that unmistakable energy and
passion slumbered in her soporous frame. Her cousin having fallen
down one day in a fainting fit, she abruptly picked him up and
carried him--an effort of strength that turned her cheeks scarlet. The
cloistered life she led, the debilitating regimen to which she found
herself subjected, failed to weaken her thin, robust form. Only her face
took a pale, and even a slightly yellowish tint, making her look
almost ugly in the shade. Ever and anon she went to the window, and
contemplated the opposite houses on which the sun threw sheets of gold.

When Madame Raquin sold her business, and withdrew to the little place
beside the river, Therese experienced secret thrills of joy. Her aunt
had so frequently repeated to her: "Don't make a noise; be quiet," that
she kept all the impetuosity of her nature carefully concealed within
her. She possessed supreme composure, and an apparent tranquillity that
masked terrible transports. She still fancied herself in the room of
her cousin, beside a dying child, and had the softened movements, the
periods of silence, the placidity, the faltering speech of an old woman.

When she saw the garden, the clear river, the vast green hillocks
ascending on the horizon, she felt a savage desire to run and shout. She
felt her heart thumping fit to burst in her bosom; but not a muscle of
her face moved, and she merely smiled when her aunt inquired whether she
was pleased with her new home.

Life now became more pleasant for her. She maintained her supple gait,
her calm, indifferent countenance, she remained the child brought up
in the bed of an invalid; but inwardly she lived a burning, passionate
existence. When alone on the grass beside the water, she would lie down
flat on her stomach like an animal, her black eyes wide open, her body
writhing, ready to spring. And she stayed there for hours, without a
thought, scorched by the sun, delighted at being able to thrust her
fingers in the earth. She had the most ridiculous dreams; she looked
at the roaring river in defiance, imagining that the water was about
to leap on her and attack her. Then she became rigid, preparing for the
defence, and angrily inquiring of herself how she could vanquish the
torrent.

At night, Therese, appeased and silent, stitched beside her aunt, with
a countenance that seemed to be dozing in the gleam that softly glided
from beneath the lamp shade. Camille buried in an armchair thought
of his additions. A word uttered in a low voice, alone disturbed, at
moments, the peacefulness of this drowsy home.

Madame Raquin observed her children with serene benevolence. She had
resolved to make them husband and wife. She continued to treat her son
as if he were at death's door; and she trembled when she happened to
reflect that she would one day die herself, and would leave him alone
and suffering. In that contingency, she relied on Therese, saying to
herself that the young girl would be a vigilant guardian beside Camille.
Her niece with her tranquil manner, and mute devotedness, inspired her
with unlimited confidence. She had seen Therese at work, and wished to
give her to her son as a guardian angel. This marriage was a solution to
the matter, foreseen and settled in her mind.

The children knew for a long time that they were one day to marry. They
had grown up with this idea, which had thus become familiar and natural
to them. The union was spoken of in the family as a necessary and
positive thing. Madame Raquin had said:

"We will wait until Therese is one-and-twenty."

And they waited patiently, without excitement, and without a blush.

Camille, whose blood had become impoverished by illness, had remained
a little boy in the eyes of his cousin. He kissed her as he kissed his
mother, by habit, without losing any of his egotistic tranquillity. He
looked upon her as an obliging comrade who helped him to amuse himself,
and who, if occasion offered, prepared him an infusion. When playing
with her, when he held her in his arms, it was as if he had a boy to
deal with. He experienced no thrill, and at these moments the idea
had never occurred to him of planting a warm kiss on her lips as she
struggled with a nervous laugh to free herself.

The girl also seemed to have remained cold and indifferent. At times
her great eyes rested on Camille and fixedly gazed at him with sovereign
calm. On such occasions her lips alone made almost imperceptible little
motions. Nothing could be read on her expressionless countenance, which
an inexorable will always maintained gentle and attentive. Therese
became grave when the conversation turned to her marriage, contenting
herself with approving all that Madame Raquin said by a sign of the
head. Camille went to sleep.

