There he took up a book. It was The Lives of Illustrious Men.
"There is one missing: the most illustrious of all. But the future will put that right; and I shall have my Plutarch some day or other."
He read the life of Cæsar and jotted down a few reflections in the margin.
At half-past eleven, he went to his bedroom.
Through the open window, he gazed into the immense, cool night, all astir with indistinct sounds. Memories rose to his lips, memories of fond phrases which he had read or uttered; and he repeatedly whispered Dolores's name, with the fervor of a stripling who hardly dares confide to the silence the name of his beloved.
He left the window half open, pushed aside a table that blocked the way, and put his revolvers under his pillow. Then, peacefully, without evincing the least excitement, he got into bed, fully dressed as he was, and blew out the candle.
And his fear began.
It was immediate. No sooner did he feel the darkness around him than his fear began!
"Damn it all!" he cried.
He jumped out of bed, took his weapons and threw them into the passage: