Emmanuel Bove

Henri Duchemin and His Shadows

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

EMMANUEL BOVE (1898–1945) was born Emmanuel Bobovnikoff to a Jewish émigré from Kiev and a Parisian chambermaid from Luxembourg. His childhood was spent in Paris, marked at times by extreme poverty in the company of his mother and younger brother, and wealth in the company of his father and stepmother. With his stepmother’s patronage, Bove acquired an education in Paris, Geneva, and, during the First World War, England. Back in Paris, he began writing while supporting himself with a series of odd jobs. He had been publishing popular novels under the pseudonym Jean Vallois for several years when Colette helped him publish the novel Mes amis (My Friends) under his own name. He continued publishing successful novels until the Second World War, at which time he was forced into exile in Algeria. He died of heart failure soon after his return to Paris.

ALYSON WATERS’s translations from the French include works by Louis Aragon, René Belletto, Eric Chevillard, and Albert Cossery. She is the 2012 winner of the French-American Translation Award for her translation of Chevillard’s Prehistoric Times. Waters has received a National Endowment for the Arts Translation Fellowship, a PEN Translation Fund grant, and residency grants from the Centre National du Livre, the Villa Gillet, and the Banff International Literary Translation Centre. She teaches literary translation at New York University and Columbia University and is the managing editor of Yale French Studies. She lives in Brooklyn.

DONALD BRECKENRIDGE is the fiction editor of The Brooklyn Rail, co-editor of InTranslation, managing editor of Red Dust, and the author of more than a dozen plays, a novella, and the novels 6/2/95, You Are Here, This Young Girl Passing, and And Then. He lives in Brooklyn.

INTRODUCTION

Emmanuel Bove was a master of hyper-objectivity. His characters, drawn from all classes, are often paralyzed by a failure of will, poisoned by envy, cursed with bad luck or betrayal. With relentless clarity, Bove imparts a deeply felt and lasting impression of the lives of these solitary and emotionally shattered young men whose fortunes and futures hinge on a stroke of luck, an immoral act, an accident. The author’s own youth was a harsh one, characterized by instability and discord; and yet, like the lives of his characters, it was occasionally graced by wealth and privilege. Born in Paris in 1898, Bove was the son of a Belgian-born housemaid, Henriette Michels, and an immigrant Ukrainian Jew, Emmanuel Bobovnikoff. Bove’s father was a largely absent womanizer whose financial contributions to the family were infrequent at best. Bove and his brother, Léon, lived in abject poverty with their mother who moved frequently within the slums of Paris to find work, always shadowed by bill collectors. However, Bove’s childhood took a decisive turn when his father’s affair with Emily Overweg, a wealthy painter and the daughter of the British consul in Shanghai, led to an unlikely marriage. Sent to live with his father and stepmother, Bove experienced the twilight of belle epoque opulence, while Léon, who would become a doctor, remained with his mother in an unforgiving cycle of grinding poverty. And like the fleeting encounters with fortune that Bove employed in his fiction, this unexpected stretch of good luck would not last.

At the age of eight Bove decided to become a writer and at fourteen, with the financial backing of his stepmother, he was sent to a boarding school in England. The outbreak of the First World War soon disrupted his studies and forced him to return to France. His father succumbed to tuberculosis and his stepmother, whose fortunes had all but evaporated as a result of the war, could offer little assistance. While thousands of young men were dying in the trenches of Somme, Arras, and Verdun, Bove was living in a transient hotel—a familiar setting for nearly all of his novels—and working menial jobs (busboy, waiter, Renault factory worker, and tram operator) while attempting to write. Before he could be called up, the armistice was declared—one wonders if he missed the opportunity to distinguish himself on the battlefield and pursue an officer’s career. Instead he spent a month in jail on account of a vagrancy charge aggravated by an anti-Semitic gendarme’s inability to pronounce his last name. Thus Bobovnikoff became Bove, and one of the last century’s finest authors was agonizingly birthed from a seemingly endless series of unfortunate circumstances.

Barely in his twenties, Bove married Suzanne Vallois, a young teacher, and they migrated to a suburb of Vienna, where, under the name of Jean Vallois, he attempted to make money writing pulp fiction. Living in postwar Austria might have appeared to be an affordable alternative to France, but rising inflation and economic stagnation quickly devoured what little savings they had managed to relocate with. Vienna did provide Bove with enough distance to approach his craft, yet it offered no financial support for an aspiring writer, his wife, and their daughter. When the money ran out, they were forced to return to Paris. And then, with the help of Colette, who was taken by the wisp of a manuscript this deeply reserved unknown young writer pressed upon her, Bove was able to publish Mes amis (My Friends) under his own name. A thin yet dynamic book that borrowed heavily from the transient hotel years of his late teens, Mes amis remains Bove’s best-known novel. In it we meet Victor Baton—profoundly lonely, old for his relatively young age, and penniless—and witness him casting about among the destitute in a grim, postwar Paris. Victor is forever idle, emotionally paralyzed, unemployable, and never short on real and imagined slights.