On summer evenings, the two young people ran to the edge of the water.
Camille, irritated at the incessant attentions of his mother, at times
broke out in open revolt. He wished to run about and make himself ill,
to escape the fondling that disgusted him. He would then drag Therese
along with him, provoking her to wrestle, to roll in the grass. One day,
having pushed his cousin down, the young girl bounded to her feet with
all the savageness of a wild beast, and, with flaming face and bloodshot
eyes, fell upon him with clenched fists. Camille in fear sank to the
ground.

Months and years passed by, and at length the day fixed for the marriage
arrived. Madame Raquin took Therese apart, spoke to her of her father
and mother, and related to her the story of her birth. The young girl
listened to her aunt, and when she had finished speaking, kissed her,
without answering a word.

At night, Therese, instead of going into her own room, which was on
the left of the staircase, entered that of her cousin which was on the
right. This was all the change that occurred in her mode of life. The
following day, when the young couple came downstairs, Camille had
still his sickly languidness, his righteous tranquillity of an egotist.
Therese still maintained her gentle indifference, and her restrained
expression of frightful calmness.

A week after the marriage, Camille distinctly told his mother that he
intended quitting Vernon to reside in Paris. Madame Raquin protested:
she had arranged her mode of life, and would not modify it in any way.
Thereupon her son had a nervous attack, and threatened to fall ill, if
she did not give way to his whim.

"Never have I opposed you in your plans," said he; "I married my cousin,
I took all the drugs you gave me. It is only natural, now, when I have
a desire of my own, that you should be of the same mind. We will move at
the end of the month."

Madame Raquin was unable to sleep all night. The decision Camille had
come to, upset her way of living, and, in despair, she sought to arrange
another existence for herself and the married couple. Little by little,
she recovered calm. She reflected that the young people might have
children, and that her small fortune would not then suffice. It was
necessary to earn money, to go into business again, to find lucrative
occupation for Therese. The next day she had become accustomed to the
idea of moving, and had arranged a plan for a new life.

At luncheon she was quite gay.

"This is what we will do," said she to her children. "I will go to Paris
to-morrow. There I will look out for a small mercery business for sale,
and Therese and myself will resume selling needles and cotton, which
will give us something to do. You, Camille, will act as you like. You
can either stroll about in the sun, or you can find some employment."

"I shall find employment," answered the young man.

The truth was that an idiotic ambition had alone impelled Camille to
leave Vernon. He wished to find a post in some important administration.
He blushed with delight when he fancied he saw himself in the middle of
a large office, with lustring elbow sleeves, and a pen behind his ear.

Therese was not consulted: she had always displayed such passive
obedience that her aunt and husband no longer took the trouble to ask
her opinion. She went where they went, she did what they did, without a
complaint, without a reproach, without appearing even to be aware that
she changed her place of residence.

Madame Raquin came to Paris, and went straight to the Arcade of the Pont
Neuf. An old maid at Vernon had sent her to one of her relatives who
in this arcade kept a mercery shop which she desired to get rid of.
The former mercer found the shop rather small, and rather dark; but,
in passing through Paris, she had been taken aback by the noise in the
streets, by the luxuriously dressed windows, and this narrow gallery,
this modest shop front, recalled her former place of business which was
so peaceful. She could fancy herself again in the provinces, and she
drew a long breath thinking that her dear children would be happy in
this out-of-the-way corner. The low price asked for the business, caused
her to make up her mind. The owner sold it her for 2,000 francs, and the
rent of the shop and first floor was only 1,200 francs a year. Madame
Raquin, who had close upon 4,000 francs saved up, calculated that she
could pay for the business and settle the rent for the first year,
without encroaching on her fortune. The salary Camille would be
receiving, and the profit on the mercery business would suffice, she
thought, to meet the daily expenses; so that she need not touch the
income of her funded money, which would capitalise, and go towards
providing marriage portions for her grandchildren.

She returned to Vernon beaming with pleasure, relating that she had
found a gem, a delightful little place right in the centre of Paris.
Little by little, at the end of a few days, in her conversations of
an evening, the damp, obscure shop in the arcade became a palace; she
pictured it to herself, so far as her memory served her, as convenient,
spacious, tranquil, and replete with a thousand inestimable advantages.

