It's silly to trouble our happiness.

You see, my dear, when we are dead and underground, we shall be neither less nor more happy, because we cast an idiot in the Seine, and we shall have freely enjoyed our love which will have been an advantage.

Come, give me a kiss." The young woman kissed him, but she was icy cold, and half crazy, while he shuddered as much as she did.
For a fortnight Laurent was asking himself how he could kill Camille again.

He had flung him in the water; and yet he was not dead enough, because he came every night to sleep in the bed of Therese.

While the murderers thought that having committed the crime, they could love one another in peace, their resuscitated victim arrived to make their touch like ice.