the advantages of his becoming an assassin.

All his interests urged him to commit the crime. He said to himself that
as his father, the Jeufosse peasant, could not make up his mind to die,
he would perhaps have to remain a clerk another ten years, eating in
cheap restaurants, and living in a garret. This idea exasperated him. On
the other hand, if Camille were dead, he would marry Therese, he would
inherit from Madame Raquin, resign his clerkship, and saunter about in
the sun. Then, he took pleasure in dreaming of this life of idleness; he
saw himself with nothing to do, eating and sleeping, patiently awaiting
the death of his father. And when the reality arose in the middle of his
dream, he ran up against Camille, and clenched his fists to knock him
down.

Laurent desired Therese; he wanted her for himself alone, to have her
always within reach. If he failed to make the husband disappear, the
woman would escape him. She had said so: she could not return. He would
have eloped with her, carried her off somewhere, but then both would
die of hunger. He risked less in killing the husband. There would be
no scandal. He would simply push a man away to take his place. In his
brutal logic of a peasant, he found this method excellent and natural.
His innate prudence even advised this rapid expedient.

He grovelled on his bed, in perspiration, flat on his stomach, with his
face against the pillow, and he remained there breathless, stifling,
seeing lines of fire pass along his closed eyelids. He asked himself how
he would kill Camille. Then, unable to breathe any more, he turned round
at a bound to resume his position on his back, and with his eyes wide
open, received full in the face, the puffs of cold air from the window,
seeking in the stars, in the bluish square of sky, a piece of advice