"Ah! my dear Therese," said she, "you will see how happy we shall be in
that nook! There are three beautiful rooms upstairs. The arcade is
full of people. We will make charming displays. There is no fear of our
feeling dull."

But she did not stop there. All her instinct of a former shopkeeper
was awakened. She gave advice to Therese, beforehand, as to buying and
selling, and posted her up in all the tricks of small tradespeople.
At length, the family quitted the house beside the Seine, and on the
evening of the same day, were installed in the Arcade of the Pont Neuf.

When Therese entered the shop, where in future she was to live, it
seemed to her that she was descending into the clammy soil of a grave.
She felt quite disheartened, and shivered with fear. She looked at the
dirty, damp gallery, visited the shop, and ascending to the first floor,
walked round each room. These bare apartments, without furniture, looked
frightful in their solitude and dilapidation. The young woman could
not make a gesture, or utter a word. She was as if frozen. Her aunt and
husband having come downstairs, she seated herself on a trunk, her hands
rigid, her throat full of sobs, and yet she could not cry.

Madame Raquin, face to face with reality, felt embarrassed, and ashamed
of her dreams. She sought to defend her acquisition. She found a remedy
for every fresh inconvenience that was discovered, explaining the
obscurity by saying the weather was overcast, and concluded by affirming
that a sweep-up would suffice to set everything right.

"Bah!" answered Camille, "all this is quite suitable. Besides, we shall
only come up here at night. I shall not be home before five or six
o'clock. As to you two, you will be together, so you will not be dull."

The young man would never have consented to inhabit such a den, had
he not relied on the comfort of his office. He said to himself that
he would be warm all day at his administration, and that, at night, he
would go to bed early.

For a whole week, the shop and lodging remained in disorder. Therese had
seated herself behind the counter from the first day, and she did not
move from that place. Madame Raquin was astonished at this depressed
attitude. She had thought that the young woman would try to adorn her
habitation. That she would place flowers at the windows, and ask for new
papers, curtains and carpets. When she suggested some repairs, some kind
of embellishment, her niece quietly replied:

"What need is there for it? We are very well as we are. There is no
necessity for luxury."

It was Madame Raquin who had to arrange the rooms and tidy up the shop.
Therese at last lost patience at seeing the good old lady incessantly
turning round and round before her eyes; she engaged a charwoman, and
forced her aunt to be seated beside her.

Camille remained a month without finding employment. He lived as little
as possible in the shop, preferring to stroll about all day; and he
found life so dreadfully dull with nothing to do, that he spoke
of returning to Vernon. But he at length obtained a post in the
administration of the Orleans Railway, where he earned 100 francs a
month. His dream had become realised.

He set out in the morning at eight o'clock. Walking down the Rue
Guenegaud, he found himself on the quays. Then, taking short steps with
his hands in his pockets, he followed the Seine from the Institut to the
Jardin des Plantes. This long journey which he performed twice daily,
never wearied him. He watched the water running along, and he stopped
to see the rafts of wood descending the river, pass by. He thought of
nothing. Frequently he planted himself before Notre Dame, to contemplate
the scaffolding surrounding the cathedral which was then undergoing
repair. These huge pieces of timber amused him although he failed to
understand why. Then he cast a glance into the Port aux Vins as he went
past, and after that counted the cabs coming from the station.

In the evening, quite stupefied, with his head full of some silly story
related to his office, he crossed the Jardin des Plantes, and went to
have a look at the bears, if he was not in too great a hurry. There he
remained half an hour, leaning over the rails at the top of the pit,
observing the animals clumsily swaying to and fro. The behaviour of
these huge beasts pleased him. He examined them with gaping mouth and
rounded eyes, partaking of the joy of an idiot when he perceived them
bestir themselves. At last he turned homewards, dragging his feet along,
busying himself with the passers-by, with the vehicles, and the shops.

As soon as he arrived he dined, and then began reading. He had purchased
the works of Buffon, and, every evening, he set himself to peruse twenty
to thirty pages, notwithstanding the wearisome nature of the task. He
also read in serial, at 10 centimes the number, "The History of the
Consulate and Empire" by Thiers, and "The History of the Girondins" by
Lamartine, as well as some popular scientific works. He fancied he was
labouring at his education. At times, he forced his wife to listen to
certain pages, to particular anecdotes, and felt very much astonished
that Therese could remain pensive and silent the whole evening, without
being tempted to take up a book. And he thought to himself that his wife
must be a woman of very poor intelligence.

