Thereupon, realizing how weak he was, he wept, mourning over his lost freedom, his captive mind, his disordered soul, the devotion of his very flesh and blood to a weak, perfidious little creature.
He had scorched his eyes by gazing at the coke fire behind the bars of the grate.

He closed them in pain and, under his closed eyes, he saw negroes leaping before him in an obscene and bloody riot.

While he sought to remember from what book of travel, read in boyhood, these blacks emerged, he saw them diminish, resolve themselves into imperceptible specks, and disappear into a red Africa, which little by little came to represent the wound seen by the light of a match on the night of the suicide.

He reflected.
"That fool of a Chevalier! Why, I was scarcely thinking of the fellow!" Suddenly, against this background of blood and flame; appeared the slender form of Felicie, and he felt lurking within him a hot, cruel desire..