TEXT: THE
  Stranger
  By ALBERT CAMUS
  Translated from the French
  by Stuart Gilbert
  VINTAGE BOOKS
  A Division of Random House
  NEW YORK
  VINTAGE BOOKS
  
  Are published by Alfred A. Knopf, Inc.
  And Random House, Inc.
  Copyright 1942 by Librairie Gallimard as L’ÉTRANGER
  Copyright 1946 by ALFRED A. KNOPF, INC. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be
  reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer
  who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a magazine or newspaper.
  Manufactured in the United States of America. Distributed in Canada by Random House of
  Canada Limited, Toronto.
  Contents
  Contents.2
  Part One.2
  I2
  II2
  III2
  IV..2
  V..2
  VI2
  Part Two.2
  I2
  II2
  
  III2
  IV..2
  V..2
  About the Author2
  Part One
  I
  MOTHER died today. Or, maybe, yesterday; I can’t be sure. The telegram from the Home says:
  YOUR MOTHER PASSED AWAY.FUNERAL TOMORROW.DEEP SYMPATHY. Which
  leaves the matter doubtful; it could have been yesterday.
  The Home for Aged Persons is at Marengo, some fifty miles from Algiers. With the two o’clock
  bus I should get there well before nightfall. Then I can spend the night there, keeping the usual
  vigil beside the body, and be back here by tomorrow evening. I have fixed up with my employer
  for two days’ leave; obviously, under the circumstances, he couldn’t refuse. Still, I had an idea
  he looked annoyed, and I said, without thinking: “Sorry, sir, but it’s not my fault, you know.”
  Afterwards it struck me I needn’t have said that. I had no reason to excuse myself; it was up to
  him to express his sympathy and so forth. Probably he will do so the day after tomorrow, when
  he sees me in black. For the present, it’s almost as if Mother weren’t really dead. The funeral
  will bring it home to me, put an official seal on it, so to speak. ...
  I took the two-o’clock bus. It was a blazing hot afternoon. I’d lunched, as usual, at Céleste’s
  restaurant. Everyone was most kind, and Céleste said to me, “There’s no one like a mother.”
  When I left they came with me to the door. It was something of a rush, getting away, as at the
  last moment I had to call in at Emmanuel’s place to borrow his black tie and mourning band. He
  lost his uncle a few months ago.
  I had to run to catch the bus. I suppose it was my hurrying like that, what with the glare off the
  road and from the sky, the reek of gasoline, and the jolts, that made me feel so drowsy. Anyhow,
  I slept most of the way. When I woke I was leaning against a soldier; he grinned and asked me if
  I’d come from a long way off, and I just nodded, to cut things short. I wasn’t in a mood for
  talking.
  
  The Home is a little over a mile from the village. I went there on foot. I asked to be allowed to
  see Mother at once, but the doorkeeper told me I must see the warden first. He wasn’t free, and I
  had to wait a bit. The doorkeeper chatted with me while I waited; then he led me to the office.
  The warden was a very small man, with gray hair, and a Legion of Honor rosette in his
  buttonhole. He gave me a long look with his watery blue eyes. Then we shook hands, and he
  held mine so long that I began to feel embarrassed. After that he consulted a register on his table,
  and said:
  “Madame Meursault entered the Home three years ago. She had no private means and depended
  entirely on you.”
  I had a feeling he was blaming me for something, and started to explain. But he cut me short.
  “There’s no need to excuse yourself , my boy. I’ve looked up the record and obviously you
  weren’t in a position to see that she was properly cared for. She needed someone to be with her
  all the time, and young men in jobs like yours don’t get too much pay. In any case, she was much
  happier in the Home.”
  I said, “Yes, sir; I’m sure of that.”
  Then he added: “She had good friends here, you know, old folks like herself, and one gets on
  better with people of one’s own generation. You’re much too young; you couldn’t have been
  much of a companion to her.”
  That was so. When we lived together, Mother was always watching me, but we hardly ever
  talked. During her first few weeks at the Home she used to cry a good deal. But that was only
  because she hadn’t settled down. After a month or two she’d have cried if she’d been told to
  leave the Home. Because this, too, would have been a wrench. That was why, during the last
  year, I seldom went to see her. Also, it would have meant losing my Sunday—not to mention the
  trouble of going to the bus, getting my ticket, and spending two hours on the journey each way.
  The warden went on talking, but I didn’t pay much attention. Finally he said:
  “Now, I suppose you’d like to see your mother?”
  I rose without replying, and he led the way to the door. As we were going down the stairs he
  explained:
  “I’ve had the body moved to our little mortuary—so as not to upset the other old people, you
  understand. Every time there’s a death here, they’re in a nervous state for two or three days.
  Which means, of course, extra work and worry for our staff. ”
  We crossed a courtyard where there were a number of old men, talking amongst themselves in
  little groups. They fell silent as we came up with them. Then, behind our backs, the chattering
  began again. Their voices reminded me of parakeets in a cage, only the sound wasn’t quite so
  
  shrill. The warden stopped outside the entrance of a small, low building.
  “So here I leave you, Monsieur Meursault. If you want me for anything, you’ll find me in my
  office. We propose to have the funeral tomorrow morning. That will enable you to spend the
  night beside your mother’s coffin, as no doubt you would wish to do. Just one more thing; I
  gathered from your mother’s friends that she wished to be buried with the rites of the Church.
  I’ve made arrangements for this; but I thought I should let you know.”
  I thanked him. So far as I knew, my mother, though not a professed atheist, had never given a
  thought to religion in her life.
  I entered the mortuary. It was a bright, spotlessly clean room, with whitewashed walls and a big
  skylight. The furniture consisted of some chairs and trestles. Two of the latter stood open in the
  center of the room and the coffin rested on them. The lid was in place, but the screws had been
  given only a few turns and their nickeled heads stuck out above the wood, which was stained
  dark walnut. An Arab woman—a nurse, I supposed—was sitting beside the bier; she was
  wearing a blue smock and had a rather gaudy scarf wound round her hair.
  Just then the keeper came up behind me. He’d evidently been running, as he was a little out of
  breath.
  “We put the lid on, but I was told to unscrew it when you came, so that you could see her.”
  While he was going up to the coffin I told him not to trouble.
  “Eh? What’s that?” he exclaimed. “You don’t want me to ...?”
  “No,” I said.
  He put back the screwdriver in his pocket and stared at me. I realized then that I shouldn’t have
  said, “No,” and it made me rather embarrassed. After eying me for some moments he asked:
  “Why not?”But he didn’t sound reproachful; he simply wanted to know.
  “Well, really I couldn’t say,” I answered.
  He began twiddling his white mustache; then, without looking at me, said gently:
  “I understand.”
  He was a pleasant-looking man, with blue eyes and ruddy cheeks. He drew up a chair for me
  near the coffin, and seated himself just behind. The nurse got up and moved toward the door. As
  she was going by, the keeper whispered in my ear:
  “It’s a tumor she has, poor thing.”
  
  I looked at her more carefully and I noticed that she had a bandage round her head, just below
  her eyes. It lay quite flat across the bridge of her nose, and one saw hardly anything of her face
  except that strip of whiteness.
  As soon as she had gone, the keeper rose.
  “Now I’ll leave you to yourself.”
  I don’t know whether I made some gesture, but instead of going he halted behind my chair. The
  sensation of someone posted at my back made me uncomfortable. The sun was getting low and
  the whole room was flooded with a pleasant, mellow light. Two hornets were buzzing overhead,
  against the skylight. I was so sleepy I could hardly keep my eyes open. Without looking round, I
  asked the keeper how long he’d been at the Home. “Five years.” The answer came so pat that
  one could have thought he’d been expecting my question.
  That started him off, and he became quite chatty. If anyone had told him ten years ago that he’d
  end his days as doorkeeper at a home at Marengo, he’d never have believed it. He was sixty-four,
  he said, and hailed from Paris.
  When he said that, I broke in. “Ah, you don’t come from here?”
  I remembered then that, before taking me to the warden, he’d told me something about Mother.
  He had said she’d have to be buried mighty quickly because of the heat in these parts, especially
  down in the plain. “At Paris they keep the body for three days, sometimes four.” After that he
  had mentioned that he’d spent the best part of his life in Paris, and could never manage to forget
  it. “Here,” he had said, “things have to go with a rush, like. You’ve hardly time to get used to the
  idea that someone’s dead, before you’re hauled off to the funeral.” “That’s enough,” his wife had
  put in. “You didn’t ought to say such things to the poor young gentleman.” The old fellow had
  blushed and begun to apologize. I told him it was quite all right. As a matter of fact, I found it
  rather interesting, what he’d been telling me; I hadn’t thought of that before.
  Now he went on to say that he’d entered the Home as an ordinary inmate. But he was still quite
  hale and hearty, and when the keeper’s job fell vacant, he offered to take it on.
  I pointed out that, even so, he was really an inmate like the others, but he wouldn’t hear of it. He
  was “an official, like.” I’d been struck before by his habit of saying “they” or, less often, “them
  old folks,” when referring to inmates no older than himself. Still, I could see his point of view.
  As doorkeeper he had a certain standing, and some authority over the rest of them.
  Just then the nurse returned. Night had fallen very quickly; all of a sudden, it seemed, the sky
  went black above the skylight. The keeper switched on the lamps, and I was almost blinded by
  the blaze of light.
  He suggested I should go to the refectory for dinner, but I wasn’t hungry. Then he proposed
  bringing me a mug of café au lait . As I am very partial to café au lait I said, “Thanks,” and a
  few minutes later he came back with a tray. I drank the coffee, and then I wanted a cigarette. But
  
  I wasn’t sure if I should smoke, under the circumstances—in Mother’s presence. I thought it
  over; really, it didn’t seem to matter, so I offered the keeper a cigarette, and we both smoked.
  After a while he started talking again.
  “You know, your mother’s friends will be coming soon, to keep vigil with you beside the body.
  We always have a ‘vigil’ here, when anyone dies. I’d better go and get some chairs and a pot of
  black coffee.”
  The glare off the white walls was making my eyes smart, and I asked him if he couldn’t turn off
  one of the lamps. “Nothing doing,” he said. They’d arranged the lights like that; either one had
  them all on or none at all. After that I didn’t pay much more attention to him. He went out,
  brought some chairs, and set them out round the coffin. On one he placed a coffeepot and ten or
  a dozen cups. Then he sat down facing me, on the far side of Mother. The nurse was at the other
  end of the room, with her back to me. I couldn’t see what she was doing, but by the way her arms
  moved I guessed that she was knitting. I was feeling very comfortable; the coffee had warmed
  me up, and through the open door came scents of flowers and breaths of cool night air. I think I
  dozed off for a while.
  I was wakened by an odd rustling in my ears. After having had my eyes closed, I had a feeling
  that the light had grown even stronger than before. There wasn’t a trace of shadow anywhere,
  and every object, each curve or angle, seemed to score its outline on one’s eyes. The old people,
  Mother’s friends, were coming in. I counted ten in all, gliding almost soundlessly through the
  bleak white glare. None of the chairs creaked when they sat down. Never in my life had I seen
  anyone so clearly as I saw these people; not a detail of their clothes or features escaped me. And
  yet I couldn’t hear them, and it was hard to believe they really existed.
  Nearly all the women wore aprons, and the strings drawn tight round their waists made their big
  stomachs bulge still more. I’d never yet noticed what big paunches old women usually have.
  Most of the men, however, were as thin as rakes, and they all carried sticks. What struck me
  most about their faces was that one couldn’t see their eyes, only a dull glow in a sort of nest of
  wrinkles.
  On sitting down, they looked at me, and wagged their heads awkwardly, their lips sucked in
  between their toothless gums. I couldn’t decide if they were greeting me and trying to say
  something, or if it was due to some infirmity of age. I inclined to think that they were greeting
  me, after their fashion, but it had a queer effect, seeing all those old fellows grouped round the
  keeper, solemnly eying me and dandling their heads from side to side. For a moment I had an
  absurd impression that they had come to sit in judgment on me.
  A few minutes later one of the women started weeping. She was in the second row and I
  couldn’t see her face because of another woman in front. At regular intervals she emitted a little
  choking sob; one had a feeling she would never stop. The others didn’t seem to notice. They sat
  in silence, slumped in their chairs, staring at the coffin or at their walking sticks or any object
  just in front of them, and never took their eyes off it. And still the woman sobbed. I was rather
  surprised, as I didn’t know who she was. I wanted her to stop crying, but dared not speak to her.
  
  After a while the keeper bent toward her and whispered in her ear; but she merely shook her
  head, mumbled something I couldn’t catch, and went on sobbing as steadily as before.
  The keeper got up and moved his chair beside mine. At first he kept silent; then, without looking
  at me, he explained.
  “She was devoted to your mother. She says your mother was her only friend in the world, and
  now she’s all alone.”
  I had nothing to say, and the silence lasted quite a while. Presently the woman’s sighs and sobs
  became less frequent, and, after blowing her nose and snuffling for some minutes, she, too, fell
  silent.
  I’d ceased feeling sleepy, but I was very tired and my legs were aching badly. And now I
  realized that the silence of these people was telling on my nerves. The only sound was a rather
  queer one; it came only now and then, and at first I was puzzled by it. However, after listening
  attentively, I guessed what it was; the old men were sucking at the insides of their cheeks, and
  this caused the odd, wheezing noises that had mystified me. They were so much absorbed in their
  thoughts that they didn’t know what they were up to. I even had an impression that the dead
  body in their midst meant nothing at all to them. But now I suspect that I was mistaken about
  this.
  We all drank the coffee, which the keeper handed round. After that, I can’t remember much;
  somehow the night went by. I can recall only one moment; I had opened my eyes and I saw the
  old men sleeping hunched up on their chairs, with one exception. Resting his chin on his hands
  clasped round his stick, he was staring hard at me, as if he had been waiting for me to wake.
  Then I fell asleep again. I woke up after a bit, because the ache in my legs had developed into a
  sort of cramp.
  There was a glimmer of dawn above the skylight. A minute or two later one of the old men
  woke up and coughed repeatedly. He spat into a big check handkerchief, and each time he spat it
  sounded as if he were retching. This woke the others, and the keeper told them it was time to
  make a move. They all got up at once. Their faces were ashen gray after the long, uneasy vigil.
  To my surprise each of them shook hands with me, as though this night together, in which we
  hadn’t exchanged a word, had created a kind of intimacy between us.
  I was quite done in. The keeper took me to his room, and I tidied myself up a bit. He gave me
  some more “white” coffee, and it seemed to do me good. When I went out, the sun was up and
  the sky mottled red above the hills between Marengo and the sea. A morning breeze was blowing
  and it had a pleasant salty tang. There was the promise of a very fine day. I hadn’t been in the
  country for ages, and I caught myself thinking what an agreeable walk I could have had, if it
  hadn’t been for Mother.
  As it was, I waited in the courtyard, under a plane tree. I sniffed the smells of the cool earth and
  found I wasn’t sleepy any more. Then I thought of the other fellows in the office. At this hour
  they’d be getting up, preparing to go to work; for me this was always the worst hour of the day. I
  
  went on thinking, like this, for ten minutes or so; then the sound of a bell inside the building
  attracted my attention. I could see movements behind the windows; then all was calm again. The
  sun had risen a little higher and was beginning to warm my feet. The keeper came across the
  yard and said the warden wished to see me. I went to his office and he got me to sign some
  document. I noticed that he was in black, with pin-stripe trousers. He picked up the telephone
  receiver and looked at me.
  “The undertaker’s men arrived some moments ago, and they will be going to the mortuary to
  screw down the coffin. Shall I tell them to wait, for you to have a last glimpse of your mother?”
  “No,” I said.
  He spoke into the receiver, lowering his voice. “That’s all right, Figeac. Tell the men to go there
  now.”
  He then informed me that he was going to attend the funeral, and I thanked him. Sitting down
  behind his desk, he crossed his short legs and leaned back. Besides the nurse on duty, he told me,
  he and I would be the only mourners at the funeral. It was a rule of the Home that inmates
  shouldn’t attend funerals, though there was no objection to letting some of them sit up beside the
  coffin, the night before.
  “It’s for their own sakes,” he explained, “to spare their feelings. But in this particular instance
  I’ve given permission to an old friend of your mother to come with us. His name is Thomas
  Pérez.” The warden smiled. “It’s a rather touching little story in its way. He and your mother had
  become almost inseparable. The other old people used to tease Pérez about having a fiancée.
  ‘When are you going to marry her?’ they’d ask. He’d turn it with a laugh. It was a standing joke,
  in fact. So, as you can guess, he feels very badly about your mother’s death. I thought I couldn’t
  decently refuse him permission to attend the funeral. But, on our medical officer’s advice, I
  forbade him to sit up beside the body last night.”
  For some time we sat there without speaking. Then the warden got up and went to the window.
  Presently he said:
  “Ah, there’s the padre from Marengo. He’s a bit ahead of time.”
  He warned me that it would take us a good three quarters of an hour, walking to the church,
  which was in the village. Then we went downstairs.
  The priest was waiting just outside the mortuary door. With him were two acolytes, one of
  whom had a censer. The priest was stooping over him, adjusting the length of the silver chain on
  which it hung. When he saw us he straightened up and said a few words to me, addressing me as,
  “My son.” Then he led the way into the mortuary.
  I noticed at once that four men in black were standing behind the coffin and the screws in the lid
  had now been driven home. At the same moment I heard the warden remark that the hearse had
  arrived, and the priest starting his prayers. Then everybody made a move. Holding a strip of
  
  black cloth, the four men approached the coffin, while the priest, the boys, and myself filed out.
  A lady I hadn’t seen before was standing by the door. “This is Monsieur Meursault,” the warden
  said to her. I didn’t catch her name, but I gathered she was a nursing sister attached to the Home.
  When I was introduced, she bowed, without the trace of a smile on her long, gaunt face. We
  stood aside from the doorway to let the coffin by; then, following the bearers down a corridor,
  we came to the front entrance, where a hearse was waiting. Oblong, glossy, varnished black all
  over, it vaguely reminded me of the pen trays in the office.
  Beside the hearse stood a quaintly dressed little -man, whose duty it was, I understood, to
  supervise the funeral, as a sort of master of ceremonies. Near him, looking constrained, almost
  bashful, was old M. Pérez, my mother’s special friend. He wore a soft felt hat with a pudding-
  basin crown and a very wide brim—he whisked it off the moment the coffin emerged from the
  doorway—trousers that concertina’d on his shoes, a black tie much too small for his high white
  double collar. Under a bulbous, pimply nose, his lips were trembling. But what caught my
  attention most was his ears; pendulous, scarlet ears that showed up like blobs of sealing wax on
  the pallor of his cheeks and were framed in wisps of silky white hair.
  The undertaker’s factotum shepherded us to our places, with the priest in front of the hearse, and
  the four men in black on each side of it. The warden and myself came next, and, bringing up the
  rear, old Pérez and the nurse.
  The sky was already a blaze of light, and the air stoking up rapidly. I felt the first waves of heat
  lapping my back, and my dark suit made things worse. I couldn’t imagine why we waited so long
  for getting under way. Old Pérez, who had put on his hat, took it off again. I had turned slightly
  in his direction and was looking at him when the warden started telling me more about him. I
  remember his saying that old Pérez and my mother used often to have a longish stroll together in
  the cool of the evening; sometimes they went as far as the village, accompanied by a nurse, of
  course.
  I looked at the countryside, at the long lines of cypresses sloping up toward the skyline and the
  hills, the hot red soil dappled with vivid green, and here and there a lonely house sharply
  outlined against the light—and I could understand Mother’s feelings. Evenings in these parts
  must be a sort of mournful solace. Now, in the full glare of the morning sun, with everything
  shimmering in the heat haze, there was something inhuman, discouraging, about this landscape.
  At last we made a move. Only then I noticed that Pérez had a slight limp. The old chap steadily
  lost ground as the hearse gained speed. One of the men beside it, too, fell back and drew level
  with me. I was surprised to see how quickly the sun was climbing up the sky, and just then it
  struck me that for quite a while the air had been throbbing with the hum of insects and the rustle
  of grass warming up. Sweat was running down my face. As I had no hat I tried to fan myself
  with my handkerchief.
  The undertaker’s man turned to me and said something that I didn’t catch. At that same time he
  wiped the crown of his head with a handkerchief that he held in his left hand, while with his right
  he tilted up his hat. I asked him what he’d said. He pointed upward.
  