Therese thrust books away from her with impatience. She preferred to
remain idle, with her eyes fixed, and her thoughts wandering and lost.
But she maintained an even, easy temper, exercising all her will to
render herself a passive instrument, replete with supreme complaisance
and abnegation.

The shop did not do much business. The profit was the same regularly
each month. The customers consisted of female workpeople living in the
neighbourhood. Every five minutes a young girl came in to purchase a few
sous worth of goods. Therese served the people with words that were ever
the same, with a smile that appeared mechanically on her lips. Madame
Raquin displayed a more unbending, a more gossipy disposition, and, to
tell the truth, it was she who attracted and retained the customers.

For three years, days followed days and resembled one another. Camille
did not once absent himself from his office. His mother and wife hardly
ever left the shop. Therese, residing in damp obscurity, in gloomy,
crushing silence, saw life expand before her in all its nakedness, each
night bringing the same cold couch, and each morn the same empty day.

One day out of seven, on the Thursday evening, the Raquin family
received their friends. They lit a large lamp in the dining-room, and
put water on the fire to make tea. There was quite a set out. This
particular evening emerged in bold relief from the others. It had become
one of the customs of the family, who regarded it in the light of a
middle-class orgie full of giddy gaiety. They did not retire to rest
until eleven o'clock at night.

At Paris Madame Raquin had found one of her old friends, the commissary
of police Michaud, who had held a post at Vernon for twenty years,
lodging in the same house as the mercer. A narrow intimacy had thus been
established between them; then, when the widow had sold her business to
go and reside in the house beside the river, they had little by little
lost sight of one another. Michaud left the provinces a few months
later, and came to live peacefully in Paris, Rue de Seine, on his
pension of 1,500 francs. One rainy day, he met his old friend in the
Arcade of the Pont Neuf, and the same evening dined with the family.

The Thursday receptions began in this way: the former commissary of
police got into the habit of calling on the Raquins regularly once a
week. After a while he came accompanied by his son Olivier, a great
fellow of thirty, dry and thin, who had married a very little woman,
slow and sickly. This Olivier held the post of head clerk in the section
of order and security at the Prefecture of Police, worth 3,000 francs a
year, which made Camille feel particularly jealous. From the first day
he made his appearance, Therese detested this cold, rigid individual,
who imagined he honoured the shop in the arcade by making a display of
his great shrivelled-up frame, and the exhausted condition of his poor
little wife.

Camille introduced another guest, an old clerk at the Orleans Railway,
named Grivet, who had been twenty years in the service of the company,
where he now held the position of head clerk, and earned 2,100 francs
a year. It was he who gave out the work in the office where Camille had
found employment, and the latter showed him certain respect. Camille, in
his day dreams, had said to himself that Grivet would one day die,
and that he would perhaps take his place at the end of a decade or
so. Grivet was delighted at the welcome Madame Raquin gave him, and
he returned every week with perfect regularity. Six months later, his
Thursday visit had become, in his way of thinking, a duty: he went
to the Arcade of the Pont Neuf, just as he went every morning to his
office, that is to say mechanically, and with the instinct of a brute.

From this moment, the gatherings became charming. At seven o'clock
Madame Raquin lit the fire, set the lamp in the centre of the table,
placed a box of dominoes beside it, and wiped the tea service which was
in the sideboard. Precisely at eight o'clock old Michaud and Grivet met
before the shop, one coming from the Rue de Seine, and the other from
the Rue Mazarine. As soon as they entered, all the family went up to the
first floor. There, in the dining-room, they seated themselves round the
table waiting for Olivier Michaud and his wife who always arrived late.
When the party was complete, Madame Raquin poured out the tea. Camille
emptied the box of dominoes on the oilcloth table cover, and everyone
became deeply interested in their hands. Henceforth nothing could be
heard but the jingle of dominoes. At the end of each game, the players
quarrelled for two or three minutes, then mournful silence was resumed,
broken by the sharp clanks of the dominoes.

