The hotel sofa was not remarkable for its softness; when Ferdinand leant his head against its arm, he was reminded of his midnight drives home in his carriage. For a man in a sitting posture that was extremely comfortable, but when you lay down it was as uncomfortable as this sofa. He had the sensation of driving home in it—of the gentle jostling, the clatter of the horses' hoofs: it is midnight; the moon, standing high in the sky, lights up the road. The carriage quivers and then stops.
"What is the matter?" asks Ferdinand in his dream.
"Gosławski's arm has been torn off," answers a low voice.
"Is that the man with the pretty wife?"
"How sharp he is!" says the same low voice.
"Sharp? Who is sharp?" says Ferdinand to himself, turning round on the sofa, away from the scene. But the phantoms do not vanish; he again sees the crowd of men round the stretcher, and the wounded man, his arm in blood-soaked wrappings laid on his chest. He can even see the foreshortening of the shadows on the road.
"How the man suffers!" whispers Ferdinand. "And he must die—must die!" He has the sensation of being the man on the stretcher, tortured with pain, his arm shattered, and of seeing his own face in the cold, cruel moonlight.
Whatever had happened? Champagne had never had this effect on him before. Something entirely new was overpowering, oppressing him—tearing his heart—boring into his brain; he felt as if he must shout, run away, hide somewhere.
Ferdinand jumped up. Dusk was filling the room.
"What the devil! I seem to be afraid ... afraid!... I?..."