  “Sun’s pretty bad today, ain’t it?”
  “Yes,” I said.
  After a while he asked: “Is it your mother we’re burying?”
  “Yes,” I said again.
  “What was her age?”
  “Well, she was getting on.” As a matter of fact, I didn’t know exactly how old she was.
  After that he kept silent. Looking back, I saw Pérez limping along some fifty yards behind. He
  was swinging his big felt hat at arm’s length, trying to make the pace. I also had a look at the
  warden. He was walking with carefully measured steps, economizing every gesture. Beads of
  perspiration glistened on his forehead, but he didn’t wipe them off.
  I had an impression that our little procession was moving slightly faster. Wherever I looked I
  saw the same sun-drenched countryside, and the sky was so dazzling that I dared not raise my
  eyes. Presently we struck a patch of freshly tarred road. A shimmer of heat played over it and
  one’s feet squelched at each step, leaving bright black gashes. In front, the coachman’s glossy
  black hat looked like a lump of the same sticky substance, poised above the hearse. It gave one a
  queer, dreamlike impression, that blue-white glare overhead and all this blackness round one: the
  sleek black of the hearse, the dull black of the men’s clothes, and the silvery-black gashes in the
  road. And then there were the smells, smells of hot leather and horse dung from the hearse,
  veined with whiffs of incense smoke. What with these and the hangover from a poor night’s
  sleep, I found my eyes and thoughts growing blurred.
  I looked back again. Pérez seemed very far away now, almost hidden by the heat haze; then,
  abruptly, he disappeared altogether. After puzzling over it for a bit, I guessed that he had turned
  off the road into the fields. Then I noticed that there was a bend of the road a little way ahead.
  Obviously Pérez, who knew the district well, had taken a short cut, so as to catch up with us. He
  rejoined us soon after we were round the bend; then began to lose ground again. He took another
  short cut and met us again farther on; in fact, this happened several times during the next half-
  hour. But soon I lost interest in his movements; my temples were throbbing and I could hardly
  drag myself along.
  After that everything went with a rush; and also with such precision and matter-of-factness that I
  remember hardly any details. Except that when we were on the outskirts of the village the nurse
  said something to me. Her voice took me by surprise; it didn’t match her face at all; it was
  musical and slightly tremulous. What she said was: “If you go too slowly there’s the risk of a
  heatstroke. But, if you go too fast, you perspire, and the cold air in the church gives you a chill.”
  I saw her point; either way one was in for it.
  Some other memories of the funeral have stuck in my mind. The old boy’s face, for instance,
  when he caught up with us for the last time, just outside the village. His eyes were streaming
  
  with tears, of exhaustion or distress, or both together. But because of the wrinkles they couldn’t
  flow down. They spread out, crisscrossed, and formed a smooth gloss on the old, worn face.
  And I can remember the look of the church, the villagers in the street, the red geraniums on the
  graves, Pérez’s fainting fit—he crumpled up like a rag doll—the tawny-red earth pattering on
  Mother’s coffin, the bits of white roots mixed up with it; then more people, voices, the wait
  outside a café for the bus, the rumble of the engine, and my little thrill of pleasure when we
  entered the first brightly lit streets of Algiers, and I pictured myself going straight to bed and
  sleeping twelve hours at a stretch.
  II
  ON WAKING I understood why my employer had looked rather cross when I asked for my two
  days off; it’s a Saturday today. I hadn’t thought of this at the time; it only struck me when I was
  getting out of bed. Obviously he had seen that it would mean my getting four days’ holiday
  straight off, and one couldn’t expect him to like that. Still, for one thing, it wasn’t my fault if
  Mother was buried yesterday and not today; and then, again, I’d have had my Saturday and
  Sunday off in any case. But naturally this didn’t prevent me from seeing my employer’s point.
  Getting up was an effort, as I’d been really exhausted by the previous day’s experiences. While
  shaving, I wondered how to spend the morning, and decided that a swim would do me good. So I
  caught the streetcar that goes down to the harbor.
  It was quite like old times; a lot of young people were in the swimming pool, amongst them
  Marie Cardona, who used to be a typist at the office. I was rather keen on her in those days, and I
  fancy she liked me, too. But she was with us so short a time that nothing came of it.
  While I was helping her to climb on to a raft, I let my hand stray over her breasts. Then she lay
  flat on the raft, while I trod water. After a moment she turned and looked at me. Her hair was
  over her eyes and she was laughing. I clambered up on to the raft, beside her. The air was
  pleasantly warm, and, half jokingly, I let my head sink back upon her lap. She didn’t seem to
  mind, so I let it stay there. I had the sky full in my eyes, all blue and gold, and I could feel
  Marie’s stomach rising and falling gently under my head. We must have stayed a good half-hour
  on the raft, both of us half asleep. When the sun got too hot she dived off and I followed. I
  caught up with her, put my arm round her waist, and we swam side by side. She was still
  laughing.
  While we were drying ourselves on the edge of the swimming pool she said: “I’m browner than
  you.” I asked her if she’d come to the movies with me that evening. She laughed again and said,
  “Yes,” if I’d take her to the comedy everybody was talking about, the one with Fernandel in it.
  When we had dressed, she stared at my black tie and asked if I was in mourning. I explained that
  my mother had died.“When?” she asked, and I said, “Yesterday.” She made no remark, though I
  
  thought she shrank away a little. I was just going to explain to her that it wasn’t my fault, but I
  checked myself, as I remembered having said the same thing to my employer, and realizing then
  it sounded rather foolish. Still, foolish or not, somehow one can’t help feeling a bit guilty, I
  suppose.
  Anyhow, by evening Marie had forgotten all about it. The film was funny in parts, but some of it
  was downright stupid. She pressed her leg against mine while we were in the picture house, and I
  was fondling her breast. Toward the end of the show I kissed her, but rather clumsily. Afterward
  she came back with me to my place.
  When I woke up, Marie had gone. She’d told me her aunt expected her first thing in the
  morning. I remembered it was a Sunday, and that put me off; I’ve never cared for Sundays. So I
  turned my head and lazily sniffed the smell of brine that Marie’s head had left on the pillow. I
  slept until ten. After that I stayed in bed until noon, smoking cigarettes. I decided not to lunch at
  Céleste’s restaurant as I usually did; they’d be sure to pester me with questions, and I dislike
  being questioned. So I fried some eggs and ate them off the pan. I did without bread as there
  wasn’t any left, and I couldn’t be bothered going down to buy it.
  After lunch I felt at loose ends and roamed about the little flat. It suited us well enough when
  Mother was with me, but now that I was by myself it was too large and I’d moved the dining
  table into my bedroom. That was now the only room I used; it had all the furniture I needed: a
  brass bedstead, a dressing table, some cane chairs whose seats had more or less caved in, a
  wardrobe with a tarnished mirror. The rest of the flat was never used, so I didn’t trouble to look
  after it.
  A bit later, for want of anything better to do, I picked up an old newspaper that was lying on the
  floor and read it. There was an advertisement of Kruschen Salts and I cut it out and pasted in into
  an album where I keep things that amuse me in the papers. Then I washed my hands and, as a
  last resource, went out on to the balcony.
  My bedroom overlooks the main street of our district. Though it was a fine afternoon, the paving
  blocks were black and glistening. What few people were about seemed in an absurd hurry. First
  of all there came a family, going for their Sunday-afternoon walk; two small boys in sailor suits,
  with short trousers hardly down to their knees, and looking rather uneasy in their Sunday best;
  then a little girl with a big pink bow and black patent-leather shoes. Behind them was their
  mother, an enormously fat woman in a brown silk dress, and their father, a dapper little man,
  whom I knew by sight. He had a straw hat, a walking stick, and a butterfly tie. Seeing him beside
  his wife, I understood why people said he came of a good family and had married beneath him.
  Next came a group of young fellows, the local “bloods,” with sleek oiled hair, red ties, coats cut
  very tight at the waist, braided pockets, and square-toed shoes. I guessed they were going to one
  of the big theaters in the center of the town. That was why they had started out so early and were
  hurrying to the streetcar stop, laughing and talking at the top of their voices.
  After they had passed, the street gradually emptied. By this time all the matinees must have
  begun. Only a few shopkeepers and cats remained about. Above the sycamores bordering the
  
  road the sky was cloudless, but the light was soft. The tobacconist on the other side of the street
  brought a chair out on to the pavement in front of his door and sat astride it, resting his arms on
  the back. The streetcars which a few minutes before had been crowded were now almost empty.
  In the little café, Chez Pierrot, beside the tobacconist’s, the waiter was sweeping up the sawdust
  in the empty restaurant. A typical Sunday afternoon. ...
  I turned my chair round and seated myself like the tobacconist, as it was more comfortable that
  way. After smoking a couple of cigarettes I went back to the room, got a tablet of chocolate, and
  returned to the window to eat it. Soon after, the sky clouded over, and I thought a summer storm
  was coming. However, the clouds gradually lifted. All the same, they had left in the street a sort
  of threat of rain, which made it darker. I stayed watching the sky for quite a while.
  At five there was a loud clanging of streetcars. They were coming from the stadium in our
  suburb where there had been a football match. Even the back platforms were crowded and people
  were standing on the steps. Then another streetcar brought back the teams. I knew they were the
  players by the little suitcase each man carried. They were bawling out their team song, “Keep the
  ball rolling, boys.” One of them looked up at me and shouted, “We licked them!” I waved my
  hand and called back, “Good work!” From now on there was a steady stream of private cars.
  The sky had changed again; a reddish glow was spreading up beyond the housetops. As dusk set
  in, the street grew more crowded. People were returning from their walks, and I noticed the
  dapper little man with the fat wife amongst the passers-by. Children were whimpering and
  trailing wearily after their parents. After some minutes the local picture houses disgorged their
  audiences. I noticed that the young fellows coming from them were taking longer strides and
  gesturing more vigorously than at ordinary times; doubtless the picture they’d been seeing was of
  the wild-West variety. Those who had been to the picture houses in the middle of the town came
  a little later, and looked more sedate, though a few were still laughing. On the whole, however,
  they seemed languid and exhausted. Some of them remained loitering in the street under my
  window. A group of girls came by, walking arm in arm. The young men under my window
  swerved so as to brush against them, and shouted humorous remarks, which made the girls turn
  their heads and giggle. I recognized them as girls from my part of the town, and two or three of
  them, whom I knew, looked up and waved to me.
  Just then the street lamps came on, all together, and they made the stars that were beginning to
  glimmer in the night sky paler still. I felt my eyes getting tired, what with the lights and all the
  movement I’d been watching in the street. There were little pools of brightness under the lamps,
  and now and then a streetcar passed, lighting up a girl’s hair, or a smile, or a silver bangle.
  Soon after this, as the streetcars became fewer and the sky showed velvety black above the trees
  and lamps, the street grew emptier, almost imperceptibly, until a time came when there was
  nobody to be seen and a cat, the first of the evening, crossed, unhurrying, the deserted street.
  It struck me that I’d better see about some dinner. I had been leaning so long on the back of my
  chair, looking down, that my neck hurt when I straightened myself up. I went down, bought
  some bread and spaghetti, did my cooking, and ate my meal standing. I’d intended to smoke
  another cigarette at my window, but the night had turned rather chilly and I decided against it. As
  
  I was coming back, after shutting the window, I glanced at the mirror and saw reflected in it a
  corner of my table with my spirit lamp and some bits of bread beside it. It occurred to me that
  somehow I’d got through another Sunday, that Mother now was buried, and tomorrow I’d be
  going back to work as usual. Really, nothing in my life had changed.
  III
  I HAD a busy morning in the office. My employer was in a good humor. He even inquired if I
  wasn’t too tired, and followed it up by asking what Mother’s age was. I thought a bit, then
  answered, “Round about sixty,” as I didn’t want to make a blunder. At which he looked
  relieved—why, I can’t imagine—and seemed to think that closed the matter.
  There was a pile of bills of lading waiting on my desk, and I had to go through them all. Before
  leaving for lunch I washed my hands. I always enjoyed doing this at midday. In the evening it
  was less pleasant, as the roller towel, after being used by so many people, was sopping wet. I
  once brought this to my employer’s notice. It was regrettable, he agreed—but, to his mind, a
  mere detail. I left the office building a little later than usual, at half-past twelve, with Emmanuel,
  who works in the Forwarding Department. Our building overlooks the sea, and we paused for a
  moment on the steps to look at the shipping in the. harbor . The sun was scorching hot. Just then
  a big truck came up, with a din of chains and backfires from the engine, and Emmanuel
  suggested we should try to jump it. I started to run. The truck was well away, and we had to
  chase it for quite a distance. What with the heat and the noise from the engine, I felt half dazed.
  All I was conscious of was our mad rush along the water front, amongst cranes and winches,
  with dark hulls of ships alongside and masts swaying in the offing. I was the first to catch up
  with the truck. I took a flying jump, landed safely, and helped Emmanuel to scramble in beside
  me. We were both of us out of breath, and the bumps of the truck on the roughly laid cobbles
  made things worse. Emmanuel chuckled, and panted in my ear, “We’ve made it!”
  By the time we reached Céleste’s restaurant we were dripping with sweat. Céleste was at his
  usual place beside the entrance, with his apron bulging on his paunch, his white mustache well to
  the fore. When he saw me he was sympathetic and “hoped I wasn’t feeling too badly.” I said,
  “No,” but I was extremely hungry. I ate very quickly and had some coffee to finish up. Then I
  went to my place and took a short nap, as I’d drunk a glass of wine too many.
  When I woke I smoked a cigarette before getting off my bed. I was a bit late and had to run for
  the streetcar. The office was stifling, and I was kept hard at it all the afternoon. So it came as a
  relief when we closed down and I was strolling slowly along the wharves in the coolness. The
  sky was green, and it was pleasant to be out-of-doors after the stuffy office. However, I went
  straight home, as I had to put some potatoes on to boil.
  The hall was dark and, when I was starting up the stairs, I almost bumped into old Salamano,
  who lived on the same floor as I. As usual, he had his dog with him. For eight years the two had
  been inseparable. Salamano’s spaniel is an ugly brute, afflicted with some skin disease—mange,
  I suspect; anyhow, it has lost all its hair and its body is covered with brown scabs. Perhaps
  through living in one small room, cooped up with his dog, Salamano has come to resemble it.
  
  His towy hair has gone very thin, and he has reddish blotches on his face. And the dog has
  developed something of its master’s queer hunched-up gait; it always has its muzzle stretched far
  forward and its nose to the ground. But, oddly enough, though so much alike, they detest each
  other.
  Twice a day, at eleven and six, the old fellow takes his dog for a walk, and for eight years that
  walk has never varied. You can see them in the rue de Lyon, the dog pulling his master along as
  hard as he can, till finally the old chap misses a step and nearly falls. Then he beats his dog and
  calls it names. The dog cowers and lags behind, and it’s his master’s turn to drag him along.
  Presently the dog forgets, starts tugging at the leash again, gets another hiding and more abuse.
  Then they halt on the pavement, the pair of them, and glare at each other; the dog with terror and
  the man with hatred in his eyes. Every time they’re out, this happens. When the dog wants to
  stop at a lamppost, the old boy won’t let him, and drags him on, and the wretched spaniel leaves
  behind him a trail of little drops. But, if he does it in the room, it means another hiding.
  It’s been going on like this for eight years, and Céleste always says it’s a “crying shame,” and
  something should be done about it; but really one can’t be sure. When I met him in the hall,
  Salamano was bawling at his dog, calling him a bastard, a lousy mongrel, and so forth, and the
  dog was whining. I said, “Good evening,” but the old fellow took no notice and went on cursing.
  So I thought I’d ask him what the dog had done. Again, he didn’t answer, but went on shouting,
  “You bloody cur!” and the rest of it. I couldn’t see very clearly, but he seemed to be fixing
  something on the dog’s collar. I raised my voice a little. Without looking round, he mumbled in a
  sort of suppressed fury: “He’s always in the way, blast him!” Then he started up the stairs, but
  the dog tried to resist and flattened itself out on the floor, so he had to haul it up on the leash,
  step by step.
  Just then another man who lives on my floor came in from the street. The general idea
  hereabouts is that he’s a pimp. But if you ask him what his job is, he says he’s a warehouseman.
  One thing’s sure: he isn’t popular in our street. Still, he often has a word for me, and drops in
  sometimes for a short talk in my room, because I listen to him. As a matter of fact, I find what he
  says quite interesting. So, really I’ve no reason for freezing him off. His name is Sintès;
  Raymond Sintès. He’s short and thick-set, has a nose like a boxer’s, and always dresses very
  sprucely. He, too, once said to me, referring to Salamano, that it was “a damned shame,” and
  asked me if I wasn’t disgusted by the way the old man served his dog. I answered: “No.”
  We went up the stairs together, Sintès and I, and when I was turning in at my door, he said:
  “Look here! How about having some grub with me? I’ve a black pudding and some wine.”
  It struck me that this would save my having to cook my dinner, so I said, “Thanks very much.”
  He, too, has only one room, and a little kitchen without a window. I saw a pink-and-white
  plaster angel above his bed, and some photos of sporting champions and naked girls pinned to
  the opposite wall. The bed hadn’t been made and the room was dirty. He began by lighting a
  paraffin lamp; then fumbled in his pocket and produced a rather grimy bandage, which he
  wrapped round his right hand. I asked him what the trouble was. He told me he’d been having a
  
  roughhouse with a fellow who’d annoyed him.
  “I’m not one who looks for trouble,” he explained, “only I’m a bit short-tempered. That fellow
  said to me, challenging-like, ‘Come down off that streetcar, if you’re a man.’ I says , ‘You keep
  quiet, I ain’t done nothing to you.’ Then he said I hadn’t any guts. Well, that settled it. I got
  down off the streetcar and I said to him, ‘You better keep your mouth shut, or I’ll shut it for
  you.’ ‘I’d like to see you try!’ says he. Then I gave him one across the face, and laid him out
  good and proper. After a bit I started to help him get up, but all he did was to kick at me from
  where he lay. So I gave him one with my knee and a couple more swipes. He was bleeding like a
  pig when I’d done with him. I asked him if he’d had enough, and he said, ‘Yes.’ ”
  Sintès was busy fixing his bandage while he talked, and I was sitting on the bed.
  “So you see,” he said, “it wasn’t my fault; he was asking for it, wasn’t he?”
  I nodded, and he added:
  “As a matter of fact, I rather want to ask your advice about something; it’s connected with this
  business. You’ve knocked about the world a bit, and I daresay you can help me. And then I’ll be
  your pal for life; I never forget anyone who does me a good turn.”
  When I made no comment, he asked me if I’d like us to be pals. I replied that I had no objection,
  and that appeared to satisfy him. He got out the black pudding, cooked it in a frying pan, then
  laid the table, putting out two bottles of wine. While he was doing this he didn’t speak.
  We started dinner, and then he began telling me the whole story, hesitating a bit at first.
  “There’s a girl behind it—as usual. We slept together pretty regular. I was keeping her, as a
  matter of fact, and she cost me a tidy sum. That fellow I knocked down is her brother.”
  Noticing that I said nothing, he added that he knew what the neighbors said about him, but it
  was a filthy lie. He had his principles like everybody else, and a job in a warehouse.
  “Well,” he said, “to go on with my story ... I found out one day that she was letting me down.”
  He gave her enough money to keep her going, without extravagance, though; he paid the rent of
  her room and twenty francs a day for food. “Three hundred francs for rent, and six hundred for
  her grub, with a little present thrown in now and then, a pair of stockings or whatnot. Say, a
  thousand francs a month. But that wasn’t enough for my fine lady; she was always grumbling
  that she couldn’t make both ends meet with what I gave her. So one day I says to her, ‘Look
  here, why not get a job for a few hours a day? That’d make things easier for me, too. I bought
  you a new dress this month, I pay your rent and give you twenty francs a day. But you go and
  waste your money at the café with a pack of girls. You give them coffee and sugar. And, of
  course, the money comes out of my pocket. I treat you on the square, and that’s how you pay me
  back.’ But she wouldn’t hear of working, though she kept on saying she couldn’t make do with
  what I gave her. And then one day I found out she was doing me dirt.”
  
