Then, one night, he abruptly
took Therese in his arms, and, at the risk of passing over the corpse of
the drowned man, drew her violently to him.
The young woman, who was also driven to extremes, would have cast
herself into the fire had she thought that flames would have purified
her flesh, and delivered her from her woe. She returned Laurent his
advances, determined to be either consumed by the caresses of this man,
or to find relief in them.
And they clasped one another in a hideous embrace. Pain and horror took
the place of love. When their limbs touched, it was like falling on live
coal. They uttered a cry, pressing still closer together, so as not
to leave room for the drowned man. But they still felt the shreds of
Camille, which were ignobly squeezed between them, freezing their skins
in parts, whilst in others they were burning hot.
Their kisses were frightfully cruel. Therese sought the bite
that Camille had given in the stiff, swollen neck of Laurent, and
passionately pressed her lips to it. There was the raw sore; this wound
once healed, and the murderers would sleep in peace. The young woman
understood this, and she endeavoured to cauterise the bad place with the
fire of her caresses.
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