nsul, becoming a nondescript commis.③
This man was so adept at hiding, and there was every hope that he would live to a ripe old age in these tumultuous times. But tonight, when he returned home, he completely lost his usual composure.
"I saw it clearly. It was Quenet himself," Vardon curled up in an armchair, his teeth chattering with the trembling of his body. "His face was ghastly pale, his upper lip curled, revealing two sharp fangs! I saw bloodstains on his neck from the guillotine, and scars from the burning lime on his face. This is an evil spirit risen from the grave! We''re all finished! Quenet will kill us one by one! It''s all over! Completely over!"
His family attempted to comfort this terrified middle-aged man, repeatedly explaining that it was merely an illusion brought on by his recent work stress, but their efforts proved futile.
This Vardon harboured no grand ambitions and always saw himself as a nobody, seeking nothing more than self-preservation in troubled times. Now, in his soul-scattered state, he was truly pitiable.
Until midnight, Vardon once again asked his family to lock the doors securely and tightly shut every window. After personally inspecting them for the fifth time, he finally consented to retire to bed.
In the early hours of morning, a torrential downpour commenced again, and a thunderclap awakened a woman in Vardon''s house. She walked into the dining room to fetch some water to drink.
It was at this moment that a heart-stopping lightning bolt struck, illuminating the entire house in a blinding white glare. The woman then heard a piercing cry of utmost despair emanating from Vardon''s room upstairs:
"Ah! Save me! Spare me, Quenet! I didn''t intend to frame you! It wasn''t me! Mercy, have mercy! Spare me, I beg you!"
She hurriedly ran up the stairs and pushed open the door to Vardon''s room. The middle-aged man lay on the bed, his eyes rolled back, his face devoi