the sinister face of Camille. Therese, infected by his terror, went and
pressed against him.

"It is his portrait," she murmured in an undertone, as if the face of
her late husband could hear her.

"His portrait?" repeated Laurent, whose hair stood on end.

"Yes, you know, the painting you did," she replied. "My aunt was to have
removed it to her room. No doubt she forgot to take it down."

"Really; his portrait," said he.

The murderer had some difficulty in recognising the canvas. In his
trouble he forgot that it was he who had drawn those clashing strokes,
who had spread on those dirty tints that now terrified him. Terror made
him see the picture as it was, vile, wretchedly put together, muddy,
displaying the grimacing face of a corpse on a black ground. His own
work astonished and crushed him by its atrocious ugliness; particularly
the two eyes which seemed floating in soft, yellowish orbits, reminding
him exactly of the decomposed eyes of the drowned man at the Morgue.
For a moment, he remained breathless, thinking Therese was telling an
untruth to allay his fears. Then he distinguished the frame, and little
by little became calm.

"Go and take it down," said he in a very low tone to the young woman.

"Oh! no, I'm afraid," she answered with a shiver.

Laurent began to tremble again. At moments the frame of the picture