Therese received Colombel in her room. She had given him a key to the little gate that opened on the lane at the ramparts. At night, he was obliged to pass through the first room, in which his mother slept. But the lovers showed such calm audacity that they were never surprised. They dared make appointments in the daytime. Colombel came before dinner, and Therese, expecting him, would close the window to escape the neighbors' eyes. They felt the constant need to see each other,--not to exchange tender expressions of love, but to continue the combat for supremacy. Often, they would quarrel fiercely, in low voices, all the more shaken by anger as they dared not scream or fight. One evening, Colombel arrived before dinner. As he was walking across the room, still with bare feet and in his shirt-sleeves, he suddenly seized Therese and tried to lift her up, as he had seen strong men do at the fairs. Therese tried to break away, saying: "Leave me alone. You know I am stronger than you. I will hurt you." Colombel laughed his little laugh. "Well! Hurt me!" he murmured. He shook her as a preliminary to throwing her down. She closed her arms about him. They often played this game. It was usually Colombel who went down on the carpet, breathless, with inert limbs. But, this day, Therese slipped to her knees, and Colombel, with a sudden thrust, threw her over backward. He triumphed. "So, you see you are not the stronger," he said with an insulting laugh. She was livid. She raised herself slowly, and dumb, she grasped him again, her whole form so shaken by anger that he shivered. For a minute, they struggled in silence; then, with a last and terrible effort, she threw him backward. He struck his temple against a corner of a chest and felt heavily to the floor. Therese drew a deep breath. She gathered up her hair before the mirror, she smoothed out her petticoat, affecting to pay no attention to the conquered Colombel. He could pick himself up. Then, she touched him with her foot. She saw that his face was of the color of wax, his eyes glassy, and his mouth twisted. On his right temple there was a hole. Colombel was dead. She straightened up, chilled with horror. She spoke aloud in the silence. "Dead! Here he is dead now!" A terror held her rigid above the corpse. She heard his mother passing along the corridor! Other noises arose,--steps, voices, preparations for an evening's entertainment. They might call her, come to look for her at any moment. And here was this dead body of her lover, whom she had killed and who had fallen back upon her shoulders, with the crushing weight of their sin.