When I wake up, my mouth is open. My teeth are furry: it would be better to brush them in the evening, but I am never brave enough. Tears have dried at the corners of my eyes. My shoulders do not hurt any more. Some stiff hair covers my forehead. I spread my fingers and push it back. It is no good: like the pages of a new book it springs up and tumbles over my eyes again.*

The thin novel Armand followed Mes amis and was very well received. In Armand Bove further expands on the destructive roles of alienation, abject poverty, and disenfranchisement while disseminating a doomed relationship.

The language Bove employed in these early works, and throughout his entire career, is precise and elegant. The urgency in his deceptively simple, pitch-perfect tone lends itself to an immediate intimacy. The precision in his writing evokes landscapes and interiors, emotional and otherwise, that read like high-resolution photographs. And while his craft was forever attuned to the complete story—exploring the motives and complexities that lead his characters to do what they must—he wrote in a simple, everyday language. Bove’s work is a fine distillation of lived experience expressed with seemingly effortless artistry.

Throughout his brief yet productive career, Bove captured the experience of a lost generation of war veterans. He recorded the odious aftereffects of the November 1918 armistice with its widespread unemployment, and the growing disaffected and largely reactionary working class that was teetering on the brink of revolution. Bove portrayed the young widows burdened with illegitimate sons who grow up into pathetic needy men wrecking havoc on anyone unwise enough to show them a modicum of compassion. He captured bourgeois families grasping at the titles dangling from rapidly diminishing fortunes, and a well-trodden and forever alienating Paris.

At the time of Bove’s debut, Colette, André Gide, Philippe Soupault, Max Jacob, and Rainer Maria Rilke all adored his writing. Samuel Beckett was another early admirer who claimed, “Emmanuel Bove, more than anyone else...has an instinct for the essential detail.” Considering how obscure his work became after his death, it is hard to imagine Bove as a literary star, yet he was a successful and productive author in the 1920s and ’30s. While he avoided the spotlight that came with fame, his writing had a profound influence on many authors during his lifetime, and later on those writing after the Second World War. Bove informed Albert Camus’s humanistic preoccupations; Claude Simon’s elegant details and the obsessive autobiographical accounting that drive his novels; Nathalie Sarraute’s delicate and intimate precision; and the bleak humor and disparaging, otherworldly hopelessness of Beckett’s contributions to the theater of the absurd.

Bove’s German translator, the Austrian novelist Peter Handke, made known Bove’s reputation beyond France at a time when his novels were forgotten. The poet and translator John Ashbery has also been a passionate advocate. After more than fifty years of obscurity following his untimely death in the summer of 1945, Bove’s fiction has resurfaced in earnest and nurtured a younger generation of French novelists. His influence among writers in English has also begun to blossom—thanks in no small part to stellar translations by Dominic Di Bernardi (A Singular Man, Quicksand), Nathalie Favre-Gilly (The Stepson, A Winter’s Journal), Janet Louth (My Friends, Armand, A Man Who Knows), and now Alyson Waters, who has added another outstanding contribution to Bove’s work in English. Henri Duchemin and His Shadows collects many of his short stories and the novella Night Crime in one volume for the first time in English. This collection was originally published by Gallimard in 1939—just months before the outbreak of the Second World War.

Night Crime gloriously illustrates Bove’s ability to comfortably nest in the realms of the macabre with a delicate Kawabata-meets-Poe touch. In the richly nuanced and evocative dreamscape of the novella, we are introduced to the lonely and destitute Henri Duchemin on what can only be described as a singularly miserable Christmas Eve.

Henri Duchemin dreamed of supplicants, of owning houses, of freedom. But once his imagination had calmed down, it seemed the disorder of his room had grown, in contrast as it was with his reveries.

A mirror in a bamboo frame reflected his face. He forgot everything and, talking to himself, gazed at his reflection to see what he looked like when he spoke.

The flame was becoming so weak that now it lit only the table. It flickered on its wick. Suddenly it went out.

Henri Duchemin, groping for matches, knocked over objects he did not recognize.

Weary from searching, he sat in the armchair and closed his eyes so as not to see the darkness.

