was accomplished, he felt a weight removed from his chest, and breathed
at ease, cured of the suffering that hesitation and fear had given him.

At the bottom of his heart, he was a trifle hebetated. Fatigue had
rendered his limbs and thoughts heavy. He went in to bed and slept
soundly. During his slumber slight nervous crispations coursed over his
face.



CHAPTER XIII

The following morning, Laurent awoke fresh and fit. He had slept well.
The cold air entering by the open window, whipped his sluggish blood. He
had no clear recollection of the scenes of the previous day, and had it
not been for the burning sensation at his neck, he might have thought
that he had retired to rest after a calm evening.

But the bite Camille had given him stung as if his skin had been branded
with a red-hot iron. When his thoughts settled on the pain this gash
caused him, he suffered cruelly. It seemed as though a dozen needles
were penetrating little by little into his flesh.

He turned down the collar of his shirt, and examined the wound in a
wretched fifteen sous looking-glass hanging against the wall. It formed
a red hole, as big as a penny piece. The skin had been torn away,
displaying the rosy flesh, studded with dark specks. Streaks of blood
had run as far as the shoulder in thin threads that had dried up. The
bite looked a deep, dull brown colour against the white skin, and was
situated under the right ear. Laurent scrutinised it with curved back