Therese played with an indifference that irritated Camille. She took
Francois, the great tabby cat that Madame Raquin had brought from
Vernon, on her lap, caressing it with one hand, whilst she placed her
dominoes with the other. These Thursday evenings were a torture to her.
Frequently she complained of being unwell, of a bad headache, so as not
to play, and remain there doing nothing, and half asleep. An elbow on
the table, her cheek resting on the palm of her hand, she watched the
guests of her aunt and husband through a sort of yellow, smoky mist
coming from the lamp. All these faces exasperated her. She looked from
one to the other in profound disgust and secret irritation.

Old Michaud exhibited a pasty countenance, spotted with red blotches,
one of those death-like faces of an old man fallen into second
childhood; Grivet had the narrow visage, the round eyes, the thin lips
of an idiot. Olivier, whose bones were piercing his cheeks, gravely
carried a stiff, insignificant head on a ridiculous body; as to Suzanne,
the wife of Olivier, she was quite pale, with expressionless eyes, white
lips, and a soft face. And Therese could not find one human being, not
one living being among these grotesque and sinister creatures, with whom
she was shut up; sometimes she had hallucinations, she imagined herself
buried at the bottom of a tomb, in company with mechanical corpses, who,
when the strings were pulled, moved their heads, and agitated their
legs and arms. The thick atmosphere of the dining-room stifled her; the
shivering silence, the yellow gleams of the lamp penetrated her with
vague terror, and inexpressible anguish.

Below, to the door of the shop, they had fixed a bell whose sharp tinkle
announced the entrance of customers. Therese had her ear on the alert;
and when the bell rang, she rapidly ran downstairs quite relieved,
delighted at being able to quit the dining-room. She slowly served the
purchaser, and when she found herself alone, she sat down behind the
counter where she remained as long as possible, dreading going upstairs
again, and in the enjoyment of real pleasure at no longer having Grivet
and Olivier before her eyes. The damp air of the shop calmed the burning
fever of her hands, and she again fell into the customary grave reverie.

But she could not remain like this for long. Camille became angry at her
absence. He failed to comprehend how anyone could prefer the shop to the
dining-room on a Thursday evening, and he leant over the banister, to
look for his wife.

"What's the matter?" he would shout. "What are you doing there? Why
don't you come up? Grivet has the devil's own luck. He has just won
again."

The young woman rose painfully, and ascending to the dining-room resumed
her seat opposite old Michaud, whose pendent lips gave heartrending
smiles. And, until eleven o'clock, she remained oppressed in her chair,
watching Francois whom she held in her arms, so as to avoid seeing the
cardboard dolls grimacing around her.

One Thursday, Camille, on returning from his office, brought with him a
great fellow with square shoulders, whom he pushed in a familiar manner
into the shop.

"Mother," he said to Madame Raquin, pointing to the newcomer, "do you
recognise this gentleman?"

The old mercer looked at the strapping blade, seeking among her
recollections and finding nothing, while Therese placidly observed the
scene.

"What!" resumed Camille, "you don't recognise Laurent, little Laurent,
the son of daddy Laurent who owns those beautiful fields of corn out
Jeufosse way. Don't you remember? I went to school with him; he came
to fetch me of a morning on leaving the house of his uncle, who was our
neighbour, and you used to give him slices of bread and jam."

All at once Madame Raquin recollected little Laurent, whom she found
very much grown. It was quite ten years since she had seen him. She now
did her best to make him forget her lapse of memory in greeting him,
by recalling a thousand little incidents of the past, and by adopting a
wheedling manner towards him that was quite maternal. Laurent had seated
himself. With a peaceful smile on his lips, he replied to the questions
addressed to him in a clear voice, casting calm and easy glances around
him.

"Just imagine," said Camille, "this joker has been employed at the
Orleans-Railway-Station for eighteen months, and it was only to-night
that we met and recognised one another--the administration is so vast,
so important!"

