Oh!  If we only had other organs which would work other miracles in our favor, what a number of fresh things we might discover around us!

May 16th. I am ill, decidedly!  I was so well last month!  I am feverish, horribly feverish, or rather I am in a state of feverish enervation, which makes my mind suffer as much as my body.  I have without ceasing that horrible sensation of some danger threatening me, that apprehension of some coming misfortune or of approaching death, that presentiment which is, no doubt, an attack of some illness which is still unknown, which germinates in the flesh and in the blood.

May 18th. I have just come from consulting my medical man, for I could no longer get any sleep.  He found that my pulse was high, my eyes dilated, my nerves highly strung, but no alarming symptoms.  I must have a course of shower-baths and of bromide of potassium.

May 25th. No change!  My state is really very peculiar.  As the evening comes on, an incomprehensible feeling of disquietude seizes me, just as if night concealed some terrible menace toward me.  I dine quickly, and then try to read, but I do not understand the words, and can scarcely distinguish the letters.  Then I walk up and down my drawing-room, oppressed by a feeling of confused and irresistible fear, the fear of sleep and fear of my bed.

About ten o’clock I go up to my room.  As soon as I have got in I double lock, and bolt it:  I am frightened—­of what?  Up till the present time I have been frightened of nothing—­I open my cupboards, and look under my bed; I listen—­I listen—­to what?  How strange it is that a simple feeling of discomfort, impeded or heightened circulation, perhaps the irritation of a nervous thread, a slight congestion, a small disturbance in the imperfect and delicate functions of our living machinery, can turn the most lighthearted of men into a melancholy one, and make a coward of the bravest!  Then, I go to bed, and I wait for sleep as a man might wait for the executioner.  I wait for its coming with dread, and my heart beats and my legs tremble, while my whole body shivers beneath the warmth of the bedclothes, until the moment when I suddenly fall asleep, as one would throw oneself into a pool of stagnant water in order to drown oneself.  I do not feel coming over me, as I used to do formerly, this perfidious sleep which is close to me and watching me, which is going to seize me by the head, to close my eyes and annihilate me.

I sleep—­a long time—­two or three hours perhaps—­then a dream—­no—­a nightmare lays hold on me.  I feel that I am in bed and asleep—­I feel it and I know it—­and I feel also that somebody is coming close to me, is looking at me, touching me, is getting on to my bed, is kneeling on my chest, is taking my neck between his hands and squeezing it—­squeezing it with all his might in order to strangle me.

I struggle, bound by that terrible powerlessness which paralyzes us in our dreams; I try to cry out—­but I cannot; I want to move—­I cannot; I try, with the most violent efforts and out of breath, to turn over and throw off this being which is crushing and suffocating me—­I cannot!