I become agitated.  I feel that my fear increases, and so I shut myself up in my own room, get into bed, and hide under the clothes; and there, cowering down, rolled into a ball, I close my eyes in despair, and remain thus for an indefinite time, remembering that my candle is alight on the table by my bedside, and that I ought to put it out, and yet—­I dare not do it.

It is very terrible, is it not, to be like that?

Formerly I felt nothing of all that.  I came home quite calm, and went up and down my apartment without anything disturbing my peace of mind.  Had any one told me that I should be attacked by a malady—­for I can call it nothing else—­of most improbable fear, such a stupid and terrible malady as it is, I should have laughed outright.  I was certainly never afraid of opening the door in the dark.  I went to bed slowly, without locking it, and never got up in the middle of the night to make sure that everything was firmly closed.

It began last year in a very strange manner on a damp autumn evening.  When my servant had left the room, after I had dined, I asked myself what I was going to do.  I walked up and down my room for some time, feeling tired without any reason for it, unable to work, and even without energy to read.  A fine rain was falling, and I felt unhappy, a prey to one of those fits of despondency, without any apparent cause, which make us feel inclined to cry, or to talk, no matter to whom, so as to shake off our depressing thoughts.

I felt that I was alone, and my rooms seemed to me to be more empty than they had ever been before.  I was in the midst of infinite and overwhelming solitude.  What was I to do?  I sat down, but a kind of nervous impatience seemed to affect my legs, so I got up and began to walk about again.  I was, perhaps, rather feverish, for my hands, which I had clasped behind me, as one often does when walking slowly, almost seemed to burn one another.  Then suddenly a cold shiver ran down my back, and I thought the damp air might have penetrated into my rooms, so I lit the fire for the first time that year, and sat down again and looked at the flames.  But soon I felt that I could not possibly remain quiet, and so I got up again and determined to go out, to pull myself together, and to find a friend to bear me company.

I could not find anyone, so I walked to the boulevard to try and meet some acquaintance or other there.

It was wretched everywhere, and the wet pavement glistened in the gaslight, while the oppressive warmth of the almost impalpable rain lay heavily over the streets and seemed to obscure the light of the lamps.

I went on slowly, saying to myself:  “I shall not find a soul to talk to.”

I glanced into several cafes, from the Madeleine as far as the Faubourg Poissoniere, and saw many unhappy-looking individuals sitting at the tables who did not seem even to have enough energy left to finish the refreshments they had ordered.