It seemed to her that her son, once dead, Therese could have no thought for a husband, and here was Michaud affirming, with a hearty laugh, that Therese 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 Therese.

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 Therese, 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.