He was bathed in perspiration.
He pulled the bedclothes over his eyes, swearing and getting into a rage with himself.

He wanted to go to sleep again.

And he did so as before, slowly.
The same feeling of heaviness overcame him, and as soon as his will had again escaped in the languidness of semi-slumber, he set out again.

He returned where his fixed idea conducted him; he ran to see Therese, and once more it was the drowned man who opened the door.
The wretch sat up terrified.

He would have given anything in the world to be able to drive away this implacable dream.