On leaving the Commarin house, Noel staggered up the Rue de l’Universite.

It seemed to him that the pavement oscillated beneath his feet, and that everything about him was turning round.  His mouth was parched, his eyes were burning, and every now and then a sudden fit of sickness overcame him.

But, at the same time, strange to relate, he felt an incredible relief, almost delight.  It was ended then, all was over; the game was lost.  No more anguish now, no more useless fright and foolish terrors, no more dissembling, no more struggles.  Henceforth he had nothing more to fear.  His horrible part being played to the bitter end, he could now lay aside his mask and breathe freely.

An irresistible weariness succeeded the desperate energy which, in the presence of the count, had sustained his impudent arrogance.  All the springs of his organization, stretched for more than a week past far beyond their ordinary limits, now relaxed and gave way.  The fever which for the last few days had kept him up failed him now; and, with the weariness, he felt an imperative need of rest.  He experienced a great void, an utter indifference for everything.

His insensibility bore a striking resemblance to that felt by persons afflicted with sea-sickness, who care for nothing, whom no sensations are capable of moving, who have neither strength nor courage to think, and who could not be aroused from their lethargy by the presence of any great danger, not even of death itself.

Had any one come to him then he would never have thought of resisting, nor of defending himself; he would not have taken a step to hide himself, to fly, to save his head.

For a moment he had serious thoughts of giving himself up, in order to secure peace, to gain quiet, to free himself from the anxiety about his safety.

But he struggled against this dull stupor, and at last the reaction came, shaking off this weakness of mind and body.

The consciousness of his position, and of his danger, returned to him.  He foresaw, with horror, the scaffold, as one sees the depth of the abyss by the lightning flashes.

“I must save my life,” he thought; “but how?”

That mortal terror which deprives the assassin of even ordinary common sense seized him.  He looked eagerly about him, and thought he noticed three or four passers-by look at him curiously.  His terror increased.

He began running in the direction of the Latin quarter without purpose, without aim, running for the sake of running, to get away, like Crime, as represented in paintings, fleeing under the lashes of the Furies.

He very soon stopped, however, for it occurred to him that this extraordinary behaviour would attract attention.

It seemed to him that everything in him betokened the murderer; he thought he read contempt and horror upon every face, and suspicion in every eye.

He walked along, instinctively repeating to himself:  “I must do something.”