His body,
his irritated nerves and trembling frame alone were afraid of the
drowned man. His conscience was for nothing in his terror. He did not
feel the least regret at having killed Camille. When he was calm, when
the spectre did not happen to be there, he would have committed the
murder over again, had he thought his interests absolutely required it.
During the daytime he laughed at himself for his fright, making up his
mind to be stronger, and he harshly rebuked Therese, whom he accused of
troubling him. According to what he said, it was Therese who shuddered,
it was Therese alone who brought on the frightful scenes, at night, in
the bedroom. And, as soon as night came, as soon as he found himself
shut in with his wife, icy perspiration pearled on his skin, and his
frame shook with childish terror.
He thus underwent intermittent nervous attacks that returned nightly,
and threw his senses into confusion while showing him the hideous
green face of his victim. These attacks resembled the accesses of some
frightful illness, a sort of hysteria of murder. The name of illness,
of nervous affection, was really the only one to give to the terror that
Laurent experienced.
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