Laurent, ashamed of his brutality, began walking slowly from the bed
to the window. Suffering alone--the horrible burn--had made him exact a
kiss from Therese, and when her frigid lips met the scorching scar,
he felt the pain more acutely. This kiss obtained by violence had just
crushed him. The shock had been so painful, that for nothing in the
world would he have received another.

He cast his eyes upon the woman with whom he was to live, and who sat
shuddering, doubled up before the fire, turning her back to him; and he
repeated to himself that he no longer loved this woman, and that she no
longer loved him.

For nearly an hour Therese maintained her dejected attitude,
while Laurent silently walked backward and forward. Both inwardly
acknowledged, with terror, that their passion was dead, that they had
killed it in killing Camille. The embers on the hearth were gently dying
out; a sheet of bright, clear fire shone above the ashes. Little by
little, the heat of the room had become stifling; the flowers were
fading, making the thick air sickly, with their heavy odour.

Laurent, all at once, had an hallucination. As he turned round, coming
from the window to the bed, he saw Camille in a dark corner, between
the chimney and wardrobe. The face of his victim looked greenish and
distorted, just as he had seen it on the slab at the Morgue. He remained
glued to the carpet, fainting, leaning against a piece of furniture for
support. At a hollow rattle in his throat, Therese raised her head.

"There, there!" exclaimed Laurent in a terrified tone.

With extended arm, he pointed to the dark corner where he perceived