loaded with bitter and despairing complaints, with mute reproaches,
which they distinctly heard in the tranquil air.

Day came at last, a dirty, whitish dawn, bringing penetrating cold with
it. When the room had filled with dim light, Laurent, who was shivering,
felt calmer. He looked the portrait of Camille straight in the face,
and saw it as it was, commonplace and puerile. He took it down, and
shrugging his shoulders, called himself a fool. Therese had risen
from the low chair, and was tumbling the bed about for the purpose of
deceiving her aunt, so as to make her believe they had passed a happy
night.

"Look here," Laurent brutally remarked to her, "I hope we shall sleep
well to-night! There must be an end to this sort of childishness."

Therese cast a deep, grave glance at him.

"You understand," he continued. "I did not marry for the purpose of
passing sleepless nights. We are just like children. It was you who
disturbed me with your ghostly airs. To-night you will try to be gay,
and not frighten me."

He forced himself to laugh without knowing why he did so.

"I will try," gloomily answered the young woman.

Such was the wedding night of Therese and Laurent.