She is not rich, and belongs to the middle classes.  She is a girl such as you may find by the gross, well adapted for matrimony, without any apparent faults, and with no particularly striking qualities.  People say of her: 

“Mlle. Lajolle is a very nice girl,” and tomorrow they will say:  “What a very nice woman Madame Raymon is.”  She belongs, in a word, to that immense number of girls whom one is glad to have for one’s wife, till the moment comes when one discovers that one happens to prefer all other women to that particular woman whom one has married.

“Well,” you will say to me, “what on earth did you get married for?”

I hardly like to tell you the strange and seemingly improbable reason that urged me on to this senseless act; the fact, however, is that I am afraid of being alone.

I don’t know how to tell you or to make you understand me, but my state of mind is so wretched that you will pity me and despise me.

I do not want to be alone any longer at night.  I want to feel that there is some one close to me, touching me, a being who can speak and say something, no matter what it be.

I wish to be able to awaken somebody by my side, so that I may be able to ask some sudden question, a stupid question even, if I feel inclined, so that I may hear a human voice, and feel that there is some waking soul close to me, some one whose reason is at work; so that when I hastily light the candle I may see some human face by my side—­because—­because —­I am ashamed to confess it—­because I am afraid of being alone.

Oh, you don’t understand me yet.

I am not afraid of any danger; if a man were to come into the room, I should kill him without trembling.  I am not afraid of ghosts, nor do I believe in the supernatural.  I am not afraid of dead people, for I believe in the total annihilation of every being that disappears from the face of this earth.

Well—­yes, well, it must be told:  I am afraid of myself, afraid of that horrible sensation of incomprehensible fear.

You may laugh, if you like.  It is terrible, and I cannot get over it.  I am afraid of the walls, of the furniture, of the familiar objects; which are animated, as far as I am concerned, by a kind of animal life.  Above all, I am afraid of my own dreadful thoughts, of my reason, which seems as if it were about to leave me, driven away by a mysterious and invisible agony.

At first I feel a vague uneasiness in my mind, which causes a cold shiver to run all over me.  I look round, and of course nothing is to be seen, and I wish that there were something there, no matter what, as long as it were something tangible.  I am frightened merely because I cannot understand my own terror.

If I speak, I am afraid of my own voice.  If I walk, I am afraid of I know not what, behind the door, behind the curtains, in the cupboard, or under my bed, and yet all the time I know there is nothing anywhere, and I turn round suddenly because I am afraid of what is behind me, although there is nothing there, and I know it.