The murderer dared not open his eyes, afraid of perceiving his victim in a corner of the room.
At one moment, he fancied his bedstead was being shaken in a peculiar manner.

He imagined Camille was beneath it, and that it was he who was tossing him about in this way so as to make him fall and bite him.

With haggard look and hair on end, he clung to his mattress, imagining the jerks were becoming more and more violent.
Then, he perceived the bed was not moving, and he felt a reaction.

He sat up, lit his candle, and taxed himself with being an idiot.

He next swallowed a large glassful of water to appease his fever.
"I was wrong to drink at that wine-shop," thought he.