He went to his room, undressed and got into bed. He fell asleep at once, with a heavy sleep disturbed by nightmares. Twice he woke and tried to light his candle and twice fell back, as though stunned by a blow.
Nevertheless, he heard the hours strike on the village clock, or rather he thought that he heard them strike, for he was plunged in a sort of torpor in which he seemed to retain all his wits.
And he was haunted by dreams, dreams of anguish and terror. He plainly heard the sound of his window opening. He plainly, through his closed eyelids, through the thick darkness, saw a form come toward the bed.
And the form bent over him.
He made the incredible effort needed to raise his eyelids and look . . . or, at least, he imagined that he did. Was he dreaming? Was he awake? He asked himself the question in despair.
A further sound. . . .
He took up the box of matches by his bedside:
"Let's have a light on it," he said, with a great sense of elation.
He struck a match and lit the candle.
Lupin felt the perspiration stream over his skin, from head to foot, while his heart ceased beating, stopped with terror. The man was there.