intelligence was bent on the silent exchange of their terrifying
recollections.

When Laurent spoke of the roses, or of the fire, of one thing or
another, Therese was perfectly well aware that he was reminding her
of the struggle in the skiff, of the dull fall of Camille; and, when
Therese answered yes or no to an insignificant question, Laurent
understood that she said she remembered or did not remember a detail of
the crime. They charted it in this manner open-heartedly without needing
words, while they spoke aloud of other matters.

Moreover, unconscious of the syllables they pronounced, they followed
their secret thoughts sentence by sentence; they might abruptly have
continued their confidences aloud, without ceasing to understand each
other. This sort of divination, this obstinacy of their memory in
presenting to themselves without pause, the image of Camille, little
by little drove them crazy. They thoroughly well perceived that they
guessed the thoughts of one another, and that if they did not hold their
tongues, the words would rise of themselves to their mouths, to name the
drowned man, and describe the murder. Then they closely pinched their
lips and ceased their conversation.

In the overwhelming silence that ensued, the two murderers continued
to converse about their victim. It appeared to them that their eyes
mutually penetrated their flesh, and buried clear, keen phrases in their
bodies. At moments, they fancied they heard themselves speaking aloud.
Their senses changed. Sight became a sort of strange and delicate
hearing. They so distinctly read their thoughts upon their countenances,
that these thoughts took a peculiarly piercing sound that agitated all
their organism. They could not have understood one another better, had