  He went on to explain that he’d found a lottery ticket in her bag, and, when he asked where the
  money’d come from to buy it, she wouldn’t tell him. Then, another time, he’d found a pawn
  ticket for two bracelets that he’d never set eyes on.
  “So I knew there was dirty work going on, and I told her I’d have nothing more to do with her.
  But, first, I gave her a good hiding, and I told her some home truths. I said that there was only
  one thing interested her and that was getting into bed with men whenever she’d the chance. And
  I warned her straight, ‘You’ll be sorry one day, my girl, and wish you’d got me back. All the
  girls in the street, they’re jealous of your luck in having me to keep you.’ ”
  He’d beaten her till the blood came. Before that he’d never beaten her. “Well, not hard, anyhow;
  only affectionately-like. She’d howl a bit, and I had to shut the window. Then, of course, it ended
  as per usual. But this time I’m done with her. Only, to my mind, I ain’t punished her enough. See
  what I mean?”
  He explained that it was about this he wanted my advice. The lamp was smoking, and he
  stopped pacing up and down the room, to lower the wick. I just listened, without speaking. I’d
  had a whole bottle of wine to myself and my head was buzzing. As I’d used up my cigarettes I
  was smoking Raymond’s. Some late streetcars passed, and the last noises of the street died off
  with them. Raymond went on talking. What bored him was that he had “a sort of lech on her” as
  he called it. But he was quite determined to teach her a lesson.
  His first idea, he said, had been to take her to a hotel, and then call in the special police. He’d
  persuade them to put her on the register as a “common prostitute,” and that would make her wild.
  Then he’d looked up some friends of his in the underworld, fellows who kept tarts for what they
  could make out of them, but they had practically nothing to suggest. Still, as he pointed out, that
  sort of thing should have been right up their street; what’s the good of being in that line if you
  don’t know how to treat a girl who’s let you down? When he told them that, they suggested he
  should “brand” her. But that wasn’t what he wanted, either. It would need a lot of thinking out. ...
  But, first, he’d like to ask me something. Before he asked it, though, he’d like to have my
  opinion of the story he’d been telling, in a general way.
  I said I hadn’t any, but I’d found it interesting.
  Did I think she really had done him dirt?
  I had to admit it looked like that. Then he asked me if I didn’t think she should be punished and
  what I’d do if I were in his shoes. I told him one could never be quite sure how to act in such
  cases, but I quite understood his wanting her to suffer for it.
  I drank some more wine, while Raymond lit another cigarette and began explaining what he
  proposed to do. He wanted to write her a letter, “a real stinker, that’ll get her on the raw,” and at
  the same time make her repent of what she’d done. Then, when she came back, he’d go to bed
  with her and, just when she was “properly primed up,” he’d spit in her face and throw her out of
  the room. I agreed it wasn’t a bad plan; it would punish her, all right.
  
  But, Raymond told me, he didn’t feel up to writing the kind of letter that was needed, and that
  was where I could help. When I didn’t say anything, he asked me if I’d mind doing it right away,
  and I said, “No,” I’d have a shot at it.
  He drank off a glass of wine and stood up. Then he pushed aside the plates and the bit of cold
  pudding that was left, to make room on the table. After carefully wiping the oilcloth, he got a
  sheet of squared paper from the drawer of his bedside table; after that, an envelope, a small red
  wooden penholder, and a square inkpot with purple ink in it. The moment he mentioned the girl’s
  name I knew she was a Moor.
  I wrote the letter. I didn’t take much trouble over it, but I wanted to satisfy Raymond, as I’d no
  reason not to satisfy him. Then I read out what I’d written. Puffing at his cigarette, he listened,
  nodding now and then. “Read it again, please,” he said. He seemed delighted. “That’s the stuff,”
  he chuckled. “I could tell you was a brainy sort, old boy, and you know what’s what.”
  At first I hardly noticed that “old boy.” It came back to me when he slapped me on the shoulder
  and said, “So now we’re pals, ain’t we?” I kept silence and he said it again. I didn’t care one way
  or the other, but as he seemed so set on it, I nodded and said, “Yes.”
  He put the letter into the envelope and we finished off the wine. Then both of us smoked for
  some minutes, without speaking. The street was quite quiet, except when now and again a car
  passed. Finally, I remarked that it was getting late, and Raymond agreed. “Time’s gone mighty
  fast this evening,” he added, and in a way that was true. I wanted to be in bed, only it was such
  an effort making a move. I must have looked tired, for Raymond said to me, “You mustn’t let
  things get you down.” At first I didn’t catch his meaning. Then he explained that he had heard of
  my mother’s death; anyhow, he said, that was something bound to happen one day or another. I
  appreciated that, and told him so.
  When I rose, Raymond shook hands very warmly, remarking that men always understood each
  other. After closing the door behind me I lingered for some moments on the landing. The whole
  building was as quiet as the grave, a dank, dark smell rising from the well hole of the stairs. I
  could hear nothing but the blood throbbing in my ears, and for a while I stood still, listening to it.
  Then the dog began to moan in old Salamano’s room, and through the sleep-bound house the
  little plaintive sound rose slowly, like a flower growing out of the silence and the darkness.
  IV
  I HAD a busy time in the office throughout the week. Raymond dropped in once to tell me he’d
  sent off the letter. I went to the pictures twice with Emmanuel, who doesn’t always understand
  what’s happening on the screen and asks me to explain it. Yesterday was Saturday, and Marie
  came as we’d arranged. She had a very pretty dress, with red and white stripes, and leather
  sandals, and I couldn’t take my eyes off her. One could see the outline of her firm little breasts,
  and her sun-tanned face was like a velvety brown flower. We took the bus and went to a beach I
  know, some miles out of Algiers. It’s just a strip of sand between two rocky spurs, with a line of
  rushes at the back, along the tide line. At four o’clock the sun wasn’t too hot, but the water was
  
  pleasantly tepid, and small, languid ripples were creeping up the sand.
  Marie taught me a new game. The idea was, while one swam, to suck in the spray off the waves
  and, when one’s mouth was full of foam, to lie on one’s back and spout it out against the sky. It
  made a sort of frothy haze that melted into the air or fell back in a warm shower on one’s cheeks.
  But very soon my mouth was smarting with all the salt I’d drawn in; then Marie came up and
  hugged me in the water, and pressed her mouth to mine. Her tongue cooled my lips, and we let
  the waves roll us about for a minute or two before swimming back to the beach.
  When we had finished dressing, Marie looked hard at me. Her eyes were sparkling. I kissed her;
  after that neither of us spoke for quite a while. I pressed her to my side as we scrambled up the
  foreshore. Both of us were in a hurry to catch the bus, get back to my place, and tumble on to the
  bed. I’d left my window open, and it was pleasant to feel the cool night air flowing over our
  sunburned bodies.
  Marie said she was free next morning, so I proposed she should have luncheon with me. She
  agreed, and I went down to buy some meat. On my way back I heard a woman’s voice in
  Raymond’s room. A little later old Salamano started grumbling at his dog and presently there
  was a sound of boots and paws on the wooden stairs; then, “Filthy brute! Get on, you cur!” and
  the two of them went out into the street. I told Marie about the old man’s habits, and it made her
  laugh. She was wearing one of my pajama suits, and had the sleeves rolled up. When she laughed
  I wanted her again. A moment later she asked me if I loved her. I said that sort of question had
  no meaning, really; but I supposed I didn’t. She looked sad for a bit, but when we were getting
  our lunch ready she brightened up and started laughing, and when she laughs I always want to
  kiss her. It was just then that the row started in Raymond’s room.
  First we heard a woman saying something in a high-pitched voice; then Raymond bawling at
  her, “You let me down, you bitch! I’ll learn you to let me down!” There came some thuds, then a
  piercing scream—it made one’s blood run cold—and in a moment there was a crowd of people
  on the landing. Marie and I went out to see. The woman was still screaming and Raymond still
  knocking her about. Marie said, wasn’t it horrible! I didn’t answer anything. Then she asked me
  to go and fetch a policeman, but I told her I didn’t like policemen. However, one turned up
  presently; the lodger on the second floor, a plumber, came up, with him. When he banged on the
  door the noise stopped inside the room. He knocked again, and, after a moment, the woman
  started crying, and Raymond opened the door. He had a cigarette dangling from his underlip and
  a rather sickly smile.
  “Your name?”Raymond gave his name. “Take that cigarette out of your mouth when you’re
  talking to me,” the policeman said gruffly. Raymond hesitated, glanced at me, and kept the
  cigarette in his mouth. The policeman promptly swung his arm and gave him a good hard smack
  on the left cheek. The cigarette shot from his lips and dropped a yard away. Raymond made a
  wry face, but said nothing for a moment. Then in a humble tone he asked if he mightn’t pick up
  his cigarette.
  The officer said, “Yes,” and added: “But don’t you forget next time that we don’t stand for any
  nonsense, not from guys like you.”
  
  Meanwhile the girl went on sobbing and repeating: “He hit me, the coward. He’s a pimp.”
  “Excuse me, officer,” Raymond put in, “but is that in order, calling a man a pimp in the
  presence of witnesses?”
  The policeman told him to shut his trap.
  Raymond then turned to the girl. “Don’t you worry, my pet. We’ll meet again.”
  “That’s enough,” the policeman said, and told the girl to go away. Raymond was to stay in his
  room till summoned to the police station. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” the policeman
  added, “getting so tight you can’t stand steady. Why, you’re shaking all over!”
  “I’m not tight,” Raymond explained. “Only when I see you standing there and looking at me, I
  can’t help trembling. That’s only natural.”
  Then he closed his door, and we all went away. Marie and I finished getting our lunch ready.
  But she hadn’t any appetite, and I ate nearly all. She left at one, and then I had a nap.
  Toward three there was a knock at my door and Raymond came in. He sat down on the edge of
  my bed and for a minute or two said nothing. I asked him how it had gone off. He said it had all
  gone quite smoothly at first, as per program; only then she’d slapped his face and he’d seen red,
  and started thrashing her. As for what happened after that, he needn’t tell me, as I was there.
  “Well,” I said, “you taught her a lesson, all right, and that’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”
  He agreed, and pointed out that whatever the police did, that wouldn’t change the fact she’d had
  her punishment. As for the police, he knew exactly how to handle them. But he’d like to know if
  I’d expected him to return the blow when the policeman hit him.
  I told him I hadn’t expected anything whatsoever and, anyhow, I had no use for the police.
  Raymond seemed pleased and asked if I’d like to come out for a stroll with him. I got up from
  the bed and started brushing my hair. Then Raymond said that what he really wanted was for me
  to act as his witness. I told him I had no objection; only I didn’t know what he expected me to
  say.
  “It’s quite simple,” he replied. “You’ve only got to tell them that the girl had let me down.”
  So I agreed to be his witness.
  We went out together, and Raymond stood me a brandy in a café. Then we had a game of
  billiards; it was a close game and I lost by only a few points. After that he proposed going to a
  brothel, but I refused; I didn’t feel like it. As we were walking slowly back he told me how
  pleased he was at having paid out his mistress so satisfactorily. He made himself extremely
  amiable to me, and I quite enjoyed our walk.
  
  When we were nearly home I saw old Salamano on the doorstep; he seemed very excited. I
  noticed that his dog wasn’t with him. He was turning like a teetotum, looking in all directions,
  and sometimes peering into the darkness of the hall with his little bloodshot eyes. Then he’d
  mutter something to himself and start gazing up and down the street again.
  Raymond asked him what was wrong, but he didn’t answer at once. Then I heard him grunt,
  “The bastard! The filthy cur!” When I asked him where his dog was, he scowled at me and
  snapped out, “Gone!” A moment later, all of a sudden, he launched out into it.
  “I’d taken him to the Parade Ground as usual. There was a fair on, and you could hardly move
  for the crowd. I stopped at one of the booths to look at the Handcuff King. When I turned to go,
  the dog was gone. I’d been meaning to get a smaller collar, but I never thought the brute could
  slip it and get away like that.”
  Raymond assured him the dog would find its way home, and told him stories of dogs that had
  traveled miles and miles to get back to their masters. But this seemed to make the old fellow
  even more worried than before.
  “Don’t you understand, they’ll do away with him; the police, I mean. It’s not likely anyone will
  take him in and look after him; with all those scabs he puts everybody off.”
  I told him that there was a pound at the police station, where stray dogs are taken. His dog was
  certain to be there and he could get it back on payment of a small charge. He asked me how
  much the charge was, but there I couldn’t help him. Then he flew into a rage again.
  “Is it likely I’d give money for a mutt like that? No damned fear! They can kill him, for all I
  care.” And he went on calling his dog the usual names.
  Raymond gave a laugh and turned into the hall. I followed him upstairs, and we parted on the
  landing. A minute or two later I heard Salamano’s footsteps and a knock on my door.
  When I opened it, he halted for a moment in the doorway.
  “Excuse me ... I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
  I asked him in, but he shook his head. He was staring at his toe caps, and the gnarled old hands
  were trembling. Without meeting my eyes, he started talking.
  “They won’t really take him from me, will they, Monsieur Meursault? Surely they wouldn’t do a
  thing like that. If they do—I don’t know what will become of me.”
  I told him that, so far as I knew, they kept stray dogs in the pound for three days, waiting for
  their owners to call for them. After that they disposed of the dogs as they thought fit.
  He stared at me in silence for a moment, then said, “Good evening.” After that I heard him
  
  pacing up and down his room for quite a while. Then his bed creaked. Through the wall there
  came to me a little wheezing sound, and I guessed that he was weeping. For some reason, I don’t
  know what, I began thinking of Mother. But I had to get up early next day; so, as I wasn’t feeling
  hungry, I did without supper, and went straight to bed.
  V
  RAYMOND rang me up at the office. He said that a friend of his—to whom he’d spoken about
  me—invited me to spend next Sunday at his little seaside bungalow just outside Algiers. I told
  him I’d have been delighted; only I had promised to spend Sunday with a girl. Raymond
  promptly replied that she could come, too. In fact, his friend’s wife would be very pleased not to
  be the only woman in a party of men.
  I’d have liked to hang up at once, as my employer doesn’t approve of my using the office phone
  for private calls. But Raymond asked me to hold on; he had something else to tell me, and that
  was why he’d rung me up, though he could have waited till the evening to pass on the invitation.
  “It’s like this,” he said. “I’ve been shadowed all the morning by some Arabs. One of them’s the
  brother of that girl I had the row with. If you see him hanging round the house when you come
  back, pass me the word.”
  I promised to do so.
  Just then my employer sent for me. For a moment I felt uneasy, as I expected he was going to
  tell me to stick to my work and not waste time chattering with friends over the phone. However,
  it was nothing of the kind. He wanted to discuss a project he had in view, though so far he’d
  come to no decision. It was to open a branch at Paris, so as to be able to deal with the big
  companies on the spot, without postal delays, and he wanted to know if I’d like a post there.
  “You’re a young man,” he said, “and I’m pretty sure you’d enjoy living in Paris. And, of course,
  you could travel about France for some months in the year.”
  I told him I was quite prepared to go; but really I didn’t care much one way or the other.
  He then asked if a “change of life,” as he called it, didn’t appeal to me, and I answered that one
  never changed his way of life; one life was as good as another, and my present one suited me
  quite well.
  At this he looked rather hurt, and told me that I always shilly-shallied, and that I lacked
  ambition—a grave defect, to his mind, when one was in business.
  I returned to my work. I’d have preferred not to vex him, but I saw no reason for “changing my
  life.” By and large it wasn’t an unpleasant one. As a student I’d had plenty of ambition of the
  kind he meant. But, when I had to drop my studies, I very soon realized all that was pretty futile.
  
  Marie came that evening and asked me if I’d marry her. I said I didn’t mind; if she was keen on
  it, we’d get married.
  Then she asked me again if I loved her. I replied, much as before, that her question meant
  nothing or next to nothing—but I supposed I didn’t.
  “If that’s how you feel,” she said, “why marry me?”
  I explained that it had no importance really, but, if it would give her pleasure, we could get
  married right away. I pointed out that, anyhow, the suggestion came from her; as for me, I’d
  merely said, “Yes.”
  Then she remarked that marriage was a serious matter.
  To which I answered: “No.”
  She kept silent after that, staring at me in a curious way. Then she asked:
  “Suppose another girl had asked you to marry her—I mean, a girl you liked in the same way as
  you like me—would you have said ‘Yes’ to her, too?”
  “Naturally.”
  Then she said she wondered if she really loved me or not. I, of course, couldn’t enlighten her as
  to that. And, after another silence, she murmured something about my being “a queer fellow.”
  “And I daresay that’s why I love you,” she added. “But maybe that’s why one day I’ll come to
  hate you.”
  To which I had nothing to say, so I said nothing.
  She thought for a bit, then started smiling and, taking my arm, repeated that she was in earnest;
  she really wanted to marry me.
  “All right,” I answered. “We’ll get married whenever you like.” I then mentioned the proposal
  made by my employer, and Marie said she’d love to go to Paris.
  When I told her I’d lived in Paris for a while, she asked me what it was like.
  “A dingy sort of town, to my mind. Masses of pigeons and dark courtyards. And the people have
  washed-out, white faces.”
  Then we went for a walk all the way across the town by the main streets. The women were
  good-lookers, and I asked Marie if she, too, noticed this. She said, “Yes,” and that she saw what I
  meant. After that we said nothing for some minutes. However, as I didn’t want her to leave me, I
  suggested we should dine together at Céleste’s. She’d have loved to dine with me, she said, only
  she was booked up for the evening. We were near my place, and I said, “ Au revoir, then.”
  
  She looked me in the eyes.
  “Don’t you want to know what I’m doing this evening?”
  I did want to know, but I hadn’t thought of asking her, and I guessed she was making a
  grievance of it. I must have looked embarrassed, for suddenly she started laughing and bent
  toward me, pouting her lips for a kiss.
  I went by myself to Céleste’s. When I had just started my dinner an odd-looking little woman
  came in and asked if she might sit at my table. Of course she might. She had a chubby face like a
  ripe apple, bright eyes, and moved in a curiously jerky way, as if she were on wires. After taking
  off her closefitting jacket she sat down and started studying the bill of fare with a sort of rapt
  attention. Then she called Céleste and gave her order, very fast but quite distinctly; one didn’t
  lose a word. While waiting for the hors d’oeuvre she opened her bag, took out a slip of paper and
  a pencil, and added up the bill in advance. Diving into her bag again, she produced a purse and
  took from it the exact sum, plus a small tip, and placed it on the cloth in front of her.
  Just then the waiter brought the hors d’oeuvre, which she proceeded to wolf down voraciously.
  While waiting for the next course, she produced another pencil, this time a blue one, from her
  bag, and the radio magazine for the coming week, and started making ticks against almost all the
  items of the daily programs. There were a dozen pages in the magazine, and she continued
  studying them closely throughout the meal. When I’d finished mine she was still ticking off
  items with the same meticulous attention. Then she rose, put on her jacket again with the same
  abrupt, robot-like gestures, and walked briskly out of the restaurant.
  Having nothing better to do, I followed her for a short distance. Keeping on the curb of the
  pavement, she walked straight ahead, never swerving or looking back, and it was extraordinary
  how fast she covered the ground, considering her smallness. In fact, the pace was too much for
  me, and I soon lost sight of her and turned back homeward. For a moment the “little robot” (as I
  thought of her) had much impressed me, but I soon forgot about her.
  As I was turning in at my door I ran into old Salamano. I asked him into my room, and he
  informed me that his dog was definitely lost. He’d been to the pound to inquire, but it wasn’t
  there, and the staff told him it had probably been run over. When he asked them whether it was
  any use inquiring about it at the police station, they said the police had more important things to
  attend to than keeping records of stray dogs run over in the streets. I suggested he should get
  another dog, but, reasonably enough, he pointed out that he’d become used to this one, and it
  wouldn’t be the same thing.
  I was seated on my bed, with my legs up, and Salamano on a chair beside the table, facing me,
  his hands spread on his knees. He had kept on his battered felt hat and was mumbling away
  behind his draggled yellowish mustache. I found him rather boring, but I had nothing to do and
  didn’t feel sleepy. So, to keep the conversation going, I asked some questions about his dog—
  how long he had had it and so forth. He told me he had got it soon after his wife’s death. He’d
  married rather late in life. When a young man, he wanted to go on the stage; during his military
  
  service he’d often played in the regimental theatricals and acted rather well, so everybody said.
  However, finally, he had taken a job in the railway, and he didn’t regret it, as now he had a small
  pension. He and his wife had never hit it off very well, but they’d got used to each other, and
  when she died he felt lonely. One of his mates on the railway whose bitch had just had pups had
  offered him one, and he had taken it, as a companion. He’d had to feed it from the bottle at first.
  But, as a dog’s life is shorter than a man’s, they’d grown old together, so to speak.
  “He was a cantankerous brute,” Salamano said. “Now and then we had some proper set-tos, he
  and I. But he was a good mutt all the same.”
  I said he looked well bred, and that evidently pleased the old man.
  “Ah, but you should have seen him before his illness!” he said. “He had a wonderful coat; in
  fact, that was his best point, really. I tried hard to cure him; every mortal night after he got that
  skin disease I rubbed an ointment in. But his real trouble was old age, and there’s no curing
  that.”
  Just then I yawned, and the old man said he’d better make a move. I told him he could stay, and
  that I was sorry about what had happened to his dog. He thanked me, and mentioned that my
  mother had been very fond of his dog. He referred to her as “your poor mother,” and was afraid I
  must be feeling her death terribly. When I said nothing he added hastily and with a rather
  embarrassed air that some of the people in the street said nasty things about me because I’d sent
  my mother to the Home. But he, of course, knew better; he knew how devoted to my mother I
  had always been.
  I answered—why, I still don’t know—that it surprised me to learn I’d produced such a bad
  impression. As I couldn’t afford to keep her here, it seemed the obvious thing to do, to send her
  to a home. “In any case,” I added, “for years she’d never had a word to say to me, and I could see
  she was moping, with no one to talk to.”
  “Yes,” he said, “and at a home one makes friends, anyhow.”
  He got up, saying it was high time for him to be in bed, and added that life was going to be a bit
  of a problem for him, under the new conditions. For the first time since I’d known him he held
  out his hand to me—rather shyly, I thought—and I could feel the scales on his skin. Just as he
  was going out of the door, he turned and, smiling a little, said:
  “Let’s hope the dogs won’t bark again tonight. I always think it’s mine I hear. ...”
  VI
  IT was an effort waking up that Sunday morning; Marie had to jog my shoulders and shout my
  name. As we wanted to get into the water early, we didn’t trouble about breakfast. My head was
  aching slightly and my first cigarette had a bitter taste. Marie told me I looked like a mourner at a
  funeral, and I certainly did feel very limp. She was wearing a white dress and had her hair loose.
  