As the young man made this remark, he opened his eyes wider, and pinched
his lips, proud to be a humble wheel in such a large machine. Shaking
his head, he continued:

"Oh! but he is in a good position. He has studied. He already earns
1,500 francs a year. His father sent him to college. He had read for the
bar, and learnt painting. That is so, is it not, Laurent? You'll dine
with us?"

"I am quite willing," boldly replied the other.

He got rid of his hat and made himself comfortable in the shop,
while Madame Raquin ran off to her stewpots. Therese, who had not yet
pronounced a word, looked at the new arrival. She had never seen such a
man before. Laurent, who was tall and robust, with a florid complexion,
astonished her. It was with a feeling akin to admiration, that she
contemplated his low forehead planted with coarse black hair, his full
cheeks, his red lips, his regular features of sanguineous beauty. For
an instant her eyes rested on his neck, a neck that was thick and short,
fat and powerful. Then she became lost in the contemplation of his great
hands which he kept spread out on his knees: the fingers were square;
the clenched fist must be enormous and would fell an ox.

Laurent was a real son of a peasant, rather heavy in gait, with an
arched back, with movements that were slow and precise, and an
obstinate tranquil manner. One felt that his apparel concealed round and
well-developed muscles, and a body of thick hard flesh. Therese examined
him with curiosity, glancing from his fists to his face, and experienced
little shivers when her eyes fell on his bull-like neck.

Camille spread out his Buffon volumes, and his serials at 10 centimes
the number, to show his friend that he also studied. Then, as if
answering an inquiry he had been making of himself for some minutes, he
said to Laurent:

"But, surely you must know my wife? Don't you remember that little
cousin who used to play with us at Vernon?"

"I had no difficulty in recognising Madame," answered Laurent, looking
Therese full in the face.

This penetrating glance troubled the young woman, who, nevertheless,
gave a forced smile, and after exchanging a few words with Laurent and
her husband, hurried away to join her aunt, feeling ill at ease.

As soon as they had seated themselves at table, and commenced the soup,
Camille thought it right to be attentive to his friend.

"How is your father?" he inquired.

"Well, I don't know," answered Laurent. "We are not on good terms; we
ceased corresponding five years ago."

"Bah!" exclaimed the clerk, astonished at such a monstrosity.

"Yes," continued the other, "the dear man has ideas of his own. As he
is always at law with his neighbours, he sent me to college, in the fond
hope that later on, he would find in me an advocate who would win him
all his actions. Oh! daddy Laurent has naught but useful ambitions; he
even wants to get something out of his follies."

"And you wouldn't be an advocate?" inquired Camille, more and more
astonished.

"Faith, no," answered his friend with a smile. "For a couple of years
I pretended to follow the classes, so as to draw the allowance of 1,200
francs which my father made me. I lived with one of my college chums,
who is a painter, and I set about painting also. It amused me. The
calling is droll, and not at all fatiguing. We smoked and joked all the
livelong day."

The Raquin family opened their eyes in amazement.

"Unfortunately," continued Laurent, "this could not last. My father
found out that I was telling him falsehoods. He stopped my 100 francs
a month, and invited me to return and plough the land with him. I then
tried to paint pictures on religious subjects which proved bad business.
As I could plainly see that I was going to die of hunger, I sent art to
the deuce and sought employment. My father will die one of these days,
and I am waiting for that event to live and do nothing."

Laurent spoke in a tranquil tone. In a few words he had just related a
characteristic tale that depicted him at full length. In reality he was
an idle fellow, with the appetite of a full-blooded man for everything,
and very pronounced ideas as to easy and lasting employment. The only
ambition of this great powerful frame was to do nothing, to grovel in
idleness and satiation from hour to hour. He wanted to eat well, sleep
well, to abundantly satisfy his passions, without moving from his place,
without running the risk of the slightest fatigue.

The profession of advocate had terrified him, and he shuddered at
the idea of tilling the soil. He had plunged into art, hoping to find
therein a calling suitable to an idle man. The paint-brush struck him
as being an instrument light to handle, and he fancied success easy.
His dream was a life of cheap sensuality, a beautiful existence full of
houris, of repose on divans, of victuals and intoxication.

