leep again.

Twice, however, sleep overcame me for a few moments in spite of myself,
and twice I saw the same thing again, till I fancied I was going mad.
When day broke, however, I thought that I was cured, and slept peacefully
till noon.

It was all past and over. I had been feverish, had had the nightmare. I
know not what. I had been ill, in fact, but yet thought I was a great
fool.

I enjoyed myself thoroughly that evening. I dined at a restaurant and
afterward went to the theatre, and then started for home. But as I got
near the house I was once more seized by a strange feeling of uneasiness.
I was afraid of seeing him again. I was not afraid of him, not afraid of
his presence, in which I did not believe; but I was afraid of being
deceived again. I was afraid of some fresh hallucination, afraid lest
fear should take possession of me.

For more than an hour I wandered up and down the pavement; then, feeling
that I was really too foolish, I returned home. I breathed so hard that I
could hardly get upstairs, and remained standing outside my door for more
than ten minutes; then suddenly I had a courageous impulse and my will
asserted itself. I inserted my key into the lock, and went into the
apartment with a candle in my hand. I kicked open my bedroom door, which
was partly open, and cast a frightened glance toward the fireplace. There
was nothing there. A-h! What a relief and what a delight! What a
deliverance! I walked up and down briskly and boldly, but I was not
altogether reassured, and kept turning round with a jump; the very
shadows in the corners disquieted me.

I slept badly, and was constantly disturbed by imaginary noises, but did
not see him; no, that was all over.

Since that time I have been afraid of being alone at night. I feel that
the spectre is there, close to me, around me; but it has not appeared to
me again.

And supposing it did, what would it matter, since I do not believe in it,
and know that it is nothing?

However, it still worries me, because I am constantly thinking of it. His
right arm hanging down and his head inclined to the left like a man who
was asleep--I don't want to think about it!

Why, however, am I so persistently possessed with this idea? His feet
were close to the fire!

He haunts me; it is very stupid, but who and what is he? I know that he
does not exist except in my cowardly imagination, in my fears, and in my
agony. There--enough of that!

Yes, it is all ver