  I told her she looked quite ravishing like that, and she laughed happily.
  On our way out we banged on Raymond’s door, and he shouted that he’d be with us in a jiffy.
  We went down to the street and, because of my being rather under the weather and our having
  kept the blind down in my room, the glare of the morning sun hit me in the eyes like a clenched
  fist.
  Marie, however, was almost dancing with delight, and kept repeating, “What a heavenly day!”
  After a few minutes I was feeling better, and noticed that I was hungry. I mentioned this to
  Marie, but she paid no attention. She was carrying an oilcloth bag in which she had stowed our
  bathing kit and a towel. Presently we heard Raymond shutting his door. He was wearing blue
  trousers, a short-sleeved white shirt, and a straw hat. I noticed that his forearms were rather
  hairy, but the skin was very white beneath. The straw hat made Marie giggle. Personally, I was
  rather put off by his getup. He seemed in high spirits and was whistling as he came down the
  stairs. He greeted me with, “Hello, old boy!” and addressed Marie as “Mademoiselle.”
  On the previous evening we had visited the police station, where I gave evidence for
  Raymond—about the girl’s having been false to him. So they let him off with a warning. They
  didn’t check my statement.
  After some talk on the doorstep we decided to take the bus. The beach was within easy walking
  distance, but the sooner we got there the better. Just as we were starting for the bus stop,
  Raymond plucked my sleeve and told me to look across the street. I saw some Arabs lounging
  against the tobacconist’s window. They were staring at us silently, in the special way these
  people have—as if we were blocks of stone or dead trees. Raymond whispered that the second
  Arab from the left was “his man,” and I thought he looked rather worried However, he assured
  me that all that was ancient history. Marie, who hadn’t followed his remarks, asked, “What is
  it?”
  I explained that those Arabs across the way had a grudge against Raymond. She insisted on our
  going at once. Then Raymond laughed, and squared his shoulders. The young lady was quite
  right, he said. There was no point in hanging about here. Halfway to the bus stop he glanced
  back over his shoulder and said the Arabs weren’t following. I, too, looked back. They were
  exactly as before, gazing in the same vague way at the spot where we had been.
  When we were in the bus, Raymond, who now seemed quite at ease, kept making jokes to
  amuse Marie. I could see he was attracted by her, but she had hardly a word for him. Now and
  again she would catch my eye and smile.
  We alighted just outside Algiers. The beach is not far from the bus stop; one has only to cross a
  patch of highland, a sort of plateau, which overlooks the sea and shelves down steeply to the
  sands. The ground here was covered with yellowish pebbles and wild lilies that showed snow-
  white against the blue of the sky, which had already the hard, metallic glint it gets on very hot
  days. Marie amused herself swishing her bag against the flowers and sending the petals
  showering in all directions. Then we walked between two rows of little houses with wooden
  balconies and green or white palings. Some of them were half hidden in clumps of tamarisks;
  
  others rose naked from the stony plateau. Before we came to the end of it, the sea was in full
  view; it lay smooth as a mirror, and in the distance a big headland jutted out over its black
  reflection. Through the still air came the faint buzz of a motor engine and we saw a fishing boat
  very far out, gliding almost imperceptibly across the dazzling smoothness.
  Marie picked some rock irises. Going down the steep path leading to the sea, we saw some
  bathers already on the sands.
  Raymond’s friend owned a small wooden bungalow at the near end of the beach. Its back rested
  against the cliffside, while the front stood on piles, which the water was already lapping.
  Raymond introduced us to his friend, whose name was Masson. He was tall, broad-shouldered,
  and thick-set; his wife was a plump, cheerful little woman who spoke with a Paris accent.
  Masson promptly told us to make ourselves at home. He had gone out fishing, he said, first thing
  in the morning, and there would be fried fish for lunch. I congratulated him on his little
  bungalow, and he said he always spent his weekends and holidays here. “With the missus,
  needless to say,” he added. I glanced at her, and noticed that she and Marie seemed to be getting
  on well together; laughing and chattering away. For the first time, perhaps, I seriously considered
  the possibility of my marrying her.
  Masson wanted to have a swim at once, but his wife and Raymond were disinclined to move. So
  only the three of us, Marie, Masson, and myself , went down to the beach. Marie promptly
  plunged in, but Masson and I waited for a bit. He was rather slow of speech and had, I noticed, a
  habit of saying “and what’s more” between his phrases—even when the second added nothing
  really to the first. Talking of Marie, he said: “She’s an awfully pretty girl, and what’s more,
  charming.”
  But I soon ceased paying attention to this trick of his; I was basking in the sunlight, which, I
  noticed, was making me feel much better. The sand was beginning to stoke up underfoot and,
  though I was eager for a dip, I postponed it for a minute or two more. At last I said to Masson:
  “Shall we go in now?” and plunged. Masson walked in gingerly and only began to swim when he
  was out of his depth. He swam hand over hand and made slow headway, so I left him behind and
  caught up with Marie. The water was cold and I felt all the better for it. We swam a long way
  out, Marie and I, side by side, and it was pleasant feeling how our movements matched, hers and
  mine, and how we were both in the same mood, enjoying every moment.
  Once we were out in the open, we lay on our backs and, as I gazed up at the sky, I could feel the
  sun drawing up the film of salt water on my lips and cheeks. We saw Masson swim back to the
  beach and slump down on the sand under the sun. In the distance he looked enormous, like a
  stranded whale. Then Marie proposed that we should swim tandem. She went ahead and I put my
  arms round her waist, from behind, and while she drew me forward with her arm strokes, I
  kicked out behind to help us on.
  That sound of little splashes had been in my ears for so long that I began to feel I’d had enough
  of it. So I let go of Marie and swam back at an easy pace, taking long, deep breaths. When I
  made the beach I stretched myself belly downward beside Masson, resting my face on the sand. I
  
  told him “it was fine” here, and he agreed. Presently Marie came back. I raised my head to watch
  her approach. She was glistening with brine and holding her hair back. Then she lay down beside
  me, and what with the combined warmth of our bodies and the sun, I felt myself dropping off to
  sleep.
  After a while Marie tugged my arm and said Masson had gone to his place; it must be nearly
  lunchtime. I rose at once, as I was feeling hungry, but Marie told me I hadn’t kissed her once
  since the early morning. That was so—though I’d wanted to, several times. “Let’s go into the
  water again,” she said, and we ran into the sea and lay flat amongst the ripples for a moment.
  Then we swam a few strokes, and when we were almost out of our depth she flung her arms
  round me and hugged me. I felt her legs twining round mine, and my senses tingled.
  When we got back, Masson was on the steps of his bungalow, shouting to us to come. I told him
  I was ravenously hungry, and he promptly turned to his wife and said he’d taken quite a fancy to
  me. The bread was excellent, and I had my full share of the fish. Then came some steak and
  potato chips. None of us spoke while eating. Masson drank a lot of wine and kept refilling my
  glass the moment it was empty. By the time coffee was handed round I was feeling slightly
  muzzy, and I started smoking one cigarette after another. Masson, Raymond, and I discussed a
  plan of spending the whole of August on the beach together, sharing expenses.
  Suddenly Marie exclaimed: “I say! Do you know the time? It’s only half-past eleven!”
  We were all surprised at that, and Masson remarked that we’d had a very early lunch, but really
  lunch was a movable feast, you had it when you felt like it.
  This set Marie laughing, I don’t know why. I suspect she’d drunk a bit too much.
  Then Masson asked if I’d like to come with him for a stroll on the beach.
  “My wife always has a nap after lunch,” he said. “Personally I find it doesn’t agree with me;
  what I need is a short walk. I’m always telling her it’s much better for the health. But, of course,
  she’s entitled to her own opinion.”
  Marie proposed to stay and help with the washing up. Mme Masson smiled and said that, in that
  case, the first thing was to get the men out of the way. So we went out together, the three of us.
  The light was almost vertical and the glare from the water seared one’s eyes. The beach was
  quite deserted now. One could hear a faint tinkle of knives and forks and crockery in the shacks
  and bungalows lining the foreshore. Heat was welling up from the rocks, and one could hardly
  breathe.
  At first Raymond and Masson talked of things and people I didn’t know. I gathered that they’d
  been acquainted for some time and had even lived together for a while. We went down to the
  water’s edge and walked along it; now and then a longer wave wet our canvas shoes. I wasn’t
  thinking of anything, as all that sunlight beating down on my bare head made me feel half asleep.
  
  Just then Raymond said something to Masson that I didn’t quite catch. But at the same moment I
  noticed two Arabs in blue dungarees a long way down the beach, coming in our direction. I gave
  Raymond a look and he nodded, saying, “That’s him.” We walked steadily on. Masson wondered
  how they’d managed to track us here. My impression was that they had seen us taking the bus
  and noticed Marie’s oilcloth bathing bag; but I didn’t say anything.
  Though the Arabs walked quite slowly, they were much nearer already. We didn’t change our
  pace, but Raymond said:
  “Listen! If there’s a roughhouse, you, Masson, take on the second one. I’ll tackle the fellow
  who’s after me. And you, Meursault, stand by to help if another one comes up, and lay him out.”
  I said, “Right,” and Masson put his hands in his pockets.
  The sand was as hot as fire, and I could have sworn it was glowing red. The distance between us
  and the Arabs was steadily decreasing. When we were only a few steps away the Arabs halted.
  Masson and I slowed down, while Raymond went straight up to his man. I couldn’t hear what he
  said, but I saw the native lowering his head, as if to butt him in the chest. Raymond lashed out
  promptly and shouted to Masson to come. Masson went up to the man he had been marking and
  struck him twice with all his might. The fellow fell flat into the water and stayed there some
  seconds with bubbles coming up to the surface round his head. Meanwhile Raymond had been
  slogging the other man, whose face was streaming with blood. He glanced at me over his
  shoulder and shouted:
  “Just you watch! I ain’t finished with him yet!”
  “Look out!” I cried. “He’s got a knife.”
  I spoke too late. The man had gashed Raymond’s arm and his mouth as well.
  Masson sprang forward. The other Arab got up from the water and placed himself behind the
  fellow with the knife. We didn’t dare to move. The two natives backed away slowly, keeping us
  at bay with the knife and never taking their eyes off us. When they were at a safe distance they
  swung round and took to their heels. We stood stock-still, with the sunlight beating down on us.
  Blood was dripping from Raymond’s wounded arm, which he was squeezing hard above the
  elbow.
  Masson remarked that there was a doctor who always spent his Sundays here, and Raymond
  said: “Good. Let’s go to him at once.” He could hardly get the words out, as the blood from his
  other wound made bubbles in his mouth.
  We each gave him an arm and helped him back to the bungalow. Once we were there he told us
  the wounds weren’t so very deep and he could walk to where the doctor was. Marie had gone
  quite pale, and Mme Masson was in tears.
  Masson and Raymond went off to the doctor’s while I was left behind at the bungalow to
  
  explain matters to the women. I didn’t much relish the task and soon dried up and started
  smoking, staring at the sea.
  Raymond came back at about half-past one, accompanied by Masson. He had his arm bandaged
  and a strip of sticking plaster on the corner of his mouth. The doctor had assured him it was
  nothing serious, but he was looking very glum. Masson tried to make him laugh, but without
  success.
  Presently Raymond said he was going for a stroll on the beach. I asked him where he proposed
  to go, and he mumbled something about “wanting to take the air.” We—Masson and I—then
  said we’d go with him, but he flew into a rage and told us to mind our own business. Masson
  said we mustn’t insist, seeing the state he was in. However, when he went out, I followed him.
  It was like a furnace outside, with the sunlight splintering into flakes of fire on the sand and sea.
  We walked for quite a while, and I had an idea that Raymond had a definite idea where he was
  going; but probably I was mistaken about this.
  At the end of the beach we came to a small stream that had cut a channel in the sand, after
  coming out from behind a biggish rock. There we found our two Arabs again, lying on the sand
  in their blue dungarees. They looked harmless enough, as if they didn’t bear any malice, and
  neither made any move when we approached. The man who had slashed Raymond stared at him
  without speaking. The other man was blowing down a little reed and extracting from it three
  notes of the scale, which he played over and over again, while he watched us from the corner of
  an eye.
  For a while nobody moved; it was all sunlight and silence except for the tinkle of the stream and
  those three little lonely sounds. Then Raymond put his hand to his revolver pocket, but the Arabs
  still didn’t move. I noticed the man playing on the reed had his big toes splayed out almost at
  right angles to his feet.
  Still keeping his eyes on his man, Raymond said to me: “Shall I plug him one?”
  I thought quickly. If I told him not to, considering the mood he was in, he might very well fly
  into a temper and use his gun. So I said the first thing that came into my head.
  “He hasn’t spoken to you yet. It would be a lowdown trick to shoot him like that, in cold blood.”
  Again, for some moments one heard nothing but the tinkle of the stream and the flute notes
  weaving through the hot, still air.
  “Well,” Raymond said at last, “if that’s how you feel, I’d better say something insulting, and if
  he answers back I’ll loose off.”
  “Right,” I said. “Only, if he doesn’t get out his knife you’ve no business to fire.”
  Raymond was beginning to fidget. The Arab with the reed went on playing, and both of them
  
  watched all our movements.
  “Listen,” I said to Raymond. “You take on the fellow on the right, and give me your revolver. If
  the other one starts making trouble or gets out his knife, I’ll shoot.”
  The sun glinted on Raymond’s revolver as he handed it to me. But nobody made a move yet; it
  was just as if everything had closed in on us so that we couldn’t stir. We could only watch each
  other, never lowering our eyes; the whole world seemed to have come to a standstill on this little
  strip of sand between the sunlight and the sea, the twofold silence of the reed and stream. And
  just then it crossed my mind that one might fire, or not fire—and it would come to absolutely the
  same thing.
  Then, all of a sudden, the Arabs vanished; they’d slipped like lizards under cover of the rock. So
  Raymond and I turned and walked back. He seemed happier, and began talking about the bus to
  catch for our return.
  When we reached the bungalow Raymond promptly went up the wooden steps, but I halted on
  the bottom one. The light seemed thudding in my head and I couldn’t face the effort needed to go
  up the steps and make myself amiable to the women. But the heat was so great that it was just as
  bad staying where I was, under that flood of blinding light falling from the sky. To stay, or to
  make a move—it came to much the same. After a moment I returned to the beach, and started
  walking.
  There was the same red glare as far as eye could reach, and small waves were lapping the hot
  sand in little, flurried gasps. As I slowly walked toward the boulders at the end of the beach I
  could feel my temples swelling under the impact of the light. It pressed itself on me, trying to
  check my progress. And each time I felt a hot blast strike my forehead, I gritted my teeth, I
  clenched my fists in my trouser pockets and keyed up every nerve to fend off the sun and the
  dark befuddlement it was pouring into me. Whenever a blade of vivid light shot upward from a
  bit of shell or broken glass lying on the sand, my jaws set hard. I wasn’t going to be beaten, and I
  walked steadily on.
  The small black hump of rock came into view far down the beach. It was rimmed by a dazzling
  sheen of light and feathery spray, but I was thinking of the cold, clear stream behind it, and
  longing to hear again the tinkle of running water. Anything to be rid of the glare, the sight of
  women in tears, the strain and effort—and to retrieve the pool of shadow by the rock and its cool
  silence!
  But when I came nearer I saw that Raymond’s Arab had returned. He was by himself this time,
  lying on his back, his hands behind his head, his face shaded by the rock while the sun beat on
  the rest of his body. One could see his dungarees steaming in the heat. I was rather taken aback;
  my impression had been that the incident was closed, and I hadn’t given a thought to it on my
  way here.
  On seeing me, the Arab raised himself a little, and his hand went to his pocket. Naturally, I
  gripped Raymond’s revolver in the pocket of my coat. Then the Arab let himself sink back again,
  
  but without taking his hand from his pocket. I was some distance off, at least ten yards, and most
  of the time I saw him as a blurred dark form wobbling in the heat haze. Sometimes, however, I
  had glimpses of his eyes glowing between the half-closed lids. The sound of the waves was even
  lazier, feebler, than at noon. But the light hadn’t changed; it was pounding as fiercely as ever on
  the long stretch of sand that ended at the rock. For two hours the sun seemed to have made no
  progress; becalmed in a sea of molten steel. Far out on the horizon a steamer was passing; I
  could just make out from the corner of an eye the small black moving patch, while I kept my
  gaze fixed on the Arab.
  It struck me that all I had to do was to turn, walk away, and think no more about it. But the
  whole beach, pulsing with heat, was pressing on my back. I took some steps toward the stream.
  The Arab didn’t move. After all, there was still some distance between us. Perhaps because of
  the shadow on his face, he seemed to be grinning at me.
  I waited. The heat was beginning to scorch my cheeks; beads of sweat were gathering in my
  eyebrows. It was just the same sort of heat as at my mother’s funeral, and I had the same
  disagreeable sensations—especially in my forehead, where all the veins seemed to be bursting
  through the skin. I couldn’t stand it any longer, and took another step forward. I knew it was a
  fool thing to do; I wouldn’t get out of the sun by moving on a yard or so. But I took that step, just
  one step, forward. And then the Arab drew his knife and held it up toward me, athwart the
  sunlight.
  A shaft of light shot upward from the steel, and I felt as if a long, thin blade transfixed my
  forehead. At the same moment all the sweat that had accumulated in my eyebrows splashed
  down on my eyelids, covering them with a warm film of moisture. Beneath a veil of brine and
  tears my eyes were blinded; I was conscious only of the cymbals of the sun clashing on my skull,
  and, less distinctly, of the keen blade of light flashing up from the knife, scarring my eyelashes,
  and gouging into my eyeballs.
  Then everything began to reel before my eyes, a fiery gust came from the sea, while the sky
  cracked in two, from end to end, and a great sheet of flame poured down through the rift. Every
  nerve in my body was a steel spring, and my grip closed on the revolver. The trigger gave, and
  the smooth underbelly of the butt jogged my palm. And so, with that crisp, whip crack sound, it
  all began. I shook off my sweat and the clinging veil of light. I knew I’d shattered the balance of
  the day, the spacious calm of this beach on which I had been happy. But I fired four shots more
  into the inert body, on which they left no visible trace. And each successive shot was another
  loud, fateful rap on the door of my undoing.
  Part Two
  I
  I was questioned several times immediately after my arrest. But they were all formal
  
