tossing him about in this way so as to make him fall and bite him. With
haggard look and hair on end, he clung to his mattress, imagining the
jerks were becoming more and more violent.

Then, he perceived the bed was not moving, and he felt a reaction. He
sat up, lit his candle, and taxed himself with being an idiot. He next
swallowed a large glassful of water to appease his fever.

"I was wrong to drink at that wine-shop," thought he. "I don't know
what is the matter with me to-night. It's silly. I shall be worn out
to-morrow at my office. I ought to have gone to sleep at once, when I
got into bed, instead of thinking of a lot of things. That is what gave
me insomnia. I must get to sleep at once."

Again he blew out the light. He buried his head in the pillow, feeling
slightly refreshed, and thoroughly determined not to think any more, and
to be no more afraid. Fatigue began to relax his nerves.

He did not fall into his usual heavy, crushing sleep, but glided lightly
into unsettled slumber. He simply felt as if benumbed, as if plunged
into gentle and delightful stupor. As he dozed, he could feel his limbs.
His intelligence remained awake in his deadened frame. He had driven
away his thoughts, he had resisted the vigil. Then, when he became
appeased, when his strength failed and his will escaped him, his
thoughts returned quietly, one by one, regaining possession of his
faltering being.

His reverie began once more. Again he went over the distance separating
him from Therese: he went downstairs, he passed before the cellar at a
run, and found himself outside the house; he took all the streets he had