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.”
But he was so agitated that he was incapable of thinking or of planning anything.
When he still hesitated to commit the crime, he had said to himself; “I may be discovered.” And with that possibility in view, he had perfected a plan which should put him beyond all fear of pursuit. He would do this and that; he would have recourse to this ruse, he would take that precaution. Useless forethought! Now, nothing he had imagined seemed feasible. The police were seeking him, and he could think of no place in the whole world where he would feel perfectly safe.