The warmth from his body was slowly drying his clothes. He felt better. Soon it seemed to him that the floor was slipping away beneath his feet and that his legs were swinging in the void, like those of a child on a chair.

We follow a dreaming Henri though Paris as he contemplates suicide and befriends a criminal who convinces him that murdering a banker will guarantee him a lifetime of wealth. After the murder, Henri flees into the night with the banker’s bulging wallet tearing apart the breast pocket of his threadbare overcoat and attempts to assuage his guilt by offering handfuls of francs to the strangers he encounters. When dawn finally breaks, Henri awakens to the realization of his innocence, and the story ends with a great relief that lasts only for as long as the final paragraph allows.

It was around this time that Bove left Suzanne and their two daughters without an explanation or even a farewell. As soon as his divorce was finalized, Bove married Louise Ottensooser, a young Jewish woman from a well-to-do family. Louise reintroduced him to the high society that he first had experienced while living with his stepmother, and he found himself completely alienated by it. At the same time his novels were growing longer and more nuanced, his writing having reached its full maturation, what was to be his peak, and he was able to live comfortably enough to write without having to worry about money.

Bove won the highly coveted Prix Figuière in 1928 for what many consider his finest work, La Coalition (The Coalition), which remains criminally untranslated. For the next few years, until the Great Depression nearly wiped out the Ottensooser family fortune, he was at his most content. Throughout the 1930s, Bove produced a steady output of writing that enabled him to provide for his mother, his second wife, and his ex-wife and daughters.

A staunch antifascist, Bove was revolted by Petain’s Vichy, and he courageously decided not to publish during the German occupation. Bove and Louise went underground and were eventually able to flee to Algiers in 1942, where he wrote his last masterpiece, Le Piege (Quicksand), and the novels Depart dans la nuit (Night Departure) and Non-lieu (No Place) while living among the exiled. All three books depict the paranoia and hopelessness of those living compromised lives during the German occupation. These three books were not written from the luxury of perspective and are all the more remarkable for their artistry and focus, penned in real time. When the Germans were pushed out of France in 1944, Bove and Louise were forced to linger in North Africa until they could scrape up enough funds to return to Paris. Bove was suffering from cachexia, a body-wasting disease, when his heart failed. He died in Paris on July 13, 1945, at age forty-seven.

—DONALD BRECKENRIDGE

*My Friends, translated by Janet Louth (Manchester: Carcanet Press, 1986).

HENRI DUCHEMIN AND HIS SHADOWS

NIGHT CRIME

It was Christmas Eve.

Henri Duchemin sat on a worn-out bench in a restaurant, waiting for the rain to stop. The holes in his trouser pockets and the long hair tickling his ears were constant reminders of his poverty.

Tired of sitting still, he was preparing to leave when he recalled the dark hallway of his house, the damp courtyard, the narrow stairway, and his unheated attic room.

He preferred the restaurant’s mild warmth to all that.

A few regulars were reading the evening papers. A draft caused the gas mantle’s slender chain to sway. The barmaid, elbows resting on the sideboard, wanted to go home.

Suddenly the customers raised their heads. A beggar had just walked in.

“He’s a hunchback,” one of them said.

The wind from the street nearly extinguished the gas lamp. Shadows fell from the ceiling along the walls.

“Close the door!”

The beggar obeyed and, hat in hand, moved forward, glancing furtively from right to left.

“What do you want?”

“A bit of charity.”

This beggar was like an actor who appears at last on an empty stage. The barmaid, torn between the pleasure of being entertained and that of chasing the poor wretch away, hung back for only a moment.

“Go on now, get out. There’s no begging in here.”

The customers took advantage of the incident to get to know one another. Although they did not all share the barmaid’s opinion, they had a vague sense they would end up approving of her action.

A sort of kinship developed from this, and they held forth for a long time on the subjects of begging, prostitution—on social problems, as they said drily.

The clock chimed four times, although the hands pointed to nine.

Henri Duchemin sensed that these strangers were harboring unkind thoughts. He checked to make sure the cotton plugging his ears had not fallen out and, shaking out his overcoat, walked to the door that, as he opened it, briefly caused the light from the restaurant to bathe the opposite side of the dark street.

The rain dripped from the painted cast-iron street lamps. The shimmering sidewalks seemed to be moving. The lamps of cars and taxis were dim.

He went into a café. The awning, battered by the wind, threw down sheets of water.

Condensation was everywhere, dulling the glasses, the counter, the electric light bulbs. Some customers had drawn on the mirrors.

