She remained the
ungovernable creature who had wanted to struggle with the Seine and who
had thrown herself violently into illicit love; but she was conscious
of goodness and gentleness, she understood the putty face and lifeless
attitude of the wife of Olivier, and she knew it was possible to be
happy without killing one's husband. Then, she did not see herself in a
very good light, and lived in cruel indecision.
Laurent, on his side, passed through several different phases of love
and fever. First of all he enjoyed profound tranquility; he seemed as
if relieved of an enormous weight. At times he questioned himself with
astonishment, fancying he had had a bad dream. He asked himself whether
it was really true that he had flung Camille into the water, and had
seen his corpse on the slab at the Morgue.
The recollection of his crime caused him strange surprise; never could
he have imagined himself capable of murder. He so prudent, so cowardly,
shuddered at the mere thought, ice-like beads of perspiration stood
out on his forehead when he reflected that the authorities might have
discovered his crime and guillotined him. Then he felt the cold knife on
his neck. So long as he had acted, he had gone straight before him, with
the obstinacy and blindness of a brute.
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