The dream lasted so long as daddy Laurent sent the crown pieces. But
when the young man, who was already thirty, perceived the wolf at the
door, he began to reflect. Face to face with privations, he felt himself
a coward. He would not have accepted a day without bread, for the utmost
glory art could bestow. As he had said himself, he sent art to the
deuce, as soon as he recognised that it would never suffice to satisfy
his numerous requirements. His first efforts had been below mediocrity;
his peasant eyes caught a clumsy, slovenly view of nature; his muddy,
badly drawn, grimacing pictures, defied all criticism.

But he did not seem to have an over-dose of vanity for an artist; he was
not in dire despair when he had to put aside his brushes. All he really
regretted was the vast studio of his college chum, where he had been
voluptuously grovelling for four or five years. He also regretted the
women who came to pose there. Nevertheless he found himself at ease in
his position as clerk; he lived very well in a brutish fashion, and he
was fond of this daily task, which did not fatigue him, and soothed
his mind. Still one thing irritated him: the food at the eighteen sous
ordinaries failed to appease the gluttonous appetite of his stomach.

As Camille listened to his friend, he contemplated him with all the
astonishment of a simpleton. This feeble man was dreaming, in a childish
manner, of this studio life which his friend had been alluding to, and
he questioned Laurent on the subject.

"So," said he, "there were lady models who posed before you in the
nude?"

"Oh! yes," answered Laurent with a smile, and looking at Therese, who
had turned deadly pale.

"You must have thought that very funny," continued Camille, laughing
like a child. "It would have made me feel most awkward. I expect you
were quite scandalised the first time it happened."

Laurent had spread out one of his great hands and was attentively
looking at the palm. His fingers gave slight twitches, and his cheeks
became flushed.

"The first time," he answered, as if speaking to himself, "I fancy I
thought it quite natural. This devilish art is exceedingly amusing, only
it does not bring in a sou. I had a red-haired girl as model who was
superb, firm white flesh, gorgeous bust, hips as wide as . . ."

Laurent, raising his head, saw Therese mute and motionless opposite,
gazing at him with ardent fixedness. Her dull black eyes seemed like
two fathomless holes, and through her parted lips could be perceived the
rosy tint of the inside of her mouth. She seemed as if overpowered by
what she heard, and lost in thought. She continued listening.

Laurent looked from Therese to Camille, and the former painter
restrained a smile. He completed his phrase by a broad voluptuous
gesture, which the young woman followed with her eyes. They were at
dessert, and Madame Raquin had just run downstairs to serve a customer.

When the cloth was removed Laurent, who for some minutes had been
thoughtful, turned to Camille.

"You know," he blurted out, "I must paint your portrait."

This idea delighted Madame Raquin and her son, but Therese remained
silent.

"It is summer-time," resumed Laurent, "and as we leave the office at
four o'clock, I can come here, and let you give me a sitting for a
couple of hours in the evening. The picture will be finished in a week."

"That will be fine," answered Camille, flushed with joy. "You shall dine
with us. I will have my hair curled, and put on my black frock coat."

Eight o'clock struck. Grivet and Michaud made their entry. Olivier and
Suzanne arrived behind them.

When Camille introduced his friend to the company, Grivet pinched his
lips. He detested Laurent whose salary, according to his idea, had risen
far too rapidly. Besides, the introduction of a new-comer was quite an
important matter, and the guests of the Raquins could not receive an
individual unknown to them, without some display of coldness.

Laurent behaved very amicably. He grasped the situation, and did his
best to please the company, so as to make himself acceptable to them at
once. He related anecdotes, enlivened the party by his merry laughter,
and even won the friendship of Grivet.