Henri Duchemin ordered a coffee, a very hot coffee, which he swallowed in one gulp before the sugar had a chance to dissolve.

A woman in a damp fur coat was drinking milk that must have been sweetened by the red of her lips. Her heavily made-up eyes remained continually open, like a doll’s.

“What a sad Christmas Eve!” she said.

Henri Duchemin knew that certain women spoke to men to ask for money, but he preferred not to think about it, remaining hopeful of some new experience.

“Yes, what a sad Christmas Eve indeed!”

He watched the door, afraid that his neighbor, Monsieur Leleu, would come in. If he did, he would sit down right there beside him and without a doubt take his place.

“You must be bored, Monsieur.”

“Oh, I am, but don’t be offended. If you knew how I’m suffering. I’d like so much to open my heart. I’m a stranger in your eyes. Be patient. I shall tell you the story of my life. It’s a very sad story.”

He was so happy to be speaking that he seemed younger. He was sure he would be liked and this gave him confidence. He was about to go on when the woman burst out laughing:

“Don’t be ridiculous. If you’re so unhappy, just kill yourself.”

Henri Duchemin blushed. For a minute he tried to find a way to respond. When he could not, he got up and went out, his heart heavy with bitterness.

The rain whipped his face, reviving him. Two rows of gas lamps converged at the end of an avenue. The heads of the passersby touched the fabric of their umbrellas.

Kill myself! She’s out of her mind, he thought. The world is so cruel.

His damp trousers clung to his thighs. His feet slid in his shoes that leaked even when the sidewalks were hosed down in summer. He saw nothing, not even the streams of rainwater swallowed up by the sewers with the gentle sounds of a small waterfall.

At last he recognized a small recessed lot cluttered with tarred pipes where he often would come to watch the men at work while he warmed himself over a brazier.

He had arrived home.

The wind was so strong as he opened the door that it felt as if someone wanted to prevent him from going in.

Henri Duchemin climbed the stairway slowly and then, once inside his room, gently closed the door so as not to wake Monsieur Leleu.

When he lit the lamp, it revealed a disorder that surprised him—he had forgotten the housework had not been done.

The items of furniture, with their shadow twins, seemed to touch one another. Icy air crept beneath the window, stirring the curtains. The damp blistered the ceiling plaster. The wallpaper flapped like old posters. The unmade bed was cold. When the wind rattled the door, the lock squeaked.

“Kill myself, come now, she’s lost her mind!”

To drive the woman from his memory, Henri Duchemin paced the room, counting his steps, elated to find the same number going and coming. He then noticed that his intake of breath was sharper when he faced away from the lamp.

The shutters, unhinged by the wind, slammed so violently against the wall that he was afraid the neighbors would complain.

He opened the window wide: the flame of the lamp flickered, the curtains rose behind him like ghosts, a tram ticket flew around the room.

Across the street he saw a lit window and, through the blinds, a woman’s shadow gesticulating.

Leaning out, his hair tangled in the wind, his hands blackened by the window sill, Henri Duchemin spied on this woman. He stood still and his eyes were so wide that his pupils seemed smaller in the middle of so much white.

But the light went out. Hoping she would turn on a light at another window, he waited. The night was black. The wind, burrowing in his sleeves, chilled his body. The rain shimmered around a street lamp.

He closed the window and, motionless in front of the only armchair, he saw women everywhere, in the depths of the walls, standing on his bed, languidly waving their arms. No, he would not kill himself. At forty a man is still young and can, if he perseveres, become rich.

Henri Duchemin dreamed of supplicants, of owning houses, of freedom. But once his imagination had calmed down, it seemed the disorder of his room had grown, in contrast as it was with his reveries.

A mirror in a bamboo frame reflected his face. He forgot everything and, talking to himself, gazed at his reflection to see what he looked like when he spoke.

The flame was becoming so weak that now it lit only the table. It flickered on its wick. Suddenly it went out.

Henri Duchemin, groping for matches, knocked over objects he did not recognize.

Weary from searching, he sat in the armchair and closed his eyes so as not to see the darkness.

The warmth from his body was slowly drying his clothes. He felt better. Soon it seemed to him that the floor was slipping away beneath his feet and that his legs were swinging in the void, like those of a child on a chair.

He had been sleeping for a long time when he felt the heat of a flame on his cheek, a little like someone’s breath.

He opened his eyes.

Monsieur Leleu was beside him holding a lamp.

Monsieur Leleu was a calm fifty-year-old man who lived in poverty. He was interested in the lives of criminals and always sided with the police. He read the local crime news but never detective novels because he felt uncomfortable reading tales of things that did not exist.