  examinations, as to my identity and so forth. At the first of these, which took place at the police
  station, nobody seemed to have much interest in the case. However, when I was brought before
  the examining magistrate a week later, I noticed that he eyed me with distinct curiosity. Like the
  others, he began by asking my name, address, and occupation, the date and place of my birth.
  Then he inquired if I had chosen a lawyer to defend me. I answered, “No,” I hadn’t thought
  about it, and asked him if it was really necessary for me to have one.
  “Why do you ask that?” he said. I replied that I regarded my case as very simple. He smiled.
  “Well, it may seem so to you. But we’ve got to abide by the law, and, if you don’t engage a
  lawyer, the court will have to appoint one for you.”
  It struck me as an excellent arrangement that the authorities should see to details of this kind,
  and I told him so. He nodded, and agreed that the Code was all that could be desired.
  At first I didn’t take him quite seriously. The room in which he interviewed me was much like
  an ordinary sitting room, with curtained windows, and a single lamp standing on the desk. Its
  light fell on the armchair in which he’d had me sit, while his own face stayed in shadow.
  I had read descriptions of such scenes in books, and at first it all seemed like a game. After our
  conversation, however, I had a good look at him. He was a tall man with clean-cut features,
  deep-set blue eyes, a big gray mustache, and abundant, almost snow-white hair, and he gave me
  the impression of being highly intelligent and, on the whole, likable enough. There was only one
  thing that put one off: his mouth had now and then a rather ugly twist; but it seemed to be only a
  sort of nervous tic. When leaving, I very nearly held out my hand and said, “Good-by”; just in
  time I remembered that I’d killed a man.
  Next day a lawyer came to my cell; a small, plump, youngish man with sleek black hair. In spite
  of the heat—I was in my shirt sleeves—he was wearing a dark suit, stiff collar, and a rather
  showy tie, with broad black and white stripes. After depositing his brief case on my bed, he
  introduced himself, and added that he’d perused the record of my case with the utmost care. His
  opinion was that it would need cautious handling, but there was every prospect of my getting off,
  provided I followed his advice. I thanked him, and he said: “Good. Now let’s get down to it.”
  Sitting on the bed, he said that they’d been making investigations into my private life. They had
  learned that my mother died recently in a home. Inquiries had been conducted at Marengo and
  the police informed that I’d shown “great callousness” at my mother’s funeral.
  “You must understand,” the lawyer said, “that I don’t relish having to question you about such a
  matter. But it has much importance, and, unless I find some way of answering the charge of
  ‘callousness,’ I shall be handicapped in conducting your defense. And that is where you, and
  only you, can help me.”
  He went on to ask if I had felt grief on that “sad occasion.” The question struck me as an odd
  one; I’d have been much embarrassed if I’d had to ask anyone a thing like that.
  I answered that, of recent years, I’d rather lost the habit of noting my feelings, and hardly knew
  
  what to answer. I could truthfully say I’d been quite fond of Mother—but really that didn’t mean
  much. All normal people, I added as an afterthought, had more or less desired the death of those
  they loved, at some time or another.
  Here the lawyer interrupted me, looking greatly perturbed.
  “You must promise me not to say anything of that sort at the trial, or to the examining
  magistrate.”
  I promised, to satisfy him, but I explained that my physical condition at any given moment often
  influenced my feelings. For instance, on the day I attended Mother’s funeral, I was fagged out
  and only half awake. So, really, I hardly took stock of what was happening. Anyhow, I could
  assure him of one thing: that I’d rather Mother hadn’t died.
  The lawyer, however, looked displeased. “That’s not enough,” he said curtly.
  After considering for a bit he asked me if he could say that on that day I had kept my feelings
  under control.
  “No,” I said. “That wouldn’t be true.”
  He gave me a queer look, as if I slightly revolted him; then informed me, in an almost hostile
  tone, that in any case the head of the Home and some of the staff would be cited as witnesses.
  “And that might do you a very nasty turn,” he concluded.
  When I suggested that Mother’s death had no connection with the charge against me, he merely
  replied that this remark showed I’d never had any dealings with the law.
  Soon after this he left, looking quite vexed. I wished he had stayed longer and I could have
  explained that I desired his sympathy, not for him to make a better job of my defense, but, if I
  might put it so, spontaneously. I could see that I got on his nerves; he couldn’t make me out, and,
  naturally enough, this irritated him. Once or twice I had a mind to assure him that I was just like
  everybody else; quite an ordinary person. But really that would have served no great purpose,
  and I let it go—out of laziness as much as anything else.
  Later in the day I was taken again to the examining magistrate’s office. It was two in the
  afternoon and, this time, the room was flooded with light—there was only a thin curtain on the
  window—and extremely hot.
  After inviting me to sit down, the magistrate informed me in a very polite tone that, “owing to
  unforeseen circumstances,” my lawyer was unable to be present. I should be quite entitled, he
  added, to reserve my answers to his questions until my lawyer could attend.
  To this I replied that I could answer for myself. He pressed a bell push on his desk and a young
  clerk came in and seated himself just behind me. Then we—I and the magistrate—settled back in
  
  our chairs and the examination began. He led off by remarking that I had the reputation of being
  a taciturn, rather self-centered person, and he’d like to know what I had to say to that. I
  answered:
  “Well, I rarely have anything much to say. So, naturally I keep my mouth shut.”
  He smiled as on the previous occasion, and agreed that that was the best of reasons. “In any
  case,” he added, “it has little or no importance.”
  After a short silence he suddenly leaned forward, looked me in the eyes, and said, raising his
  voice a little:
  “What really interests me is—you!”
  I wasn’t quite clear what he meant, so I made no comment.
  “There are several things,” he continued, “that puzzle me about your crime. I feel sure that you
  will help me to understand them.”
  When I replied that really it was quite simple, he asked me to give him an account of what I’d
  done that day. As a matter of fact, I had already told him at our first interview—in a summary
  sort of way, of course—about Raymond, the beach, our swim, the fight, then the beach again,
  and the five shots I’d fired. But I went over it all again, and after each phrase he nodded.“Quite
  so, quite so.” When I described the body lying on the sand, he nodded more emphatically, and
  said, “Good!” I was tired of repeating the same story; I felt as if I’d never talked so much in all
  my life before.
  After another silence he stood up and said he’d like to help me; I interested him, and, with
  God’s help, he would do something for me in my trouble. But, first, he must put a few more
  questions.
  He began by asking bluntly if I’d loved my mother.
  “Yes,” I replied, “like everybody else.” The clerk behind me, who had been typing away at a
  steady pace, must just then have hit the wrong keys, as I heard him pushing the carrier back and
  crossing something out.
  Next, without any apparent logical connection, the magistrate sprang another question.
  “Why did you fire five consecutive shots?”
  I thought for a bit; then explained that they weren’t quite consecutive. I fired one at first, and the
  other four after a short interval.
  “Why did you pause between the first and second shot?”
  
  I seemed to see it hovering again before my eyes, the red glow of the beach, and to feel that
  fiery breath on my cheeks—and, this time, I made no answer.
  During the silence that followed, the magistrate kept fidgeting, running his fingers through his
  hair, half rising, then sitting down again. Finally, planting his elbows on the desk, he bent toward
  me with a queer expression.
  “But why, why did you go on firing at a prostrate man?”
  Again I found nothing to reply.
  The magistrate drew his hand across his forehead and repeated in a slightly different tone:
  “I ask you ‘ Why?’ I insist on your telling me.” I still kept silent.
  Suddenly he rose, walked to a file cabinet standing against the opposite wall, pulled a drawer
  open, and took from it a silver crucifix, which he was waving as he came back to the desk.
  “Do you know who this is?” His voice had changed completely; it was vibrant with emotion.
  “Of course I do,” I answered.
  That seemed to start him off; he began speaking at a great pace. He told me he believed in God,
  and that even the worst of sinners could obtain forgiveness of Him. But first he must repent, and
  become like a little child, with a simple, trustful heart, open to conviction. He was leaning right
  across the table, brandishing his crucifix before my eyes.
  As a matter of fact, I had great difficulty in following his remarks, as, for one thing, the office
  was so stiflingly hot and big flies were buzzing round and settling on my cheeks; also because he
  rather alarmed me. Of course, I realized it was absurd to feel like this, considering that, after all,
  it was I who was the criminal. However, as he continued talking, I did my best to understand,
  and I gathered that there was only one point in my confession that badly needed clearing up—the
  fact that I’d waited before firing a second time. All the rest was, so to speak, quite in order; but
  that completely baffled him.
  I started to tell him that he was wrong in insisting on this; the point was of quite minor
  importance. But, before I could get the words out, he had drawn himself up to his full height and
  was asking me very earnestly if I believed in God. When I said, “No,” he plumped down into his
  chair indignantly.
  That was unthinkable, he said; all men believe in God, even those who reject Him. Of this he
  was absolutely sure; if ever he came to doubt it, his life would lose all meaning. “Do you wish,”
  he asked indignantly, “my life to have no meaning?” Really I couldn’t see how my wishes came
  into it, and I told him as much.
  While I was talking, he thrust the crucifix again just under my nose and shouted: “I, anyhow, am
  
  a Christian. And I pray Him to forgive you for your sins. My poor young man, how can you not
  believe that He suffered for your sake?”
  I noticed that his manner seemed genuinely solicitous when he said, “My poor young man”—
  but I was beginning to have enough of it. The room was growing steadily hotter.
  As I usually do when I want to get rid of someone whose conversation bores me, I pretended to
  agree. At which, rather to my surprise, his face lit up.
  “You see! You see! Now won’t you own that you believe and put your trust in Him?”
  I must have shaken my head again, for he sank back in his chair, looking limp and dejected.
  For some moments there was a silence during which the typewriter, which had been clicking
  away all the time we talked, caught up with the last remark. Then he looked at me intently and
  rather sadly.
  “Never in all my experience have I known a soul so case-hardened as yours,” he said in a low
  tone. “All the criminals who have come before me until now wept when they saw this symbol of
  our Lord’s sufferings.”
  I was on the point of replying that was precisely because they were criminals. But then I realized
  that I, too, came under that description. Somehow it was an idea to which I never could get
  reconciled.
  To indicate, presumably, that the interview was over, the magistrate stood up. In the same weary
  tone he asked me a last question: Did I regret what I had done?
  After thinking a bit, I said that what I felt was less regret than a kind of vexation—I couldn’t
  find a better word for it. But he didn’t seem to understand. ... This was as far as things went at
  that day’s interview.
  I came before the magistrate many times more, but on these occasions my lawyer always
  accompanied me. The examinations were confined to asking me to amplify my previous
  statements. Or else the magistrate and my lawyer discussed technicalities. At such times they
  took very little notice of me, and, in any case, the tone of the examinations changed as time went
  on. The magistrate seemed to have lost interest in me, and to have come to some sort-of decision
  about my case. He never mentioned God again or displayed any of the religious fervor I had
  found so embarrassing at our first interview. The result was that our relations became more
  cordial. After a few questions, followed by an exchange of remarks with the lawyer, the
  magistrate closed the interview. My case was “taking its course,” as he put it. Sometimes, too,
  the conversation was of a general order, and the magistrate and lawyer encouraged me to join in
  it. I began to breathe more freely. Neither of the two men, at these times, showed the least
  hostility toward me, and everything went so smoothly, so amiably, that I had an absurd
  impression of being “one of the family .” I can honestly say that during the eleven months these
  examinations lasted I got so used to them that I was almost surprised at having ever enjoyed
  
  anything better than those rare moments when the magistrate, after escorting me to the door of
  the office, would pat my shoulder and say in a friendly tone: “Well, Mr. Antichrist, that’s all for
  the present!” After which I was made over to my jailers.
  II
  THERE are some things of which I’ve never cared to talk. And, a few days after I’d been sent to
  prison, I decided that this phase of my life was one of them. However, as time went by, I came to
  feel that this aversion had no real substance. In point of fact, during those early days, I was
  hardly conscious of being in prison; I had always a vague hope that something would turn up,
  some agreeable surprise.
  The change came soon after Marie’s first and only visit. From the day when I got her letter
  telling me they wouldn’t let her come to see me anymore, because she wasn’t my wife—it was
  from that day that I realized that this cell was my last home, a dead end, so to speak.
  On the day of my arrest they put me in a biggish room with several other prisoners, mostly
  Arabs. They grinned when they saw me enter, and asked me what I’d done. I told them I’d killed
  an Arab, and they kept mum for a while. But presently night began to fall, and one of them
  explained to me how to lay out my sleeping mat. By rolling up one end one makes a sort of
  bolster. All night I felt bugs crawling over my face.
  Some days later I was put by myself in a cell, where I slept on a plank bed hinged to the wall.
  The only other furniture was a latrine bucket and a tin basin. The prison stands on rising ground,
  and through my little window I had glimpses of the sea. One day when I was hanging on the
  bars, straining my eyes toward the sunlight playing on the waves, a jailer entered and said I had a
  visitor. I thought it must be Marie, and so it was.
  To go to the Visitors’ Room, I was taken along a corridor, then up a flight of steps, then along
  another corridor. It was a very large room, lit by a big bow window, and divided into three
  compartments by high iron grilles running transversally. Between the two grilles there was a gap
  of some thirty feet, a sort of no man’s land between the prisoners and their friends. I was led to a
  point exactly opposite Marie, who was wearing her striped dress. On my side of the rails were
  about a dozen other prisoners, Arabs for the most part. On Marie’s side were mostly Moorish
  women. She was wedged between a small old woman with tight-set lips and a fat matron,
  without a hat, who was talking shrilly and gesticulated all the time. Because of the distance
  between the visitors and prisoners I found I, too, had to raise my voice.
  When I came into the room the babel of voices echoing on the bare walls, and the sunlight
  streaming in, flooding everything in a harsh white glare, made me feel quite dizzy. After the
  relative darkness and the silence of my cell it took me some moments to get used to these
  conditions. After a bit, however, I came to see each face quite clearly, lit up as if a spotlight
  played on it.
  I noticed a prison official seated at each end of the no man’s land between the grilles. The native
  
  prisoners and their relations on the other side were squatting opposite each other. They didn’t
  raise their voices and, in spite of the din, managed to converse almost in whispers. This murmur
  of voices coming from below made a sort of accompaniment to the conversations going on above
  their heads. I took stock of all this very quickly and moved a step forward toward Marie. She was
  pressing her brown, sun-tanned face to the bars and smiling as hard as she could. I thought she
  was looking very pretty, but somehow couldn’t bring myself to tell her so.
  “Well?” she asked, pitching her voice very high. “What about it? Are you all right, have you
  everything you want?”
  “Oh, yes. I’ve everything I want.”
  We were silent for some moments; Marie went on smiling. The fat woman was bawling at the
  prisoner beside me, her husband presumably, a tall, fair, pleasant-looking man.
  “Jeanne refused to have him,” she yelled.
  “That’s just too bad,” the man replied.
  “Yes, and I told her you’d take him back the moment you got out; but she wouldn’t hear of it.”
  Marie shouted across the gap that Raymond sent me his best wishes, and I said, “Thanks.” But
  my voice was drowned by my neighbor’s, asking “if he was quite fit.”
  The fat woman gave a laugh. “Fit? I should say he is! The picture of health.”
  Meanwhile the prisoner on my left, a youngster with thin, girlish hands, never said a word. His
  eyes, I noticed, were fixed on the little old woman opposite him, and she returned his gaze with a
  sort of hungry passion. But I had to stop looking at them as Marie was shouting to me that we
  mustn’t lose hope.
  “Certainly not,” I answered. My gaze fell on her shoulders, and I had a sudden longing to
  squeeze them, through the thin dress. Its silky texture fascinated me, and I had a feeling that the
  hope she spoke of centered on it, somehow. I imagine something of the same sort was in Marie’s
  mind, for she went on smiling, looking straight at me.
  “It’ll all come right, you’ll see, and then we shall get married.”
  All I could see of her now was the white flash of her teeth, and the little puckers round her eyes.
  I answered: “Do you really think so?” but chiefly because I felt it up to me to answer something.
  She started talking very fast in the same high-pitched voice.
  “Yes, you’ll be acquitted, and we’ll go bathing again, Sundays.”
  The woman beside me was still yelling away, telling her husband that she’d left a basket for him
  
  in the prison office. She gave a list of the things she’d brought and told him to mind and check
  them carefully, as some had cost quite a lot. The youngster on my other side and his mother were
  still gazing mournfully at each other, and the murmur of the Arabs droned on below us. The light
  outside seemed to be surging up against the window, seeping through, and smearing the faces of
  the people facing it with a coat of yellow oil.
  I began to feel slightly squeamish, and wished I could leave. The strident voice beside me was
  jarring on my ears. But, on the other hand, I wanted to have the most I could of Marie’s
  company. I’ve no idea how much time passed. I remember Marie’s describing to me her work,
  with that set smile always on her face. There wasn’t a moment’s letup in the noise—shouts,
  conversations, and always that muttering undertone. The only oasis of silence was made by the
  young fellow and the old woman gazing into each other’s eyes.
  Then, one by one, the Arabs were led away; almost everyone fell silent when the first one left.
  The little old woman pressed herself against the bars and at the same moment a jailer tapped her
  son’s shoulder. He called, “ Au revoir, Mother,” and, slipping her hand between the bars, she
  gave him a small, slow wave with it.
  No sooner was she gone than a man, hat in hand, took her place. A prisoner was led up to the
  empty place beside me, and the two started a brisk exchange of remarks—not loud, however, as
  the room had become relatively quiet. Someone came and called away the man on my right, and
  his wife shouted at him—she didn’t seem to realize it was no longer necessary to shout—“Now,
  mind you look after yourself, dear, and don’t do anything rash!”
  My turn came next. Marie threw me a kiss. I looked back as I walked away. She hadn’t moved;
  her face was still pressed to the rails, her lips still parted in that tense, twisted smile.
  Soon after this I had a letter from her. And it was then that the things I’ve never liked to talk
  about began. Not that they were particularly terrible; I’ve no wish to exaggerate and I suffered
  less than others. Still, there was one thing in those early days that was really irksome: my habit
  of thinking like a free man. For instance, I would suddenly be seized with a desire to go down to
  the beach for a swim. And merely to have imagined the sound of ripples at my feet, the smooth
  feel of the water on my body as I struck out, and the wonderful sensation of relief it gave brought
  home still more cruelly the narrowness of my cell.
  Still, that phase lasted a few months only. Afterward, I had prisoner’s thoughts. I waited for the
  daily walk in the courtyard or a visit from my lawyer. As for the rest of the time, I managed quite
  well, really. I’ve often thought that had I been compelled to live in the trunk of a dead tree, with
  nothing to do but gaze up at the patch of sky just overhead, I’d have got used to it by degrees. I’d
  have learned to watch for the passing of birds or drifting clouds, as I had come to watch for my
  lawyer’s odd neckties, or, in another world, to wait patiently till Sunday for a spell of love-
  making with Marie. Well, here, anyhow, I wasn’t penned in a hollow tree trunk. There were
  others in the world worse off than I. I remembered it had been one of Mother’s pet ideas—she
  was always voicing it—that in the long run one gets used to anything.
  Usually, however, I didn’t think things out so far. Those first months were trying, of course; but
  
  the very effort I had to make helped me through them. For instance, I was plagued by the desire
  for a woman—which was natural enough, considering my age. I never thought of Marie
  especially. I was obsessed by thoughts of this woman or that, of all the ones I’d had, all the
  circumstances under which I’d loved them; so much so that the cell grew crowded with their
  faces, ghosts of my old passions. That unsettled me, no doubt; but, at least, it served to kill time.
  I gradually became quite friendly with the chief jailer, who went the rounds with the kitchen
  hands at mealtimes. It was he who brought up the subject of women. “That’s what the men here
  grumble about most,” he told me.
  I said I felt like that myself. “There’s something unfair about it,” I added, “like hitting a man
  when he’s down.”
  “But that’s the whole point of it,” he said; “that’s why you fellows are kept in prison.”
  “I don’t follow.”
  “Liberty,” he said, “means that. You’re being deprived of your liberty.”
  It had never before struck me in that light, but I saw his point. “That’s true,” I said. “Otherwise
  it wouldn’t be a punishment.”
  The jailer nodded. “Yes, you’re different, you can use your brains. The others can’t. Still, those
  fellows find a way out; they do it by themselves.” With which remark the jailer left my cell. Next
  day I did like the others.
  The lack of cigarettes, too, was a trial. When I was brought to the prison, they took away my
  belt, my shoelaces, and the contents of my pockets, including my cigarettes. Once I had been
  given a cell to myself I asked to be given back, anyhow, the cigarettes. Smoking was forbidden,
  they informed me. That, perhaps, was what got me down the most; in fact, I suffered really badly
  during the first few days. I even tore off splinters from my plank bed and sucked them. All day
  long I felt faint and bilious. It passed my understanding why I shouldn’t be allowed even to
  smoke; it could have done no one any harm. Later on, I understood the idea behind it; this
  privation, too, was part of my punishment. But, by the time I understood, I’d lost the craving, so
  it had ceased to be a punishment.
  Except for these privations I wasn’t too unhappy. Yet again, the whole problem was: how to kill
  time. After a while, however, once I’d learned the trick of remembering things, I never had a
  moment’s boredom. Sometimes I would exercise my memory on my bedroom and, starting from
  a corner, make the round, noting every object I saw on the way. At first it was over in a minute
  or two. But each time I repeated the experience, it took a little longer. I made a point of
  visualizing every piece of furniture, and each article upon or in it, and then every detail of each
  article, and finally the details of the details, so to speak: a tiny dent or incrustation, or a chipped
  edge, and the exact grain and color of the woodwork. At the same time I forced myself to keep
  my inventory in mind from start to finish, in the right order and omitting no item. With the result
  that, after a few weeks, I could spend hours merely in listing the objects in my bedroom. I found
  
