As Therese opened the door to leave, he seized her in his arms.

"You are mine, are you not?" he continued. "You swear to belong to me,
at any hour, when I choose."

"Yes!" exclaimed the young woman. "I am yours, do as you please with
me."

For a moment they remained locked together and mute. Then Therese tore
herself roughly away, and, without turning her head, quitted the garret
and went downstairs. Laurent listened to the sound of her footsteps
fading away.

When he heard the last of them, he returned to his wretched room, and
went to bed. The sheets were still warm. Without closing the window,
he lay on his back, his arms bare, his hands open, exposed to the fresh
air. And he reflected, with his eyes on the dark blue square that the
window framed in the sky.

He turned the same idea over in his head until daybreak. Previous to the
visit of Therese, the idea of murdering Camille had not occurred to him.
He had spoken of the death of this man, urged to do so by the facts,
irritated at the thought that he would be unable to meet his sweetheart
any more. And it was thus that a new corner of his unconscious nature
came to be revealed.

Now that he was more calm, alone in the middle of the peaceful night, he
studied the murder. The idea of death, blurted out in despair between a
couple of kisses, returned implacable and keen. Racked by insomnia, and
unnerved by the visit of Therese, he calculated the disadvantages and