Then, as evening approached, he was afraid of the shadow falling around him.  He did not yet know why the darkness seemed frightful to him, but he instinctively feared it, he felt that it was peopled with terrors.  The bright daylight did not lend itself to fears.  Things and beings were visible then, and only natural things and beings could exhibit themselves in the light of day.  But the night, the impenetrable night, thicker than walls and empty; the infinite night, so black, so vast, in which one might brush against frightful things; the night, when one feels that a mysterious terror is wandering, prowling about, appeared to him to conceal an unknown threatening danger, close beside him.

What was it?

He knew ere long.  As he sat in his armchair, rather late one evening when he could not sleep, he thought he saw the curtain of his window move.  He waited, uneasily, with beating heart.  The drapery did not stir; then, all of a sudden, it moved once more.  He did not venture to rise; he no longer ventured to breathe, and yet he was brave.  He had often fought, and he would have liked to catch thieves in his house.

Was it true that this curtain did move? he asked himself, fearing that his eyes had deceived him.  It was, moreover, such a slight thing, a gentle flutter of drapery, a kind of trembling in its folds, less than an undulation caused by the wind.

Renardet sat still, with staring eyes and outstretched neck.  He sprang to his feet abruptly, ashamed of his fear, took four steps, seized the drapery with both hands and pulled it wide apart.  At first he saw nothing but darkened glass, resembling plates of glittering ink.  The night, the vast, impenetrable night, stretched beyond as far as the invisible horizon.  He remained standing in front of this illimitable shadow, and suddenly he perceived a light, a moving light, which seemed some distance away.

Then he put his face close to the window pane, thinking that a person looking for crabs might be poaching in the Brindille, for it was past midnight, and this light rose up at the edge of the stream, under the trees.  As he was not yet able to see clearly, Renardet placed his hands over his eyes, and suddenly this light became an illumination, and he beheld little Louise Roque naked and bleeding on the moss.  He recoiled, frozen with horror, knocked over his chair and fell over on his back.  He remained there some minutes in anguish of mind; then he sat up and began to reflect.  He had had a hallucination—­that was all, a hallucination due to the fact that a night marauder was walking with a lantern in his hand near the water’s edge.  What was there astonishing, besides, in the circumstance that the recollection of his crime should sometimes bring before him the vision of the dead girl?

He rose from the ground, swallowed a glass of wine and sat down again.  He was thinking: 

“What am I to do if this occurs again?”