fire, turning her back to him; and he
repeated to himself that he no longer loved this woman, and that she no
longer loved him.

For nearly an hour Therese maintained her dejected attitude,
while Laurent silently walked backward and forward. Both inwardly
acknowledged, with terror, that their passion was dead, that they had
killed it in killing Camille. The embers on the hearth were gently dying
out; a sheet of bright, clear fire shone above the ashes. Little by
little, the heat of the room had become stifling; the flowers were
fading, making the thick air sickly, with their heavy odour.

Laurent, all at once, had an hallucination. As he turned round, coming
from the window to the bed, he saw Camille in a dark corner, between
the chimney and wardrobe. The face of his victim looked greenish and
distorted, just as he had seen it on the slab at the Morgue. He remained
glued to the carpet, fainting, leaning against a piece of furniture for
support. At a hollow rattle in his throat, Therese raised her head.

"There, there!" exclaimed Laurent in a terrified tone.

With extended arm, he pointed to the dark corner where he perceived
the sinister face of Camille. Therese, infected by his terror, went and
pressed against him.

"It is his portrait," she murmured in an undertone, as if the face of
her late husband could hear her.

"His portrait?" repeated Laurent, whose hair stood on end.

"Yes, you know, the painting you did," she replied. "My aunt was to have
removed it to her room. No doubt she forgot to take it down."

"Really; his portrait," said he.

The murderer had some difficulty in recognising the canvas. In his
trouble he forgot that it was he who had drawn those clashing strokes,
who had spread on those dirty tints that now terrified him. Terror made
him see the picture as it was, vile, wretchedly put together, muddy,
displaying the grimacing face of a corpse on a black ground. His own
work astonished and crushed him by its atrocious ugliness; particularly
the two eyes which seemed floating in soft, yellowish orbits, reminding
him exactly of the decomposed eyes of the drowned man at the Morgue.
For a moment, he remained breathless, thinking Therese was telling an
untruth to allay his fears. Then he distinguished the frame, and little
by little became calm.

"Go and take it down," said he in a very low tone to the young woman.

"Oh! no, I'm afraid," she answered with a shiver.

Laurent began to tremble agai