This exchange of terrified looks, this mute narration they were about
to make to themselves of the murder, caused them keen and intolerable
apprehension. The strain on their nerves threatened an attack, they
might cry out, perhaps fight. Laurent, to drive away his recollections,
violently tore himself from the ecstasy of horror that enthralled him in
the gaze of Therese. He took a few strides in the room; he removed his
boots and put on slippers; then, returning to his former place, he
sat down at the chimney corner, and tried to talk on matters of
indifference.

Therese, understanding what he desired, strove to answer his questions.
They chatted about the weather, endeavouring to force on a commonplace
conversation. Laurent said the room was warm, and Therese replied that,
nevertheless, a draught came from under the small door on the staircase,
and both turned in that direction with a sudden shudder. The young man
hastened to speak about the roses, the fire, about everything he saw
before him. The young woman, with an effort, rejoined in monosyllables,
so as not to allow the conversation to drop. They had drawn back from
one another, and were giving themselves easy airs, endeavouring to
forget whom they were, treating one another as strangers brought
together by chance.

But, in spite of themselves, by a strange phenomenon, whilst they
uttered these empty phrases, they mutually guessed the thoughts
concealed in their banal words. Do what they would, they both thought
of Camille. Their eyes continued the story of the past. They still
maintained by looks a mute discourse, apart from the conversation they
held aloud, which ran haphazard. The words they cast here and there
had no signification, being disconnected and contradictory; all their