s
green face of his victim. These attacks resembled the accesses of some
frightful illness, a sort of hysteria of murder. The name of illness,
of nervous affection, was really the only one to give to the terror that
Laurent experienced. His face became convulsed, his limbs rigid, his
nerves could be seen knotting beneath his skin. The body suffered
horribly, while the spirit remained absent. The wretch felt no
repentance. His passion for Therese had conveyed a frightful evil to
him, and that was all.

Therese also found herself a prey to these heavy shocks. But, in her
terror, she showed herself a woman: she felt vague remorse, unavowed
regret. She, at times, had an inclination to cast herself on her knees
and beseech the spectre of Camille to pardon her, while swearing
to appease it by repentance. Maybe Laurent perceived these acts of
cowardice on the part of Therese, for when they were agitated by the
common terror, he laid the blame on her, and treated her with brutality.

On the first nights, they were unable to go to bed. They waited for
daylight, seated before the fire, or pacing to and fro as on the evening
of the wedding-day. The thought of lying down, side by side, on the
bed, caused them a sort of terrifying repugnance. By tacit consent, they
avoided kissing one another, and they did not even look at their couch,
which Therese tumbled about in the morning.

When overcome with fatigue, they slept for an hour or two in the
armchairs, to awaken with a start, under the influence of the sinister
denouement of some nightmare. On awakening, with limbs stiff and tired,
shivering all over with discomfort and cold, their faces marbled with
livid blotches, they contemplated one another in bewilderment astonished
to see themselves there. And they displayed strange bashfulness towards
each other, ashamed at showing their disgust and terror.

But they struggled against sleep as much as they could. They seated
themselves, one on each side of the chimney, and talked of a thousand
trifles, being very careful not to let the conversation drop. There was
a broad space between them in front of the fire. When they turned their
heads, they imagined that Camille had drawn a chair there, and occupied
this space, warming his feet in a lugubrious, bantering fashion. This
vision, which they had seen on the evening of the wedding-day, returned
each night.

And this corpse taking a mute, but jeering part, in their interviews,
this ho