aunt to Laurent, beseeching him with a look to hold his
tongue.

"Well, what of it? Leave me alone!" exclaimed the latter in a brutal
tone, "you know very well that she cannot give us up. Am I more happy
than she is? We have her cash, I have no need to constrain myself."

The quarrel continued, bitter and piercing, and Camille was killed over
again. Neither Therese nor Laurent dared give way to the thoughts of
pity that sometimes came over them, and shut the paralysed woman in
her bedroom, when they quarrelled, so as to spare her the story of the
crime. They were afraid of beating one another to death, if they failed
to have this semi-corpse between them. Their pity yielded to cowardice.
They imposed ineffable sufferings on Madame Raquin because they required
her presence to protect them against their hallucinations.

All their disputes were alike, and led to the same accusations. As soon
as one of them accused the other of having killed this man, there came a
frightful shock.

One night, at dinner, Laurent who sought a pretext for becoming
irritable, found that the water in the decanter was lukewarm. He
declared that tepid water made him feel sick, and that he wanted it
fresh.

"I was unable to procure any ice," Therese answered dryly.

"Very well, I will deprive myself of drinking," retorted Laurent.

"This water is excellent," said she.

"It is warm, and has a muddy taste," he answered. "It's like water from
the river."

"Water from the river?" repeated Therese.

And she burst out sobbing. A juncture of ideas had just occurred in her
mind.

"Why do you cry?" asked Laurent, who foresaw the answer, and turned
pale.

"I cry," sobbed the young woman, "I cry because--you know why--Oh! Great
God! Great God! It was you who killed him."

"You lie!" shouted the murderer vehemently, "confess that you lie. If I
threw him into the Seine, it was you who urged me to commit the murder."

"I! I!" she exclaimed.

"Yes, you! Don't act the ignorant," he replied, "don't compel me to
force you to tell the truth. I want you to confess your crime, to take
your share in the murder. It will tranquillise and relieve me."

"But _I_ did not drown Camille," she pleaded.

"Yes, you did, a thousand times yes!" he shouted. "Oh! You feign
astonishment and want of memory. Wait a moment, I will recall your
recollections."

Rising from table, he bent over the young woman, and with crimson
countenance, yelled in her face:

"You