That evening Therese made no attempt to go down to the shop. She
remained seated on her chair until eleven o'clock, playing and talking,
avoiding the eyes of Laurent, who for that matter did not trouble
himself about her. The sanguineous temperament of this strapping fellow,
his full voice and jovial laughter, troubled the young woman and threw
her into a sort of nervous anguish.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: The novel begins with a detailed description of the Passage du Pont-Neuf, a dingy, grimy Paris street populated by small shopkeepers. In the midst of this ill-lit thoroughfare, one can find a shop bearing two signs: the first reading "Haberdashery" in black letters, and the second reading "Therese Raquin" in red. The shop is full of old items and knickknacks - sleeves, socks, fabric samples - many of them yellow with age or faded to unpleasant grayish colors. This shop is maintained by a young woman with a pale face, a sharp profile, and abundant dark hair, who sits motionless behind the shop counter for hours on end. Though Zola does not revel the characters' names until Chapter 2, this is Therese Raquin. Occasionally she is joined by an old woman with a tabby cat, and by a young man of about thirty years old who chats and reads - Camille. These three individuals are related: the man and young woman are husband and wife, and the old woman is the young man's mother. At night they retire to their apartment upstairs. The young woman is the last to go to bed, and often spends a little while surveying her surroundings with boredom and contempt before she lies down to sleep. Mme Raquin is a haberdasher originally from the rural town of Vernon. In Vernon, she had rented a small house on land running down to the Seine River. It was here that she raised Camille, a boy who faced various sicknesses throughout his young life. Madame Raquin repeatedly nursed him back to health. In Vernon, Therese spent her entire youth under her the supervision of Mme Raquin - her aunt. Therese's father was Mme Raquin's brother, a sea captain who fathered Therese while in Algerian, and her mother was a local beauty. When Therese's mother died, Mme Raquin's brother left his daughter in his sister's care, and died in Africa some years later. Though a healthy and passionate young girl, Therese was kept in a confined, unpleasant atmosphere because of Camille's constant illnesses. As a result, she developed a suspicious, calculating, and outwardly cold personality. Camille never develops any real romantic attachment to Therese , yet he accepts the marriage between them that Mme Raquin proposes. On the night she is married, Therese simply moves into Camille's room. Otherwise, her life changes little. Soon after his wedding, Camille announces that he wants to leave Vernon and seek employment in Paris. He dreams of becoming an employee in a large organization. After an initial period of opposition, the doting Mme Raquin gives in to her son's plan and even finds a new haberdashery shop, which is going for a bargain price, in the Passage du Pont-Neuf. Despite Mme Raquin's reassurances that life in the Passage du Pont-Neuf will eventually become enjoyable, Therese sees the dingy little shop and unpleasant street for what they really are. Yet Camille deeply enjoys his new life. He finds a job at the Orleans Railway and develops a personal routine. In the morning he walks along the Seine river, and in the evening he stops by Paris's zoological garden, the Jardin des Plantes, too look at the animals. At night, Camille reads history books in order to improve his mind. Yet Therese has no interest in making an attempt to better her situation, and three dull years pass in roughly the same fashion. Eventually, a group of regular guests begins to form around the Raquin household. Mme Raquin re-encounters an old acquaintance from Vernon: the police commissioner Michaud, who begins to frequent the Passage du Pont-Neuf. Old Michaud brings along his son, a tall and self-important police official named Olivier. And Olivier is often accompanied by his wife, a small and meek woman named Suzanne. Camille makes his own contribution to the social life in the Passage du Pont-Neuf, bringing along one of his office supervisors, a man named Grivet. Together, these guests make a habit of showing up at the Raquins' apartment on Thursday evenings, when they gather around to play dominoes and drink Mme Raquin's tea. Therese is irritated, even maddened by these visitors. She does her best to avoid the gatherings, but Camille always urges her back into the apartment, and into the presence of her grotesque guests. ON one of the Thursday gatherings, Camille brings along a new friend: one of his fellow co-workers at the Railway, a tall and hearty young man named Laurent. It turns out that Camille and Laurent knew one another as schoolboys. Laurent feels at home, but he also makes a few declarations that shock and unnerve the Raquins, including Therese. There had been a falling out between Laurent and his father, an ill-tempered peasant, and now Laurent is attracted to the easygoing lifestyle of Paris's artists - a lifestyle of leisure and sensual pleasures - despite having no real talent as a painter. In the course of the evening, Laurent declares that he would like to paint Camille's portrait. Both Camille and Mme Raquin are delighted by this plan. But Therese's reaction to Laurent is not one of simple delight; she is disturbed by his presence, but also intoxicated by a personality so unlike her own.