  that the more I thought, the more details, half-forgotten or mal-observed, floated up from my
  memory. There seemed no end to them.
  So I learned that even after a single day’s experience of the outside world a man could easily
  live a hundred years in prison. He’d have laid up enough memories never to be bored.
  Obviously, in one way, this was a compensation .
  Then there was sleep. To begin with, I slept badly at night and never in the day. But gradually
  my nights became better, and I managed to doze off in the daytime as well. In fact, during the
  last months, I must have slept sixteen or eighteen hours out of the twenty-four. So there remained
  only six hours to fill—with meals, relieving nature, my memories ... and the story of the Czech.
  One day, when inspecting my straw mattress, I found a bit of newspaper stuck to its underside.
  The paper was yellow with age, almost transparent, but I could still make out the letter print. It
  was the story of a crime. The first part was missing, but I gathered that its scene was some
  village in Czechoslovakia. One of the villagers had left his home to try his luck abroad. After
  twenty-five years, having made a fortune, he returned to his country with his wife and child.
  Meanwhile his mother and sister had been running a small hotel in the village where he was
  born. He decided to give them a surprise and, leaving his wife and child in another inn, he went
  to stay at his mother’s place, booking a room under an assumed name. His mother and sister
  completely failed to recognize him. At dinner that evening he showed them a large sum of
  money he had on him, and in the course of the night they slaughtered him with a hammer. After
  taking the money they flung the body into the river. Next morning his wife came and, without
  thinking, betrayed the guest’s identity. His mother hanged herself. His sister threw herself into a
  well. I must have read that story thousands of times. In one way it sounded most unlikely; in
  another, it was plausible enough. Anyhow, to my mind, the man was asking for trouble; one
  shouldn’t play fool tricks of that sort.
  So, what with long bouts of sleep, my memories, readings of that scrap of newspaper, the tides
  of light and darkness, the days slipped by. I’d read, of course, that in jail one ends up by losing
  track of time. But this had never meant anything definite to me. I hadn’t grasped how days could
  be at once long and short. Long, no doubt, as periods to live through, but so distended that they
  ended up by overlapping on each other. In fact, I never thought of days as such; only the words
  “yesterday” and “tomorrow” still kept some meaning.
  When, one morning, the jailer informed me I’d now been six months in jail, I believed him—but
  the words conveyed nothing to my mind. To me it seemed like one and the same day that had
  been going on since I’d been in my cell, and that I’d been doing the same thing all the time.
  After the jailer left me I shined up my tin pannikin and studied my face in it. My expression was
  terribly serious, I thought, even when I tried to smile. I held the pannikin at different angles, but
  always my face had the same mournful, tense expression.
  The sun was setting and it was the hour of which I’d rather not speak—“the nameless hour,” I
  called it—when evening sounds were creeping up from all the floors of the prison in a sort of
  stealthy procession. I went to the barred window and in the last rays looked once again at my
  
  reflected face. It was as serious as before; and that wasn’t surprising, as just then I was feeling
  serious. But, at the same time, I heard something that I hadn’t heard for months. It was the sound
  of a voice; my own voice, there was no mistaking it. And I recognized it as the voice that for
  many a day of late had been sounding in my ears. So I knew that all this time I’d been talking to
  myself.
  And something I’d been told came back; a remark made by the nurse at Mother’s funeral. No,
  there was no way out, and no one can imagine what the evenings are like in prison.
  III
  ON THE whole I can’t say that those months passed slowly; another summer was on its way
  almost before I realized the first was over. And I knew that with the first really hot days
  something new was in store for me. My case was down for the last sessions of the Assize Court,
  and those sessions were due to end sometime in June.
  The day on which my trial started was one of brilliant sunshine. My lawyer assured me the case
  would take only two or three days. “From what I hear,” he added, “the court will dispatch your
  case as quickly as possible, as it isn’t the most important one on the Cause List. There’s a case of
  parricide immediately after, which will take them some time.”
  They came for me at half-past seven in the morning and I was conveyed to the law courts in a
  prison van. The two policemen led me into a small room that smelled of darkness. We sat near a
  door through which came sounds of voices, shouts, chairs scraping on the floor; a vague hubbub
  which reminded me of one of those small-town “socials” when, after the concert’s over, the hall
  is cleared for dancing.
  One of my policemen told me the judges hadn’t arrived yet, and offered me a cigarette, which I
  declined. After a bit he asked me if I was feeling nervous. I said, “No,” and that the prospect of
  witnessing a trial rather interested me; I’d never had occasion to attend one before.
  “Maybe,” the other policeman said. “But after an hour or two one’s had enough of it.”
  After a while a small electric bell purred in the room. They unfastened my handcuffs, opened
  the door, and led me to the prisoner’s dock.
  There was a great crowd in the courtroom. Though the Venetian blinds were down, light was
  filtering through the chinks, and the air stiflingly hot already. The windows had been kept shut. I
  sat down, and the police officers took their stand on each side of my chair.
  It was then that I noticed a row of faces opposite me. These people were staring hard at me, and
  I guessed they were the jury. But somehow I didn’t see them as individuals. I felt as you do just
  after boarding a streetcar and you’re conscious of all the people on the opposite seat staring at
  you in the hope of finding something in your appearance to amuse them. Of course, I knew this
  was an absurd comparison; what these people were looking for in me wasn’t anything to laugh
  
  at, but signs of criminality. Still, the difference wasn’t so very great, and, anyhow, that’s the idea
  I got.
  What with the crowd and the stuffiness of the air I was feeling a bit dizzy. I ran my eyes round
  the courtroom but couldn’t recognize any of the faces. At first I could hardly believe that all
  these people had come on my account. It was such a new experience, being a focus of interest; in
  the ordinary way no one ever paid much attention to me.
  “What a crush!” I remarked to the policeman on my left, and he explained that the newspapers
  were responsible for it.
  He pointed to a group of men at a table just below the jury box. “There they are!”
  “Who?”I asked, and he replied, “The press.” One of them, he added, was an old friend of his.
  A moment later the man he’d mentioned looked our way and, coming to the dock, shook hands
  warmly with the policeman. The journalist was an elderly man with a rather grim expression, but
  his manner was quite pleasant. Just then I noticed that almost all the people in the courtroom
  were greeting each other, exchanging remarks and forming groups—behaving, in fact, as in a
  club where the company of others of one’s own tastes and standing makes one feel at ease. That,
  no doubt, explained the odd impression I had of being de trop here, a sort of gate-crasher.
  However, the journalist addressed me quite amiably, and said he hoped all would go well for
  me. I thanked him, and he added with a smile:
  “You know, we’ve been featuring you a bit. We’re always rather short of copy in the summer,
  and there’s been precious little to write about except your case and the one that’s coming on after
  it. I expect you’ve heard about it; it’s a case of parricide.”
  He drew my attention to one of the group at the press table, a plump, small man with huge
  black-rimmed glasses, who made me think of an overfed weasel.
  “That fellow’s the special correspondent of one of the Paris dailies. As a matter of fact, he didn’t
  come on your account. He was sent for the parricide case, but they’ve asked him to cover yours
  as well.”
  It was on the tip of my tongue to say, “That was very kind of them,” but then I thought it would
  sound silly. With a friendly wave of his hand he left us, and for some minutes nothing happened.
  Then, accompanied by some colleagues, my lawyer bustled in, in his gown. He went up to the
  press table and shook hands with the journalists. They remained laughing and chatting together,
  all seemingly very much at home here, until a bell rang shrilly and everyone went to his place.
  My lawyer came up to me, shook hands, and advised me to answer all the questions as briefly as
  possible, not to volunteer information, and to rely on him to see me through.
  I heard a chair scrape on my left, and a tall, thin man wearing pince-nez settled the folds of his
  
  red gown as he took his seat. The Public Prosecutor, I gathered. A clerk of the court announced
  that Their Honors were entering, and at the same moment two big electric fans started buzzing
  overhead. Three judges, two in black and the third in scarlet, with brief cases under their arms,
  entered and walked briskly to the bench, which was several feet above the level of the courtroom
  floor. The man in scarlet took the central, high-backed chair, placed his cap of office on the
  table, ran a handkerchief over his small bald crown, and announced that the hearing would now
  begin.
  The journalists had their fountain pens ready; they all wore the same expression of slightly
  ironical indifference, with the exception of one, a much younger man than his colleagues, in gray
  flannels with a blue tie, who, leaving his pen on the table, was gazing hard at me. He had a plain,
  rather chunky face; what held my attention were his eyes, very pale, clear eyes, riveted on me,
  though not betraying any definite emotion. For a moment I had an odd impression, as if I were
  being scrutinized by myself. That—and the fact that I was unfamiliar with court procedure—may
  explain why I didn’t follow very well the opening phases: the drawing of lots for the jury, the
  various questions put by the presiding judge to the Prosecutor, the foreman of the jury, and my
  counsel (each time he spoke all the jurymen’s heads swung round together toward the bench), the
  hurried reading of the charge sheet, in the course of which I recognized some familiar names of
  people and places; then some supplementary questions put to my lawyer.
  Next, the Judge announced that the court would call over the witness list. Some of the names
  read out by the clerk rather surprised me. From amongst the crowd, which until now I had seen
  as a mere blur of faces, rose, one after the other, Raymond, Masson, Salamano, the doorkeeper
  from the Home, old Pérez, and Marie, who gave me a little nervous wave of her hand before
  following the others out by a side door. I was thinking how strange it was I hadn’t noticed any of
  them before when I heard the last name called, that of Céleste. As he rose, I noticed beside him
  the quaint little woman with a mannish coat and brisk, decided air, who had shared my table at
  the restaurant. She had her eyes fixed on me, I noticed. But I hadn’t time to wonder about her;
  the Judge had started speaking again.
  He said that the trial proper was about to begin, and he need hardly say that he expected the
  public to refrain from any demonstration whatsoever. He explained that he was there to supervise
  the proceedings, as a sort of umpire, and he would take a scrupulously impartial view of the case.
  The verdict of the jury would be interpreted by him in a spirit of justice. Finally, at the least sign
  of a disturbance he would have the court cleared.
  The day was stoking up. Some of the public were fanning themselves with newspapers, and
  there was a constant rustle of crumpled paper. On a sign from the presiding judge the clerk of the
  court brought three fans of plaited straw, which the three judges promptly put in action.
  My examination began at once. The Judge questioned me quite calmly and even, I thought, with
  a hint of cordiality. For the nth time I was asked to give particulars of my identity and, though
  heartily sick of this formality, I realized that it was natural enough; after all, it would be a
  shocking thing for the court to be trying the wrong man.
  The Judge then launched into an account of what I’d done, stopping after every two or three
  
  sentences to ask me, “Is that correct?” To which I always replied, “Yes, sir,” as my lawyer had
  advised me. It was a long business, as the Judge lingered on each detail. Meanwhile the
  journalists scribbled busily away. But I was sometimes conscious of the eyes of the youngest
  fixed on me; also those of the queer little robot woman. The jurymen, however, were all gazing
  at the red-robed judge, and I was again reminded of the row of passengers on one side of a tram.
  Presently he gave a slight cough, turned some pages of his file, and, still fanning his face,
  addressed me gravely.
  He now proposed, he said, to trench on certain matters which, on a superficial view, might seem
  foreign to the case, but actually were highly relevant. I guessed that he was going to talk about
  Mother, and at the same moment realized how odious I would find this. His first question was:
  Why had I sent my mother to an institution? I replied that the reason was simple; I hadn’t enough
  money to see that she was properly looked after at home. Then he asked if the parting hadn’t
  caused me distress. I explained that neither Mother nor I expected much of one another—or, for
  that matter, of anybody else; so both of us had got used to the new conditions easily enough. The
  Judge then said that he had no wish to press the point, and asked the Prosecutor if he could think
  of any more questions that should be put to me at this stage.
  The Prosecutor, who had his back half turned to me, said, without looking in my direction, that,
  subject to His Honor’s approval, he would like to know if I’d gone back to the stream with the
  intention of killing the Arab. I said, “No.” In that case, why had I taken a revolver with me, and
  why go back precisely to that spot? I said it was a matter of pure chance. The Prosecutor then
  observed in a nasty tone: “Very good. That will be all for the present.”
  I couldn’t quite follow what came next. Anyhow, after some palavering among the bench, the
  Prosecutor, and my counsel, the presiding judge announced that the court would now rise; there
  was an adjournment till the afternoon, when evidence would be taken.
  Almost before I knew what was happening I was rushed out to the prison van, which drove me
  back, and I was given my midday meal. After a short time, just enough for me to realize how
  tired I was feeling, they came for me. I was back in the same room, confronting the same faces,
  and the whole thing started again. But the heat had meanwhile much increased, and by some
  miracle fans had been procured for everyone: the jury, my lawyer, the Prosecutor, and some of
  the journalists, too. The young man and the robot woman were still at their places. But they were
  not fanning themselves and, as before, they never took their eyes off me.
  I wiped the sweat from my face, but I was barely conscious of where or who I was until I heard
  the warden of the Home called to the witness box. When asked if my mother had complained
  about my conduct, he said, “Yes,” but that didn’t mean much; almost all the inmates of the Home
  had grievances against their relatives. The Judge asked him to be more explicit; did she reproach
  me with having sent her to the Home, and he said, “Yes,” again. But this time he didn’t qualify
  his answer.
  To another question he replied that on the day of the funeral he was somewhat surprised by my
  calmness. Asked to explain what he meant by “my calmness,” the warden lowered his eyes and
  stared at his shoes for a moment. Then he explained that I hadn’t wanted to see Mother’s body,
  
  or shed a single tear, and that I’d left immediately the funeral ended, without lingering at her
  grave. Another thing had surprised him. One of the undertaker’s men told him that I didn’t know
  my mother’s age. There was a short silence; then the Judge asked him if he might take it that he
  was referring to the prisoner in the dock. The warden seemed puzzled by this, and the Judge
  explained: “It’s a formal question. I am bound to put it.”
  The Prosecutor was then asked if he had any questions to put, and he answered loudly:
  “Certainly not! I have all I want.” His tone and the look of triumph on his face, as he glanced at
  me, were so marked that I felt as I hadn’t felt for ages. I had a foolish desire to burst into tears.
  For the first time I’d realized how all these people loathed me.
  After asking the jury and my lawyer if they had any questions, the Judge heard the doorkeeper’s
  evidence. On stepping into the box the man threw a glance at me, then looked away. Replying to
  questions, he said that I’d declined to see Mother’s body, I’d smoked cigarettes and slept, and
  drunk café au lait . It was then I felt a sort of wave of indignation spreading through the
  courtroom, and for the first time I understood that I was guilty. They got the doorkeeper to repeat
  what he had said about the coffee and my smoking.
  The Prosecutor turned to me again, with a gloating look in his eyes. My counsel asked the
  doorkeeper if he, too, hadn’t smoked. But the Prosecutor took strong exception to this. “I’d like
  to know,” he cried indignantly, “who is on trial in this court. Or does my friend think that by
  aspersing a witness for the prosecution he will shake the evidence, the abundant and cogent
  evidence, against his client?” None the less, the Judge told the doorkeeper to answer the
  question.
  The old fellow fidgeted a bit. Then, “Well, I know I didn’t ought to have done it,” he mumbled,
  “but I did take a cigarette from the young gentleman when he offered it—just out of politeness.”
  The Judge asked me if I had any comment to make. “None,” I said, “except that the witness is
  quite right. It’s true I offered him a cigarette.”
  The doorkeeper looked at me with surprise and a sort of gratitude. Then, after hemming and
  hawing for a bit, he volunteered the statement that it was he who’d suggested I should have some
  coffee.
  My lawyer was exultant. “The jury will appreciate,” he said, “the importance of this admission.”
  The Prosecutor, however, was promptly on his feet again. “Quite so,” he boomed above our
  heads. “The jury will appreciate it. And they will draw the conclusion that, though a third party
  might inadvertently offer him a cup of coffee, the prisoner, in common decency, should have
  refused it, if only out of respect for the dead body of the poor woman who had brought him into
  the world.”
  After which the doorkeeper went back to his seat.
  When Thomas Pérez was called, a court officer had to help him to the box. Pérez stated that,
  
  though he had been a great friend of my mother, he had met me once only, on the day of the
  funeral. Asked how I had behaved that day, he said:
  “Well, I was most upset, you know. Far too much upset to notice things. My grief sort of
  blinded me, I think. It had been a great shock, my dear friend’s death; in fact, I fainted during the
  funeral. So I didn’t hardly notice the young gentleman at all.”
  The Prosecutor asked him to tell the court if he’d seen me weep. And when Pérez answered,
  “No,” added emphatically: “I trust the jury will take note of this reply.”
  My lawyer rose at once, and asked Pérez in a tone that seemed to me needlessly aggressive:
  “Now, think well, my man! Can you swear you saw he didn’t shed a tear?”
  Pérez answered, “No.”
  At this some people tittered, and my lawyer, pushing back one sleeve of his gown, said sternly:
  “That is typical of the way this case is being conducted. No attempt is being made to elicit the
  true facts.”
  The Prosecutor ignored this remark; he was making dabs with his pencil on the cover of his
  brief, seemingly quite indifferent.
  There was a break of five minutes, during which my lawyer told me the case was going very
  well indeed. Then Céleste was called. He was announced as a witness for the defense. The
  defense meant me.
  Now and again Céleste threw me a glance; he kept squeezing his Panama hat between his hands
  as he gave evidence. He was in his best suit, the one he wore when sometimes of a Sunday he
  went with me to the races. But evidently he hadn’t been able to get his collar on; the top of his
  shirt, I noticed, was secured only by a brass stud. Asked if I was one of his customers, he said,
  “Yes, and a friend as well.” Asked to state his opinion of me, he said that I was “all right” and,
  when told to explain what he meant by that, he replied that everyone knew what that meant.
  “Was I a secretive sort of man?” “No,” he answered, “I shouldn’t call him that. But he isn’t one
  to waste his breath, like a lot of folks.”
  The Prosecutor asked him if I always settled my monthly bill at his restaurant when he presented
  it. Céleste laughed. “Oh, he paid on the nail, all right. But the bills were just details-like, between
  him and me.” Then he was asked to say what he thought about the crime. He placed his hands on
  the rail of the box and one could see he had a speech all ready.
  “To my mind it was just an accident, or a stroke of bad luck, if you prefer. And a thing like that
  takes you off your guard.”
  He wanted to continue, but the Judge cut him short.“Quite so. That’s all, thank you.”
  
