ecognized
him--and he drove so that the horse's shoes struck sparks as they
touched the stones.

All through this phase of excitement I had not for one second lost my
presence of mind. We pass a policeman, and I notice his number is 69.
This number struck me with such vivid clearness that it penetrated like
a splint into my brain--69--accurately 69. I wouldn't forget it.

I leant back in the vehicle, a prey to the wildest fancies; crouched
under the hood so that no one could see me. I moved my lips and
commenced to I talk idiotically to myself. Madness rages through my
brain, and I let it rage. I am fully conscious that I am succumbing to
influences over which I have no control. I begin to laugh, silently,
passionately, without a trace of cause, still merry and intoxicated
from the couple of glasses of ale I have drunk. Little by little my
excitement abates, my calm returns more and more to me. I feel the cold
in my sore finger, and I stick it down inside my collar to warm it a
little. At length we reach Tomtegaden. The driver pulls up.

I alight, without any haste, absently, listlessly, with my head heavy.
I go through a gateway and come into a yard across which I pass. I come
to a door which I open and pass through; I find myself in a lobby, a
sort of anteroom, with two windows. There are two boxes in it, one on
top of the other, in one corner, and against the wall an old, painted
sofa-bed over which a rug is spread. To the right, in the next room, I
hear voices and the cry of a child, and above me, on the second floor,
the sound of an iron plate being hammered. All this I notice the moment
as I enter.

I step quietly across the room to the opposite door without any haste,
without any thought of flight; open it, too, and come out in
Vognmansgaden. I look up at the house through which I have passed.
"Refreshment and lodgings for travellers."

It is not my intention to escape, to steal away from the driver who is
waiting for me. I go very coolly down Vognmansgaden, without fear of
being conscious of doing any wrong. Kierulf, this dealer in wool, who
has spooked in my brain so long--this creature in whose existence I
believe, and whom it was of vital importance that I should meet--had
vanished from my memory; was wiped out with many other mad whims which
came and went in turns. I recalled him no longer, except as a
reminiscence--a phantom.

In measure, as I walked on, I become more and more sober; felt languid
an