of all that; I came home quite comfortably, and
went up and down in my rooms without anything disturbing my calmness of
mind. Had anyone 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 makes 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 done before, while I was surrounded by a sensation of
infinite and overwhelming solitude. What was I to do? I sat down, but
then a kind of nervous impatience agitated my legs, so I got up and
began to walk about again. I was 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 room, 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 went on to the boulevards 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 from 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