about murder, a plan of assassination.

And he found nothing. As he had told his ladylove, he was neither a
child nor a fool. He wanted neither a dagger nor poison. What he sought
was a subtle crime, one that could be accomplished without danger; a
sort of sinister suffocation, without cries and without terror, a simple
disappearance. Passion might well stir him, and urge him forward; all
his being imperiously insisted on prudence. He was too cowardly, too
voluptuous to risk his tranquillity. If he killed, it would be for a
calm and happy life.

Little by little slumber overcame him. Fatigued and appeased, he sank
into a sort of gentle and uncertain torpor. As he fell asleep, he
decided he would await a favourable opportunity, and his thoughts,
fleeting further and further away, lulled him to rest with the murmur:

"I will kill him, I will kill him."

Five minutes later, he was at rest, breathing with serene regularity.

Therese returned home at eleven o'clock, with a burning head, and her
thoughts strained, reaching the Arcade of the Pont Neuf unconscious
of the road she had taken. It seemed to her that she had just come
downstairs from her visit to Laurent, so full were her ears of the words
she had recently heard. She found Madame Raquin and Camille anxious and
attentive; but she answered their questions sharply, saying she had
been on a fools' errand, and had waited an hour on the pavement for an
omnibus.

When she got into bed, she found the sheets cold and damp. Her limbs,