his victim. But about the middle of May, a
few days after his installation in the doctor's house, as he was coming
home from a walk, he heard the sound of a piano, saw La Bougival sitting
at a window, like a dragon guarding a treasure, and suddenly became
aware of an importunate voice within him.

To explain why to a man of Minoret's nature the sight of Ursula, who had
no suspicion of the theft committed upon her, now became intolerable;
why the spectacle of so much fortitude under misfortune impelled him to
a desire to drive the girl out of town; and how and why it was that
this desire took the form of hatred and revenge, would require a whole
treatise on moral philosophy. Perhaps he felt he was not the real
possessor of thirty-six thousand francs a year so long as she to whom
they really belonged lived near him. Perhaps he fancied some mere chance
might betray his theft if the person despoiled was not got rid of.
Perhaps to a nature in some sort primitive, almost uncivilized, and
whose owner up to that time had never done anything illegal, the
presence of Ursula awakened remorse. Possibly this remorse goaded him
the more because he had received his share of the property legitimately
acquired. In his own mind he no doubt attributed these stirrings of his
conscience to the fact of Ursula's presence, imagining that if she were
removed all his uncomfortable feelings would disappear with her. But
still, after all, perhaps crime has its own doctrine of perfection. A
beginning of evil demands its end; a first stab must be followed by the
blow that kills. Perhaps robbery is doomed to lead to murder. Minoret
had committed the crime without the slightest reflection, so rapidly
had the events taken place; reflection came later. Now, if you have
thoroughly possessed yourself of this man's nature and bodily presence
you will understand the mighty effect produced on him by a thought.
Remorse is more than a thought; it comes from a feeling which can no
more be hidden than love; like love, it has its own tyranny. But, just
as Minoret had committed the crime against Ursula without the slightest
reflection, so he now blindly longed to drive her from Nemours when he
felt himself disturbed by the sight of that wronged innocence. Being,
in a sense, imbecile, he never thought of the consequences; he went from
danger to danger, driven by a selfish instinct, like a wild animal which
does not foresee the huntsman's skill, and relies on its ow