He would simply push a man away to take his place.

In his brutal logic of a peasant, he found this method excellent and natural.
His innate prudence even advised this rapid expedient.
He grovelled on his bed, in perspiration, flat on his stomach, with his face against the pillow, and he remained there breathless, stifling, seeing lines of fire pass along his closed eyelids.

He asked himself how he would kill Camille.

Then, unable to breathe any more, he turned round at a bound to resume his position on his back, and with his eyes wide open, received full in the face, the puffs of cold air from the window, seeking in the stars, in the bluish square of sky, a piece of advice about murder, a plan of assassination.
And he found nothing.

As he had told his ladylove, he was neither a child nor a fool.