After the murder of Camille, they had restrained their passion, awaiting the nuptial night.

This had at last arrived, and now they remained anxiously face to face, overcome with sudden discomfort.
They had but to stretch forth their arms to clasp one another in a passionate embrace, and their arms remained lifeless, as if worn out with fatigue.

The depression they had experienced during the daytime, now oppressed them more and more.

They observed one another with timid embarrassment, pained to remain so silent and cold.

Their burning dreams ended in a peculiar reality: it sufficed that they should have succeeded in killing Camille, and have become married, it sufficed that the lips of Laurent should have grazed the shoulder of Therese, for their lust to be satisfied to the point of disgust and horror.
In despair, they sought to find within them a little of that passion which formerly had devoured them.