The existence of the assassin had become terrible since the day when
Therese conceived the infernal idea of feeling remorse and of mourning
Camille aloud. From that moment the wretch lived everlastingly with
his victim. At every hour, he had to listen to his wife praising and
regretting her first husband. The least incident became a pretext:
Camille did this, Camille did that, Camille had such and such qualities,
Camille loved in such and such a way.
It was always Camille! Ever sad remarks bewailing his death. Therese
had recourse to all her spitefulness to render this torture, which she
inflicted on Laurent so as to shield her own self, as cruel as possible.
She went into details, relating a thousand insignificant incidents
connected with her youth, accompanied by sighs and expressions of
regret, and in this manner, mingled the remembrance of the drowned man
with every action of her daily life.
The corpse which already haunted the house, was introduced there openly.
It sat on the chairs, took its place at table, extended itself on the
bed, making use of the various articles of furniture, and of the objects
lying about hither and thither. Laurent could touch nothing, not a fork,
not a brush, without Therese making him feel that Camille had touched it
before him.
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