until she had made herself quite comfortable, and then ventured
to stretch himself out at the opposite edge of the mattress, so that
there was a broad space between them. It was there that the corpse of
Camille lay.

When the two murderers were extended under the same sheet, and had
closed their eyes, they fancied they felt the damp corpse of their
victim, lying in the middle of the bed, and turning their flesh icy
cold. It was like a vile obstacle separating them. They were seized with
fever and delirium, and this obstacle, in their minds, became material.
They touched the corpse, they saw it spread out, like a greenish and
dissolved shred of something, and they inhaled the infectious odour of
this lump of human putrefaction. All their senses were in a state of
hallucination, conveying intolerable acuteness to their sensations.

The presence of this filthy bedfellow kept them motionless, silent,
abstracted with anguish. Laurent, at times, thought of taking Therese
violently in his arms; but he dared not move. He said to himself that he
could not extend his hand, without getting it full of the soft flesh of
Camille. Next he fancied that the drowned man came to sleep between
them so as to prevent them clasping one another, and he ended by
understanding that Camille was jealous.

Nevertheless, ever and anon, they sought to exchange a timid kiss, to
see what would happen. The young man jeered at his wife, and ordered
her to embrace him. But their lips were so cold that it seemed as if
the dead man had got between their mouths. Both felt disgusted. Therese
shuddered with horror, and Laurent who heard her teeth chattering,
railed at her:

"Why are you trembling?" he exclaimed. "Are you afraid of Camille? Ah!
the poor man is as dead as a doornail at this moment."

Both avoided saying what made them shudder. When an hallucination
brought the countenance of the drowned man before Therese, she closed
her eyes, keeping her terror to herself, not daring to speak to her
husband of her vision, lest she should bring on a still more terrible
crisis. And it was just the same with Laurent. When driven to
extremities, he, in a fit of despair, accused Therese of being afraid
of Camille. The name, uttered aloud, occasioned additional anguish. The
murderer raved.

"Yes, yes," he stammered, addressing the young woman, "you are afraid of
Camille. I can see that plain enough! You are a silly thing, you have
no pluck at all. Look here! j