He had not really seen him since he had met
him when the prince lay in state, but the fear of him was, if
anything, greater than if he had met him daily. The idea that the
giant was lying in wait for him had become fixed, and yet he was
powerless to fly. His energy was all gone between his potations
and the constant terror that paralysed him.
On that morning he had been as usual to the Ponte Quattro Capi and
had returned with the means of sleep in his pocket. He had no
instinct left but to deaden his sensations with drink during the
hours of light, while waiting for the time when he could lie down
and yield to the more potent influence of the opium. He had
therefore come back as usual, and by force of habit had taken his
place in the library, the fear of seeming to neglect his supposed
duties forbidding him to spend all his time in his room. As usual,
too, he had locked the door of the passage to separate himself
from his dread of a supernatural visitation. He sat doubled
together in his chair, his long arms lying out before him upon the
books and papers.
All at once he started in his seat. One, two, one two--yes, there
were footsteps in the corridor--they were coming nearer and
nearer--heavy, like those of the dead prince--but quicker, like
those of San Giacinto--closer, closer yet.
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