  For a bit Céleste seemed flabbergasted; then he explained that he hadn’t finished what he
  wanted to say. They told him to continue, but to make it brief.
  He only repeated that it was “just an accident.”
  “That’s as it may be,” the Judge observed. “But what we are here for is to try such accidents,
  according to law. You can stand down.”
  Céleste turned and gazed at me. His eyes were moist and his lips trembling. It was exactly as if
  he’d said: “Well, I’ve done my best for you, old man. I’m afraid it hasn’t helped much. I’m
  sorry.”
  I didn’t say anything, or make any movement, but for the first time in my life I wanted to kiss a
  man.
  The Judge repeated his order to stand down, and Céleste returned to his place amongst the
  crowd. During the rest of the hearing he remained there, leaning forward, elbows on knees and
  his Panama between his hands, not missing a word of the proceedings.
  It was Marie’s turn next. She had a hat on and still looked quite pretty, though I much preferred
  her with her hair free. From where I was I had glimpses of the soft curve of her breasts, and her
  underlip had the little pout that always fascinated me. She appeared very nervous.
  The first question was: How long had she known me? Since the time when she was in our office,
  she replied. Then the Judge asked her what were the relations between us, and she said she was
  my girl friend. Answering another question, she admitted promising to marry me. The
  Prosecutor, who had been studying a document in front of him, asked her rather sharply when
  our “liaison” had begun. She gave the date. He then observed with a would-be casual air that
  apparently she meant the day following my mother’s funeral. After letting this sink in he
  remarked in a slightly ironic tone that obviously this was a “delicate topic” and he could enter
  into the young lady’s feelings, but—and here his voice grew sterner—his duty obliged him to
  waive considerations of delicacy.
  After making this announcement he asked Marie to give a full account of our doings on the day
  when I had “intercourse” with her for the first time. Marie wouldn’t answer at first, but the
  Prosecutor insisted, and then she told him that we had met at the baths, gone together to the
  pictures, and then to my place. He then informed the court that, as a result of certain statements
  made by Marie at the proceedings before the magistrate, he had studied the movie programs of
  that date, and turning to Marie asked her to name the film that we had gone to see. In a very low
  voice she said it was a picture with Fernandel in it. By the time she had finished, the courtroom
  was so still you could have heard a pin drop.
  Looking very grave, the Prosecutor drew himself up to his full height and, pointing at me, said
  in such a tone that I could have sworn he was genuinely moved:
  
  “Gentlemen of the jury, I would have you note that on the next day after his mother’s funeral
  that man was visiting the swimming pool, starting a liaison with a girl, and going to see a comic
  film. That is all I wish to say.”
  When he sat down there was the same dead silence. Then all of a sudden Marie burst into tears.
  He’d got it all wrong, she said; it wasn’t a bit like that really, he’d bullied her into saying the
  opposite of what she meant. She knew me very well, and she was sure I hadn’t done anything
  really wrong—and so on. At a sign from the presiding judge, one of the court officers led her
  away, and the hearing continued.
  Hardly anyone seemed to listen to Masson, the next witness. He stated that I was a respectable
  young fellow; “and, what’s more, a very decent chap.” Nor did they pay any more attention to
  Salamano, when he told them how kind I’d always been to his dog, or when, in answer to a
  question about my mother and myself, he said that Mother and I had very little in common and
  that explained why I’d fixed up for her to enter the Home. “You’ve got to understand,” he added.
  “You’ve got to understand.” But no one seemed to understand. He was told to stand down.
  Raymond was the next, and last, witness. He gave me a little wave of his hand and led off by
  saying I was innocent. The Judge rebuked him.
  “You are here to give evidence, not your views on the case, and you must confine yourself to
  answering the questions put you.”
  He was then asked to make clear his relations with the deceased, and Raymond took this
  opportunity of explaining that it was he, not I, against whom the dead man had a grudge, because
  he, Raymond, had beaten up his sister. The judge asked him if the deceased had no reason to
  dislike me, too. Raymond told him that my presence on the beach that morning was a pure
  coincidence.
  “How comes it then,” the Prosecutor inquired, “that the letter which led up to this tragedy was
  the prisoner’s work?”
  Raymond replied that this, too, was due to mere chance.
  To which the Prosecutor retorted that in this case “chance” or “mere coincidence” seemed to
  play a remarkably large part. Was it by chance that I hadn’t intervened when Raymond assaulted
  his mistress? Did this convenient term “chance” account for my having vouched for Raymond at
  the police station and having made, on that occasion, statements extravagantly favorable to him?
  In conclusion he asked Raymond to state what were his means of livelihood .
  On his describing himself as a warehouseman, the Prosecutor informed the jury it was common
  knowledge that the witness lived on the immoral earnings of women. I, he said, was this man’s
  intimate friend and associate; in fact, the whole background of the crime was of the most squalid
  description. And what made it even more odious was the personality of the prisoner, an inhuman
  monster wholly without a moral sense.
  
  Raymond began to expostulate, and my lawyer, too, protested. They were told that the
  Prosecutor must be allowed to finish his remarks.
  “I have nearly done,” he said; then turned to Raymond. “Was the prisoner your friend?”
  “Certainly. We were the best of pals, as they say.”
  The Prosecutor then put me the same question. I looked hard at Raymond, and he did not turn
  away.
  Then, “Yes,” I answered.
  The Prosecutor turned toward the jury.
  “Not only did the man before you in the dock indulge in the most shameful orgies on the day
  following his mother’s death. He killed a man cold-bloodedly, in pursuance of some sordid
  vendetta in the underworld of prostitutes and pimps. That, gentlemen of the jury, is the type of
  man the prisoner is.”
  No sooner had he sat down than my lawyer, out of all patience, raised his arms so high that his
  sleeves fell back, showing the full length of his starched shirt cuffs.
  “Is my client on trial for having buried his mother, or for killing a man?” he asked.
  There were some titters in court. But then the Prosecutor sprang to his feet and, draping his
  gown round him, said he was amazed at his friend’s ingenuousness in failing to see that between
  these two elements of the case there was a vital link. They hung together psychologically, if he
  might put it so. “In short,” he concluded, speaking with great vehemence, “I accuse the prisoner
  of behaving at his mother’s funeral in a way that showed he was already a criminal at heart.”
  These words seemed to take much effect on the jury and public. My lawyer merely shrugged his
  shoulders and wiped the sweat from his forehead. But obviously he was rattled, and I had a
  feeling things weren’t going well for me.
  Soon after this incident the court rose. As I was being taken from the courthouse to the prison
  van, I was conscious for a few brief moments of the once familiar feel of a summer evening out-
  of-doors. And, sitting in the darkness of my moving cell, I recognized, echoing in my tired brain,
  all the characteristic sounds of a town I’d loved, and of a certain hour of the day which I had
  always particularly enjoyed. The shouts of newspaper boys in the already languid air, the last
  calls of birds in the public garden, the cries of sandwich vendors, the screech of streetcars at the
  steep corners of the upper town, and that faint rustling overhead as darkness sifted down upon
  the harbor—all these sounds made my return to prison like a blind man’s journey along a route
  whose every inch he knows by heart.
  Yes, this was the evening hour when—how long ago it seemed!—I always felt so well content
  with life. Then, what awaited me was a night of easy, dreamless sleep. This was the same hour,
  
  but with a difference; I was returning to a cell, and what awaited me was a night haunted by
  forebodings of the coming day. And so I learned that familiar paths traced in the dusk of summer
  evenings may lead as well to prisons as to innocent, untroubled sleep.
  IV
  IT is always interesting, even in the prisoner’s dock, to hear oneself being talked about. And
  certainly in the speeches of my lawyer and the prosecuting counsel a great deal was said about
  me; more, in fact, about me personally than about my crime.
  Really there wasn’t any very great difference between the two speeches. Counsel for the defense
  raised his arms to heaven and pleaded guilty, but with extenuating circumstances. The Prosecutor
  made similar gestures; he agreed that I was guilty, but denied extenuating circumstances.
  One thing about this phase of the trial was rather irksome. Quite often, interested as I was in
  what they had to say, I was tempted to put in a word, myself. But my lawyer had advised me not
  to. “You won’t do your case any good by talking,” he had warned me. In fact, there seemed to be
  a conspiracy to exclude me from the proceedings; I wasn’t to have any say and my fate was to be
  decided out of hand.
  It was quite an effort at times for me to refrain from cutting them all short, and saying: “But,
  damn it all, who’s on trial in this court, I’d like to know? It’s a serious matter for a man, being
  accused of murder. And I’ve something really important to tell you.”
  However, on second thoughts, I found I had nothing to say. In any case, I must admit that
  hearing oneself talked about loses its interest very soon. The Prosecutor’s speech, especially,
  began to bore me before he was halfway through it. The only things that really caught my
  attention were occasional phrases, his gestures, and some elaborate tirades—but these were
  isolated patches.
  What he was aiming at, I gathered, was to show that my crime was premeditated. I remember
  his saying at one moment, “I can prove this, gentlemen of the jury, to the hilt. First, you have the
  facts of the crime; which are as clear as daylight. And then you have what I may call the night
  side of this case, the dark workings of a criminal mentality.”
  He began by summing up the facts, from my mother’s death onward. He stressed my
  heartlessness, my inability to state Mother’s age, my visit to the swimming pool where I met
  Marie, our matinee at the pictures where a Fernandel film was showing, and finally my return
  with Marie to my rooms. I didn’t quite follow his remarks at first, as he kept on mentioning “the
  prisoner’s mistress,” whereas for me she was just “Marie.” Then he came to the subject of
  Raymond. It seemed to me that his way of treating the facts showed a certain shrewdness. All he
  said sounded quite plausible. I’d written the letter in collusion with Raymond so as to entice his
  mistress to his room and subject her to ill-treatment by a man “of more than dubious reputation.”
  Then, on the beach, I’d provoked a brawl with Raymond’s enemies, in the course of which
  Raymond was wounded. I’d asked him for his revolver and gone back by myself with the
  
  intention of using it. Then I’d shot the Arab. After the first shot I waited. Then, “to be certain of
  making a good job of it,” I fired four more shots deliberately, point-blank, and in cold blood, at
  my victim.
  “That is my case,” he said. “I have described to you the series of events which led this man to
  kill the deceased, fully aware of what he was doing. I emphasize this point. We are not
  concerned with an act of homicide committed on a sudden impulse which might serve as
  extenuation. I ask you to note, gentlemen of the jury, that the prisoner is an educated man. You
  will have observed the way in which he answered my questions; he is intelligent and he knows
  the value of words. And I repeat that it is quite impossible to assume that, when he committed
  the crime, he was unaware what he was doing.”
  I noticed that he laid stress on my “intelligence.” It puzzled me rather why what would count as
  a good point in an ordinary person should be used against an accused man as an overwhelming
  proof of his guilt. While thinking this over, I missed what he said next, until I heard him exclaim
  indignantly: “And has he uttered a word of regret for his most odious crime? Not one word,
  gentlemen. Not once in the course of these proceedings did this man show the least contrition.”
  Turning toward the dock, he pointed a finger at me, and went on in the same strain. I really
  couldn’t understand why he harped on this point so much. Of course, I had to own that he was
  right; I didn’t feel much regret for what I’d done. Still, to my mind he overdid it, and I’d have
  liked to have a chance of explaining to him, in a quite friendly, almost affectionate way, that I
  have never been able really to regret anything in all my life. I’ve always been far too much
  absorbed in the present moment, or the immediate future, to think back. Of course, in the
  position into which I had been forced, there was no question of my speaking to anyone in that
  tone. I hadn’t the right to show any friendly feeling or possess good intentions. And I tried to
  follow what came next, as the Prosecutor was now considering what he called my “soul.”
  He said he’d studied it closely—and had found a blank, “literally nothing, gentlemen of the
  jury.” Really, he said, I had no soul, there was nothing human about me, not one of those moral
  qualities which normal men possess had any place in my mentality. “No doubt,” he added, “we
  should not reproach him with this. We cannot blame a man for lacking what it was never in his
  power to acquire. But in a criminal court the wholly passive ideal of tolerance must give place to
  a sterner, loftier ideal, that of justice. Especially when this lack of every decent instinct is such as
  that of the man before you, a menace to society.” He proceeded to discuss my conduct toward
  my mother, repeating what he had said in the course of the hearing. But he spoke at much greater
  length of my crime—at such length, indeed, that I lost the thread and was conscious only of the
  steadily increasing heat.
  A moment came when the Prosecutor paused and, after a short silence, said in a low, vibrant
  voice: “This same court, gentlemen, will be called on to try tomorrow that most odious of
  crimes, the murder of a father by his son.” To his mind, such a crime was almost unimaginable.
  But, he ventured to hope, justice would be meted out without paltering. And yet, he made bold to
  say, the horror that even the crime of parricide inspired in him paled beside the loathing inspired
  by my callousness.
  
  “This man, who is morally guilty of his mother’s death, is no less unfit to have a place in the
  community than that other man who did to death the father that begat him. And, indeed, the one
  crime led on to the other; the first of these two criminals, the man in the dock, set a precedent, if
  I may put it so, and authorized the second crime. Yes, gentlemen, I am convinced”—here he
  raised his voice a tone—“that you will not find I am exaggerating the case against the prisoner
  when I say that he is also guilty of the murder to be tried tomorrow in this court. And I look to
  you for a verdict accordingly.”
  The Prosecutor paused again, to wipe the sweat off his face. He then explained that his duty was
  a painful one, but he would do it without flinching. “This man has, I repeat, no place in a
  community whose basic principles he flouts without compunction. Nor, heartless as he is, has he
  any claim to mercy. I ask you to impose the extreme penalty of the law; and I ask it without a
  qualm. In the course of a long career, in which it has often been my duty to ask for a capital
  sentence, never have I felt that painful duty weigh so little on my mind as in the present case. In
  demanding a verdict of murder without extenuating circumstances, I am following not only the
  dictates of my conscience and a sacred obligation, but also those of the natural and righteous
  indignation I feel at the sight of a criminal devoid of the least spark of human feeling.”
  When the Prosecutor sat down there was a longish silence. Personally I was quite overcome by
  the heat and my amazement at what I had been hearing. The presiding judge gave a short cough,
  and asked me in a very low tone if I had anything to say. I rose, and as I felt in the mood to
  speak, I said the first thing that crossed my mind: that I’d had no intention of killing the Arab.
  The Judge replied that this statement would be taken into consideration by the court. Meanwhile
  he would be glad to hear, before my counsel addressed the court, what were the motives of my
  crime. So far, he must admit, he hadn’t fully understood the grounds of my defense.
  I tried to explain that it was because of the sun, but I spoke too quickly and ran my words into
  each other. I was only too conscious that it sounded nonsensical, and, in fact, I heard people
  tittering.
  My lawyer shrugged his shoulders. Then he was directed to address the court, in his turn. But all
  he did was to point out the lateness of the hour and to ask for an adjournment till the following
  afternoon. To this the judge agreed.
  When I was brought back next day, the electric fans were still churning up the heavy air and the
  jurymen plying their gaudy little fans in a sort of steady rhythm. The speech for the defense
  seemed to me interminable. At one moment, however, I pricked up my ears; it was when I heard
  him saying: “It is true I killed a man.” He went on in the same strain, saying “I” when he referred
  to me. It seemed so queer that I bent toward the policeman on my right and asked him to explain.
  He told me to shut up; then, after a moment, whispered: “They all do that.” It seemed to me that
  the idea behind it was still further to exclude me from the case, to put me off the map. so to
  speak, by substituting the lawyer for myself. Anyway, it hardly mattered; I already felt worlds
  away from this courtroom and its tedious “proceedings.”
  My lawyer, in any case, struck me as feeble to the point of being ridiculous. He hurried through
  his plea of provocation, and then he, too, started in about my soul. But I had an impression that
  
  he had much less talent than the Prosecutor.
  “I, too,” he said, “have closely studied this man’s soul; but, unlike my learned friend for the
  prosecution, I have found something there. Indeed, I may say that I have read the prisoner’s mind
  like an open book.” What he had read there was that I was an excellent young fellow, a steady,
  conscientious worker who did his best by his employer; that I was popular with everyone and
  sympathetic in others’ troubles. According to him I was a dutiful son, who had supported his
  mother as long as he was able. After anxious consideration I had reached the conclusion that, by
  entering a home, the old lady would have comforts that my means didn’t permit me to provide
  for her. “I am astounded, gentlemen,” he added, “by the attitude taken up by my learned friend in
  referring to this Home. Surely if proof be needed of the excellence of such institutions, we need
  only remember that they are promoted and financed by a government department.” I noticed that
  he made no reference to the funeral, and this seemed to me a serious omission. But, what with
  his long-windedness, the endless days and hours they had been discussing my “soul,” and the
  rest of it, I found that my mind had gone blurred; everything was dissolving into a grayish,
  watery haze.
  Only one incident stands out; toward the end, while my counsel rambled on, I heard the tin
  trumpet of an ice-cream vendor in the street, a small, shrill sound cutting across the flow of
  words. And then a rush of memories went through my mind—memories of a life which was
  mine no longer and had once provided me with the surest, humblest pleasures: warm smells of
  summer, my favorite streets, the sky at evening, Marie’s dresses and her laugh. The futility of
  what was happening here seemed to take me by the throat, I felt like vomiting, and I had only
  one idea: to get it over, to go back to my cell, and sleep ... and sleep.
  Dimly I heard my counsel making his last appeal.
  “Gentlemen of the jury, surely you will not send to his death a decent, hard-working young man,
  because for one tragic moment he lost his self-control? Is he not sufficiently punished by the
  lifelong remorse that is to be his lot? I confidently await your verdict, the only verdict possible—
  that of homicide with extenuating circumstances.”
  The court rose, and the lawyer sat down, looking thoroughly exhausted. Some of his colleagues
  came to him and shook his hand. “You put up a magnificent show, old man,” I heard one of them
  say. Another lawyer even called me to witness: “Fine, wasn’t it?” I agreed, but insincerely; I was
  far too tired to judge if it had been “fine” or otherwise.
  Meanwhile the day was ending and the heat becoming less intense. By some vague sounds that
  reached me from the street I knew that the cool of the evening had set in. We all sat on, waiting.
  And what we all were waiting for really concerned nobody but me. I looked round the
  courtroom. It was exactly as it had been on the first day. I met the eyes of the journalist in gray
  and the robot woman. This reminded me that not once during the whole hearing had I tried to
  catch Marie’s eye. It wasn’t that I’d forgotten her; only I was too preoccupied. I saw her now,
  seated between Céleste and Raymond. She gave me a little wave of her hand, as if to say, “At
  last!” She was smiling, but I could tell that she was rather anxious. But my heart seemed turned
  to stone, and I couldn’t even return her smile.
  
  The judges came back to their seats. Someone read out to the jury, very rapidly, a string of
  questions. I caught a word here and there.“Murder of malice aforethought ... Provocation ...
  Extenuating circumstances.” The jury went out, and I was taken to the little room where I had
  already waited. My lawyer came to see me; he was very talkative and showed more cordiality
  and confidence than ever before. He assured me that all would go well and I’d get off with a few
  years’ imprisonment or transportation. I asked him what were the chances of getting the sentence
  quashed . He said there was no chance of that. He had not raised any point of law, as this was apt
  to prejudice the jury. And it was difficult to get a judgment quashed except on technical grounds.
  I saw his point, and agreed. Looking at the matter dispassionately, I shared his view. Otherwise
  there would be no end to litigation. “In any case,” the lawyer said, “you can appeal in the
  ordinary way. But I’m convinced the verdict will be favorable.”
  We waited for quite a while, a good three quarters of an hour, I should say. Then a bell rang. My
  lawyer left me, saying:
  “The foreman of the jury will read out the answers. You will be called on after that to hear the
  judgment.”
  Some doors banged. I heard people hurrying down flights of steps, but couldn’t tell whether they
  were nearby or distant. Then I heard a voice droning away in the courtroom.
  When the bell rang again and I stepped back into the dock, the silence of the courtroom closed
  in round me, and with the silence came a queer sensation when I noticed that, for the first time,
  the young journalist kept his eyes averted. I didn’t look in Marie’s direction. In fact, I had no
  time to look, as the presiding judge had already started pronouncing a rigmarole to the effect that
  “in the name of the French people” I was to be decapitated in some public place.
  It seemed to me then that I could interpret the look on the faces of those present; it was one of
  almost respectful sympathy. The policemen, too, handled me very gently. The lawyer placed his
  hand on my wrist. I had stopped thinking altogether. I heard the Judge’s voice asking if I had
  anything more to say. After thinking for a moment, I answered, “No.” Then the policemen led
  me out.
  V
  I HAVE just refused, for the third time, to see the prison chaplain. I have nothing to say to him,
  don’t feel like talking—and shall be seeing him quite soon enough, anyway. The only thing that
  interests me now is the problem of circumventing the machine, learning if the inevitable admits a
  loophole.
  They have moved me to another cell. In this one, lying on my back, I can see the sky, and there
  is nothing else to see. All my time is spent in watching the slowly changing colors of the sky, as
  day moves on to night. I put my hands behind my head, gaze up, and wait.
  
