He jumped out of bed and struck a light. Thank Heaven, he wasn't blind yet, though he saw all the bogies, as he called them, that had made his life a burden to him for the last two years—the retina floating loose about his left eye, tumbling and deforming every lighted thing it reflected—and also the new dark spot in his right.
He partially dressed, and stole up‑stairs to old Torfs's photographic studio. He knew where he could find a bottle full of cyanide of potassium, used for removing finger‑stains left by silver nitrate; there was enough of it to poison a whole regiment. That was better than taking a header off the roof. He seized a handful of the stuff, and came down and put it into a tumbler by his bedside and poured some water over it.
Then he got his writing‑case and a pen and ink, and jumped into bed; and there he wrote four letters: one to Lady Caroline, one to Father Louis, one to Lord Archibald, and one to me in Blaze.
The cyanide was slow in melting. He crushed it angrily in the glass with his penholder—and the scent of bitter‑almonds filled the room. Just then the sense of the north came back to him in full; but it only strengthened his resolve and made him all the calmer.
He lay staring at the tumbler, watching little bubbles, revelling in what remained of his exquisite faculty of minute sight—with a feeling of great peace; and thought prayerfully; lost himself in a kind of formless prayer without words—lost himself completely. It was as if the wished‑for dissolution were coming of its own accord; Nirvana—an ecstasy of conscious annihilation—the blessed end, the end of all! as though he were passing
"... du sommeil au songe—
Du songe à la mort."
"... du sommeil au songe—
Du songe à la mort."
It was not so....
He was aroused by a knock at the door, which was locked. It was broad daylight.