When
weariness drove him home, he shut himself in, and double-locked the
door. There he struggled until daybreak amidst frightful attacks of
fever.
The same nightmare returned persistently: he fancied he fell from
the ardent clasp of Therese into the cold, sticky arms of Camille. He
dreamt, first of all, that his sweetheart was stifling him in a warm
embrace, and then that the corpse of the drowned man pressed him to his
chest in an ice-like strain. These abrupt and alternate sensations of
voluptuousness and disgust, these successive contacts of burning love
and frigid death, set him panting for breath, and caused him to shudder
and gasp in anguish.
Each day, the terror of the lovers increased, each day their attacks of
nightmare crushed and maddened them the more. They no longer relied on
their kisses to drive away insomnia. By prudence, they did not dare
make appointments, but looked forward to their wedding-day as a day of
salvation, to be followed by an untroubled night.
It was their desire for calm slumber that made them wish for their
union. They had hesitated during the hours of indifference, both being
oblivious of the egotistic and impassioned reasons that had urged them
to the crime, and which were now dispelled.
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