"We cannot leave this unhappy woman here," said he to Michaud. "She is
perhaps threatened with grave illness. We must positively take her back
to Paris. Come, let us persuade her to accompany us."

Upstairs, he begged and prayed of Therese to rise and dress, and allow
herself to be conducted to the Arcade of the Pont Neuf. When the young
woman heard the sound of his voice, she started, and stared at him with
eyes wide open. She seemed as if crazy, and was shuddering. Painfully
she raised herself into a sitting posture without answering. The men
quitted the room, leaving her alone with the wife of the restaurant
keeper. When ready to start, she came downstairs staggering, and was
assisted into the cab by Olivier.

The journey was a silent one. Laurent, with perfect audacity and
impudence, slipped his hand along the skirt of Therese and caught her
fingers. He was seated opposite her, in a floating shadow, and could not
see her face which she kept bowed down on her breast. As soon as he
had grasped her hand, he pressed it vigorously, retaining it until
they reached the Rue Mazarine. He felt the hand tremble; but it was not
withdrawn. On the contrary it ever and anon gave a sudden caress.

These two hands, one in the other, were burning; the moist palms
adhered, and the fingers tightly held together, were hurt at each
pressure. It seemed to Laurent and Therese that the blood from one
penetrated the chest of the other, passing through their joined fists.
These fists became a live fire whereon their lives were boiling. Amidst
the night, amidst the heartrending silence that prevailed, the furious
grips they exchanged, were like a crushing weight cast on the head of
Camille to keep him under water.