d, he would marry Therese, he would
inherit from Madame Raquin, resign his clerkship, and saunter about in
the sun. Then, he took pleasure in dreaming of this life of idleness; he
saw himself with nothing to do, eating and sleeping, patiently awaiting
the death of his father. And when the reality arose in the middle of his
dream, he ran up against Camille, and clenched his fists to knock him
down.

Laurent desired Therese; he wanted her for himself alone, to have her
always within reach. If he failed to make the husband disappear, the
woman would escape him. She had said so: she could not return. He would
have eloped with her, carried her off somewhere, but then both would
die of hunger. He risked less in killing the husband. There would be
no scandal. He would simply push a man away to take his place. In his
brutal logic of a peasant, he found this method excellent and natural.
His innate prudence even advised this rapid expedient.

He grovelled on his bed, in perspiration, flat on his stomach, with his
face against the pillow, and he remained there breathless, stifling,
seeing lines of fire pass along his closed eyelids. He asked himself how
he would kill Camille. Then, unable to breathe any more, he turned round
at a bound to resume his position on his back, and with his eyes wide
open, received full in the face, the puffs of cold air from the window,
seeking in the stars, in the bluish square of sky, a piece of advice
about murder, a plan of assassination.

And he found nothing. As he had told his ladylove, he was neither a
child nor a fool. He wanted neither a dagger nor poison. What he sought
was a subtle crime, one that could be accomplished without danger; a
sort of sinister suffocation, without cries and without terror, a simple
disappearance. Passion might well stir him, and urge him forward; all
his being imperiously insisted on prudence. He was too cowardly, too
voluptuous to risk his tranquillity. If he killed, it would be for a
calm and happy life.

Little by little slumber overcame him. Fatigued and appeased, he sank
into a sort of gentle and uncertain torpor. As he fell asleep, he
decided he would await a favourable opportunity, and his thoughts,
fleeting further and further away, lulled him to rest with the murmur:

"I will kill him, I will kill him."

Five minutes later, he was at rest, breathing with serene regularity.

Therese returned home at eleven o'clock, with a burning head, and her
thou