  This problem of a loophole obsesses me; I am always wondering if there have been cases of
  condemned prisoners’ escaping from the implacable machinery of justice at the last moment,
  breaking through the police cordon, vanishing in the nick of time before the guillotine falls.
  Often and often I blame myself for not having given more attention to accounts of public
  executions. One should always take an interest in such matters. There’s never any knowing what
  one may come to. Like everyone else I’d read descriptions of executions in the papers. But
  technical books dealing with this subject must certainly exist; only I’d never felt sufficiently
  interested to look them up. And in these books I might have found escape stories. Surely they’d
  have told me that in one case, anyhow, the wheels had stopped; that once, if only once, in that
  inexorable march of events, chance or luck had played a happy part. Just once! In a way I think
  that single instance would have satisfied me. My emotion would have done the rest. The papers
  often talk of “a debt owed to society”—a debt which, according to them, must be paid by the
  offender. But talk of that sort doesn’t touch the imagination. No, the one thing that counted for
  me was the possibility of making a dash for it and defeating their bloodthirsty rite; of a mad
  stampede to freedom that would anyhow give me a moment’s hope, the gambler’s last throw.
  Naturally, all that “hope” could come to was to be knocked down at the corner of a street or
  picked off by a bullet in my back. But, all things considered, even this luxury was forbidden me;
  I was caught in the rattrap irrevocably.
  Try as I might, I couldn’t stomach this brutal certitude. For really, when one came to think of it,
  there was a disproportion between the judgment on which it was based and the unalterable
  sequence of events starting from the moment when that judgment was delivered. The fact that the
  verdict was read out at eight P.M. rather than at five, the fact that it might have been quite
  different, that it was given by men who change their underclothes, and was credited to so vague
  an entity as the “French people”—for that matter, why not to the Chinese or the German
  people?—all these facts seemed to deprive the court’s decision of much of its gravity. Yet I
  could but recognize that, from the moment the verdict was given, its effects became as cogent, as
  tangible, as, for example, this wall against which I was lying, pressing my back to it.
  When such thoughts crossed my mind, I remembered a story Mother used to tell me about my
  father. I never set eyes on him. Perhaps the only things I really knew about him were what
  Mother had told me. One of these was that he’d gone to see a murderer executed. The mere
  thought of it turned his stomach. But he’d seen it through and, on coming home, was violently
  sick. At the time, I found my father’s conduct rather disgusting. But now I understood; it was so
  natural. How had I failed to recognize that nothing was more important than an execution; that,
  viewed from one angle, it’s the only thing that can genuinely interest a man? And I decided that,
  if ever I got out of jail, I’d attend every execution that took place. I was unwise, no doubt, even
  to consider this possibility. For, the moment I’d pictured myself in freedom, standing behind a
  double rank of policemen—on the right side of the line, so to speak—the mere thought of being
  an onlooker who comes to see the show, and can go home and vomit afterward, flooded my mind
  with a wild, absurd exultation. It was a stupid thing to let my imagination run away with me like
  that; a moment later I had a shivering fit and had to wrap myself closely in my blanket. But my
  teeth went on chattering; nothing would stop them.
  Still, obviously, one can’t be sensible all the time. Another equally ridiculous fancy of mine was
  to frame new laws, altering the penalties. What was wanted, to my mind, was to give the
  
  criminal a chance, if only a dog’s chance; say, one chance in a thousand. There might be some
  drug, or combination of drugs, which would kill the patient (I thought of him as “the patient”)
  nine hundred and ninety times in a thousand. That he should know this was, of course, essential.
  For after taking much thought, calmly, I came to the conclusion that what was wrong about the
  guillotine was that the condemned man had no chance at all, absolutely none. In fact, the
  patient’s death had been ordained irrevocably. It was a foregone conclusion. If by some fluke the
  knife didn’t do its job, they started again. So it came to this, that—against the grain, no doubt—
  the condemned man had to hope the apparatus was in good working order! This, I thought, was a
  flaw in the system; and, on the face of it, my view was sound enough. On the other hand, I had to
  admit it proved the efficiency of the system. It came to this; the man under sentence was obliged
  to collaborate mentally, it was in his interest that all should go off without a hitch.
  Another thing I had to recognize was that, until now, I’d had wrong ideas on the subject. For
  some reason I’d always supposed that one had to go up steps and climb on to a scaffold, to be
  guillotined. Probably that was because of the 1789 Revolution; I mean, what I’d learned about it
  at school, and the pictures I had seen. Then one morning I remembered a photograph the
  newspapers had featured on the occasion of the execution of a famous criminal. Actually the
  apparatus stood on the ground; there was nothing very impressing about it, and it was much
  narrower than I’d imagined. It struck me as rather odd that picture had escaped my memory until
  now. What had struck me at the time was the neat appearance of the guillotine; its shining
  surfaces and finish reminded me of some laboratory instrument. One always has exaggerated
  ideas about what one doesn’t know. Now I had to admit it seemed a very simple process, getting
  guillotined; the machine is on the same level as the man, and he walks toward it as he steps
  forward to meet somebody he knows. In a sense, that, too, was disappointing. The business of
  climbing a scaffold, leaving the world below, so to speak, gave something for a man’s
  imagination to get hold of. But, as it was, the machine dominated everything; they killed you
  discreetly, with a hint of shame and much efficiency.
  There were two other things about which I was always thinking: the dawn and my appeal.
  However, I did my best to keep my mind off these thoughts. I lay down, looked up at the sky,
  and forced myself to study it. When the light began to turn green I knew that night was coming.
  Another thing I did to deflect the course of my thoughts was to listen to my heart. I couldn’t
  imagine that this faint throbbing which had been with me for so long would ever cease.
  Imagination has never been one of my strong points. Still, I tried to picture a moment when the
  beating of my heart no longer echoed in my head. But, in vain. The dawn and my appeal were
  still there. And I ended by believing it was a silly thing to try to force one’s thoughts out of their
  natural groove.
  They always came for one at dawn; that much I knew. So, really, all my nights were spent in
  waiting for that dawn. I have never liked being taken by surprise. When something happens to
  me I want to be ready for it. That’s why I got into the habit of sleeping off and on in the daytime
  and watching through the night for the first hint of daybreak in the dark dome above. The worst
  period of the night was that vague hour when, I knew, they usually come; once it was after
  midnight I waited, listening intently. Never before had my ears perceived so many noises, such
  tiny sounds. Still, I must say I was lucky in one respect; never during any of those periods did I
  hear footsteps. Mother used to say that however miserable one is, there’s always something to be
  
  thankful for. And each morning, when the sky brightened and light began to flood my cell, I
  agreed with her. Because I might just as well have heard footsteps, and felt my heart shattered
  into bits. Even though the faintest rustle sent me hurrying to the door and, pressing an ear to the
  rough, cold wood, I listened so intently that I could hear my breathing, quick and hoarse like a
  dog’s panting—even so there was an end; my heart hadn’t split, and I knew I had another
  twenty-four hours’ respite.
  Then all day there was my appeal to think about. I made the most of this idea, studying my
  effects so as to squeeze out the maximum of consolation. Thus, I always began by assuming the
  worst; my appeal was dismissed. That meant, of course, I was to die. Sooner than others,
  obviously. “But,” I reminded myself, “it’s common knowledge that life isn’t worth living,
  anyhow.” And, on a wide view, I could see that it makes little difference whether one dies at the
  age of thirty or threescore and ten—since, in either case , other men and women will continue
  living, the world will go on as before. Also, whether I died now or forty years hence, this
  business of dying had to be got through, inevitably. Still, somehow this line of thought wasn’t as
  consoling as it should have been; the idea of all those years of life in hand was a galling
  reminder! However, I could argue myself out of it, by picturing what would have been my
  feelings when my term was up, and death had cornered me. Once you’re up against it, the precise
  manner of your death has obviously small importance. Therefore—but it was hard not to lose the
  thread of the argument leading up to that “therefore”—I should be prepared to face the dismissal
  of my appeal.
  At this stage, but only at this stage, I had, so to speak, the right , and accordingly I gave myself
  leave, to consider the other alternative; that my appeal was successful. And then the trouble was
  to calm down that sudden rush of joy racing through my body and even bringing tears to my
  eyes. But it was up to me to bring my nerves to heel and steady my mind; for, even in
  considering this possibility, I had to keep some order in my thoughts, so as to make my
  consolations, as regards the first alternative, more plausible. When I’d succeeded, I had earned a
  good hour’s peace of mind; and that, anyhow, was something.
  It was at one of these moments that I refused once again to see the chaplain. I was lying down
  and could mark the summer evening coming on by a soft golden glow spreading across the sky. I
  had just turned down my appeal, and felt my blood circulating with slow, steady throbs. No, I
  didn’t want to see the chaplain. ... Then I did something I hadn’t done for quite a while; I fell to
  thinking about Marie. She hadn’t written for ages; probably, I surmised, she had grown tired of
  being the mistress of a man sentenced to death. Or she might be ill, or dead. After all, such things
  happen. How could I have known about it, since, apart from our two bodies, separated now, there
  was no link between us, nothing to remind us of each other? Supposing she were dead, her
  memory would mean nothing; I couldn’t feel an interest in a dead girl. This seemed to me quite
  normal; just as I realized people would soon forget me once I was dead. I couldn’t even say that
  this was hard to stomach; really, there’s no idea to which one doesn’t get acclimatized in time.
  My thoughts had reached this point when the chaplain walked in, unannounced. I couldn’t help
  giving a start on seeing him. He noticed this evidently, as he promptly told me not to be alarmed.
  I reminded him that usually his visits were at another hour, and for a pretty grim occasion. This,
  he replied, was just a friendly visit; it had no concern with my appeal, about which he knew
  
  nothing. Then he sat down on my bed, asking me to sit beside him. I refused—not because I had
  anything against him; he seemed a mild, amiable man.
  He remained quite still at first, his arms resting on his knees, his eyes fixed on his hands. They
  were slender but sinewy hands, which made me think of two nimble little animals. Then he
  gently rubbed them together. He stayed so long in the same position that for a while I almost
  forgot he was there.
  All of a sudden he jerked his head up and looked me in the eyes.
  “Why,” he asked, “don’t you let me come to see you?”
  I explained that I didn’t believe in God.
  “Are you really so sure of that?”
  I said I saw no point in troubling my head about the matter; whether I believed or didn’t was, to
  my mind, a question of so little importance.
  He then leaned back against the wall, laying his hands flat on his thighs. Almost without
  seeming to address me, he remarked that he’d often noticed one fancies one is quite sure about
  something, when in point of fact one isn’t. When I said nothing, he looked at me again, and
  asked:
  “Don’t you agree?”
  I said that seemed quite possible. But, though I mightn’t be so sure about what interested me, I
  was absolutely sure about what didn’t interest me. And the question he had raised didn’t interest
  me at all.
  He looked away and, without altering his posture, asked if it was because I felt utterly desperate
  that I spoke like this. I explained that it wasn’t despair I felt, but fear—which was natural
  enough.
  “In that case,” he said firmly, “God can help you. All the men I’ve seen in your position turned
  to Him in their time of trouble.”
  Obviously, I replied, they were at liberty to do so, if they felt like it. I, however, didn’t want to
  be helped, and I hadn’t time to work up interest for something that didn’t interest me.
  He fluttered his hands fretfully; then, sitting up, smoothed out his cassock. When this was done
  he began talking again, addressing me as “my friend.” It wasn’t because I’d been condemned to
  death, he said, that he spoke to me in this way. In his opinion every man on the earth was under
  sentence of death.
  There, I interrupted him; that wasn’t the same thing, I pointed out, and, what’s more, could be
  
  no consolation.
  He nodded.“Maybe. Still, if you don’t die soon, you’ll die one day. And then the same question
  will arise. How will you face that terrible, final hour?”
  I replied that I’d face it exactly as I was facing it now.
  Thereat he stood up, and looked me straight in the eyes. It was a trick I knew well. I used to
  amuse myself trying it on Emmanuel and Céleste, and nine times out of ten they’d look away
  uncomfortably. I could see the chaplain was an old hand at it, as his gaze never faltered. And his
  voice was quite steady when he said: “Have you no hope at all? Do you really think that when
  you die you die outright, and nothing remains?”
  I said: “Yes.”
  He dropped his eyes and sat down again. He was truly sorry for me, he said. It must make life
  unbearable for a man, to think as I did.
  The priest was beginning to bore me, and, resting a shoulder on the wall, just beneath the little
  skylight, I looked away. Though I didn’t trouble much to follow what he said, I gathered he was
  questioning me again. Presently his tone became agitated, urgent, and, as I realized that he was
  genuinely distressed, I began to pay more attention.
  He said he felt convinced my appeal would succeed, but I was saddled with a load of guilt, of
  which I must get rid. In his view man’s justice was a vain thing; only God’s justice mattered. I
  pointed out that the former had condemned me. Yes, he agreed, but it hadn’t absolved me from
  my sin. I told him that I wasn’t conscious of any “sin”; all I knew was that I’d been guilty of a
  criminal offense. Well, I was paying the penalty of that offense, and no one had the right to
  expect anything more of me.
  Just then he got up again, and it struck me that if he wanted to move in this tiny cell, almost the
  only choice lay between standing up and sitting down. I was staring at the floor. He took a single
  step toward me, and halted, as if he didn’t dare to come nearer. Then he looked up through the
  bars at the sky.
  “You’re mistaken, my son,” he said gravely. “There’s more that might be required of you. And
  perhaps it will be required of you.”
  “What do you mean?”
  “You might be asked to see ...”
  “To see what?”
  Slowly the priest gazed round my cell, and I was struck by the sadness of his voice when he
  replied:
  
  “These stone walls, I know it only too well, are steeped in human suffering. I’ve never been able
  to look at them without a shudder. And yet—believe me, I am speaking from the depths of my
  heart—I know that even the wretchedest amongst you have sometimes seen, taking form against
  that grayness, a divine face. It’s that face you are asked to see.”
  This roused me a little. I informed him that I’d been staring at those walls for months; there was
  nobody, nothing in the world, I knew better than I knew them. And once upon a time, perhaps, I
  used to try to see a face. But it was a sun-gold face, lit up with desire—Marie’s face. I had no
  luck; I’d never seen it, and now I’d given up trying. Indeed, I’d never seen anything “taking
  form,” as he called it, against those gray walls.
  The chaplain gazed at me with a sort of sadness. I now had my back to the wall and light was
  flowing over my forehead. He muttered some words I didn’t catch; then abruptly asked if he
  might kiss me. I said, “No.” Then he turned, came up to the wall, and slowly drew his hand along
  it.
  “Do you really love these earthly things so very much?” he asked in a low voice.
  I made no reply.
  For quite a while he kept his eyes averted. His presence was getting more and more irksome,
  and I was on the point of telling him to go, and leave me in peace, when all of a sudden he swung
  round on me, and burst out passionately:
  “No! No! I refuse to believe it. I’m sure you’ve often wished there was an afterlife.”
  Of course I had, I told him. Everybody has that wish at times. But that had no more importance
  than wishing to be rich, or to swim very fast, or to have a better-shaped mouth. It was in the
  same order of things. I was going on in the same vein, when he cut in with a question. How did I
  picture the life after the grave?
  I fairly bawled out at him: “A life in which I can remember this life on earth. That’s all I want of
  it.” And in the same breath I told him I’d had enough of his company.
  But, apparently, he had more to say on the subject of God. I went close up to him and made a
  last attempt to explain that I’d very little time left, and I wasn’t going to waste it on God.
  Then he tried to change the subject by asking me why I hadn’t once addressed him as “Father,”
  seeing that he was a priest. That irritated me still more, and I told him he wasn’t my father; quite
  the contrary, he was on the others’ side.
  “No, no, my son,” he said, laying his hand on my shoulder. “I’m on your side, though you don’t
  realize it—because your heart is hardened. But I shall pray for you.”
  Then, I don’t know how it was, but something seemed to break inside me, and I started yelling
  
  at the top of my voice. I hurled insults at him, I told him not to waste his rotten prayers on me; it
  was better to burn than to disappear. I’d taken him by the neckband of his cassock, and, in a sort
  of ecstasy of joy and rage, I poured out on him all the thoughts that had been simmering in my
  brain. He seemed so cocksure, you see. And yet none of his certainties was worth one strand of a
  woman’s hair. Living as he did, like a corpse, he couldn’t even be sure of being alive. It might
  look as if my hands were empty. Actually, I was sure of myself, sure about everything, far surer
  than he; sure of my present life and of the death that was coming. That, no doubt, was all I had;
  but at least that certainty was something I could get my teeth into—just as it had got its teeth into
  me. I’d been right, I was still right, I was always right. I’d passed my life in a certain way, and I
  might have passed it in a different way, if I’d felt like it. I’d acted thus, and I hadn’t acted
  otherwise; I hadn’t done x , whereas I had done y or z . And what did that mean? That, all the
  time, I’d been waiting for this present moment, for that dawn, tomorrow’s or another day’s,
  which was to justify me. Nothing, nothing had the least importance and I knew quite well why.
  He, too, knew why. From the dark horizon of my future a sort of slow, persistent breeze had been
  blowing toward me, all my life long, from the years that were to come. And on its way that
  breeze had leveled out all the ideas that people tried to foist on me in the equally unreal years I
  then was living through. What difference could they make to me, the deaths of others, or a
  mother’s love, or his God; or the way a man decides to live, the fate he thinks he chooses, since
  one and the same fate was bound to “choose” not only me but thousands of millions of privileged
  people who, like him, called themselves my brothers. Surely, surely he must see that? Every man
  alive was privileged; there was only one class of men, the privileged class. All alike would be
  condemned to die one day; his turn, too, would come like the others’. And what difference could
  it make if, after being charged with murder, he were executed because he didn’t weep at his
  mother’s funeral, since it all came to the same thing in the end? The same thing for Salamano’s
  wife and for Salamano’s dog. That little robot woman was as “guilty” as the girl from Paris who
  had married Masson, or as Marie, who wanted me to marry her. What did it matter if Raymond
  was as much my pal as Céleste, who was a far worthier man? What did it matter if at this very
  moment Marie was kissing a new boy friend? As a condemned man himself, couldn’t he grasp
  what I meant by that dark wind blowing from my future? ...
  I had been shouting so much that I’d lost my breath, and just then the jailers rushed in and
  started trying to release the chaplain from my grip. One of them made as if to strike me. The
  chaplain quietened them down, then gazed at me for a moment without speaking. I could see
  tears in his eyes. Then he turned and left the cell.
  Once he’d gone, I felt calm again. But all this excitement had exhausted me and I dropped
  heavily on to my sleeping plank. I must have had a longish sleep, for, when I woke, the stars
  were shining down on my face. Sounds of the countryside came faintly in, and the cool night air,
  veined with smells’ of earth and salt, fanned my cheeks. The marvelous peace of the sleep-bound
  summer night flooded through me like a tide. Then, just on the edge of daybreak, I heard a
  steamer’s siren. People were starting on a voyage to a world which had ceased to concern me
  forever. Almost for the first time in many months I thought of my mother. And now, it seemed to
  me, I understood why at her life’s end she had taken on a “fiancé”; why she’d played at making a
  fresh start. There, too, in that Home where lives were flickering out, the dusk came as a mournful
  solace. With death so near, Mother must have felt like someone on the brink of freedom, ready to
  start life all over again. No one, no one in the world had any right to weep for her. And I, too, felt
  
  ready to start life all over again. It was as if that great rush of anger had washed me clean,
  emptied me of hope, and, gazing up at the dark sky spangled with its signs and stars, for the first
  time, the first, I laid my heart open to the benign indifference of the universe. To feel it so like
  myself, indeed, so brotherly, made me realize that I’d been happy, and that I was happy still. For
  all to be accomplished, for me to feel less lonely, all that remained to hope was that on the day of
  my execution there should be a huge crowd of spectators and that they should greet me with
  howls of execration.
  THE END.
  About the Author
  ALBERT CAMUS was born in Mondovi, Algeria, in 1913. After winning a degree in
  philosophy, he worked at various jobs, ending up in journalism. In the thirties he ran a theatrical
  company, and during the war was active in the French Resistance, editing an important
  underground paper, Combat . Among his major works are four widely praised works of fiction,
  The Stranger (1946), The Plague (1948), The Fall (1957), and Exile and the Kingdom (1958); a
  volume of plays, Caligula and Three Other Plays (1958); and two books of philosophical essays,
  The Rebel (1954) and The Myth of Sisyphus (1955), both of which are available in the Vintage
  series. Albert Camus was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1957. He was killed in an
  automobile accident on January 4, 1960.
  THIS BOOK was set on the Linotype in Janson, an excellent example o f the influential and
  sturdy Dutch types that prevailed in England prior to the development by William Caslon of his
  own designs, which he evolved from these Dutch faces. Of Janson himself little is known except
  that he was a practicing type-founder in Leipzig during the years 1660 to 1687. Printed and
  bound by THE COLONIAL PRESS INC., Clinton, Massachusetts. Cover design by LEO
  LIONNI.
  
SOURCE: textdata/thevault/Vault2.0.-.Fiction-and-audiobooks/Books/C/Albert Camus.-.The Stranger.pdf