Moreover, he said, he did not dare to go to sleep before midnight, for if he did he was tortured as though he were stuck on a roasting skewer which turned him slowly round, so that he had to leave his bed. When he had read my book, _Inferno_, he said-- "You have not had a persecution mania, but have been persecuted, though not by men." Stimulated by my related experiences, he began to search in his memory, and imparted to me some inexplicable incidents of his life during the last few years. For instance, there was a certain spot on the Pont Saint-Michel where a rheumatic pain in his leg always obliged him to stand. This occurred regularly, and he had caused his friends to witness it He had also noticed many other strange incidents, and had learnt to say "punished." "If I smoke, I am punished; and if I drink absinthe, I am punished." One evening when we had met, but it was not yet midnight, we entered the Café de la Fregata in the Rue du Bac. Talking energetically, we took the first place that offered, and asked for absinthe. The conversation continued, but all of a sudden my companion stopped and, looking round him, broke out, "Have you ever seen such a collection of bandits? They are all criminal types." When I looked round I was startled, for there were not the usual occupants of the café, but a collection of ruffians, most of whom seemed disguised and made grimaces. My companion had leant himself against an iron pillar which looked as though it grew out of his back: "And you are in the pillory!" I exclaimed. It seemed to us that they were all watching us; we became morose, depressed, and stood up, without finishing our drink. That was the last time that I drank absinthe with my friend. I made another attempt to drink it alone, but I did not repeat it. Waiting for some friends to come to dinner I took a seat on the Boulevard Saint-Germain, exactly opposite Cluny, and ordered a glass of absinthe. Immediately three figures came forward, I know not from where, and stood before me. Two fellows with torn clothes, spattered with dirt, as if they had been dragged out of sewers; beside them a woman, bareheaded, with unkempt hair and traces of beauty, drunken, dirty; they all looked at me scornfully and boldly, with a cynical air as though they knew me and expected to be invited to my table. I have never seen such types in Paris or Berlin, though I may have done so near London Bridge, where the people really have a weird appearance. I try to tire them out by lighting cigarettes, but in vain. Then the thought strikes me, "These are not real people at all, but half-visions." I stand up, and since then I have not ventured to touch absinthe. * * * * *