frightened of nothing ... I open my cupboards, and look
under my bed; I listen ... I listen ... to what? How strange it is that
a simple feeling of discomfort, impeded or heightened circulation,
perhaps the irritation of a nervous thread, a slight congestion, a small
disturbance in the imperfect and delicate functions of our living
machinery, can turn the most light-hearted of men into a melancholy one,
and make a coward of the bravest? Then, I go to bed, and I wait for
sleep as a man might wait for the executioner. I wait for its coming
with dread, and my heart beats and my legs tremble, while my whole body
shivers beneath the warmth of the bedclothes, until the moment when I
suddenly fall asleep, as one would throw oneself into a pool of stagnant
water in order to drown oneself. I do not feel as I used to do formerly,
this perfidious sleep which is close to me and watching me, which is
going to seize me by the head, to close my eyes and annihilate me,
coming over me.

I sleep--a long time--two or three hours perhaps--then a dream--no--a
nightmare lays hold on me. I feel that I am in bed and asleep ... I feel
it and I know it ... and I feel also that somebody is coming close to
me, is looking at me, touching me, is getting on to my bed, is kneeling
on my chest, is taking my neck between his hands and squeezing it ...
squeezing it with all his might in order to strangle me.

I struggle, bound by that terrible powerlessness which paralyzes us in
our dreams; I try to cry out--but I cannot; I want to move--I cannot; I
try, with the most violent efforts and out of breath, to turn over and
throw off this being which is crushing and suffocating me--I cannot!

And then suddenly, I wake up, shaken and bathed in perspiration; I light
a candle and find that I am alone, and after that crisis, which occurs
every night, I at length fall asleep and slumber tranquilly till
morning.

_June 2._ My state has grown worse. What is the matter with me? The
bromide does me no good, and the shower baths have no effect whatever.
Sometimes, in order to tire myself out, though I am fatigued enough
already, I go for a walk in the forest of Roumare. I used to think at
first that the fresh light and soft air, impregnated with the odor of
herbs and leaves, would instill new blood into my veins and impart fresh
energy to my heart. I turned into a broad ride in the wood, and then I
turned towards La Bouille, through a narrow path, between two rows o