“Are you asleep, Duchemin?”

“No.”

Monsieur Leleu set his lamp on the fireplace mantel. It continued to light the floor.

“I need to speak with you, Henri.”

Monsieur Leleu stroked his beard, honing it to a point.

“Do you remember the woman in the café?”

“Yes.”

“You have to do what she told you.”

“Kill myself?”

“Yes.”

“You think I must?”

“Yes, because you are unhappy.”

The rain, driven by the wind, relentlessly bombarded the windowpanes.

“But I wouldn’t dare.”

“Why not, Henri? I’ve brought you a rope. The slipknot has been made. You see, everything is ready. I’ll come back once you’re dead; that way, no one will suspect me.”

Monsieur Leleu rose.

“You’ll come back once I’m dead!”

“Yes. I’ll wake the other tenants. Adieu. I’ll leave you the lamp; I’ll retrieve it later.”

Monsieur Leleu went out without a sound.

Left alone, Henri Duchemin rubbed his eyes, looked at the lamp and, realizing he wasn’t dreaming, wanted to write down his last thoughts. But he did not know what to say.

Suddenly, either because he was afraid of dying or because he feared Monsieur Leleu would return, he decided to flee.

He blew out the lamp, checking that the flame was really extinguished, and left.

* * *

Although Monsieur Leleu’s door was closed, Henri Duchemin walked on tiptoe.

Outside, the cold air gnawed at a nerve in one of his teeth. The slope of the street made him want to run. The bubbles floating on the puddles did not burst because they did not move.

Henri Duchemin walked through the faubourg. There were words written in chalk on the walls. A fence concealed an empty lot. Curtainless windows glinted like mica in the light from a lantern.

A cabaret, painted in red, flooded a cul-de-sac with light. Shadows shifted on the panes still splashed with rain.

Any passerby would have hesitated to enter this dive.

Henri Duchemin, who on this night feared nothing, went in and sat down in the back like a regular.

A few other customers were standing around, chatting with the female owner. She was washing glasses, her apron damp around her waist, her feet secure and dry on a duckboard.

“What may I serve Monsieur?”

“A glass of rum.”

Henri Duchemin downed it like medicine.

Then he drank beer, wine, liqueurs, and, since this was not his habit, he was drunk in an hour. Alcohol made him overemotional, and he grew worried at the idea that he could not pay for his drinks.

Soon his thoughts became muddled. He blinked his eyes as if blinded by the sun. He no longer perceived the glistening of the counter or even the clinking of the bottles.

Just then, despite his state, he noticed a man dozing before him, his head on the table, his arms between his legs.

Henri Duchemin could not believe his eyes. Thinking he was dreaming, he reached out and with a fingertip touched the sleeping man’s hair.

The latter woke with a start. His eyelashes were sticky. He must still have been half-asleep because he searched for his handkerchief in all his pockets. Although he was unshaven and his hat had no hatband, he was wearing a detachable collar. He had enormous veins on his hands at the spot where one would kiss them.

“A drink!”

No doubt, like many people, he favored a drink when he woke up.

As soon as the proprietress had brought him a bottle of wine, he swigged two glasses in a row.

He smiled, trying to strike up a conversation.

“What awful weather!”

Henri Duchemin did not respond. He liked to chat, but distrusted strangers.

The customers, realizing their conversation was not changing the world, left the establishment.

The proprietress arranged her hair with her damp fingers. The two men observed each other.

“Listen,” said the stranger.

No word in reply encouraged him to continue.

“Listen, I said.”

“Yes?”

“Tell me your name.”

Henri Duchemin did not know how to answer.

He thought he would be weaker, exposed, if he placed himself at the mercy of this stranger by telling him his name but, taken by surprise, he did not have the presence of mind to invent a false one.

Very quietly, as if he did not want to be heard, he said:

“Henri Duchemin.”

“Do you want to be my friend? Like you, I wouldn’t mind having a lot of money.”

Indeed, Henri Duchemin did want to have a lot of money. Because he thought that this yearning could come only from a bold man, he was flattered that his tablemate had noticed. And so, even though this alliance seemed risky to him, he accepted.

“But what is your name?”

“I have no name.”

“You have no name?”

“I have one, but you don’t need to know it.”

“And what do you do?”

“Nothing. But from now on, we must act. Do you want to get rich, old pal?”

“Yes, if possible.”

When the proprietress came to serve them again, the man without a name took her by the waist.

“Do as I do, then, Duchemin.”

He would have been happy to do so if his strength had not been sapped by his timidity.

“You mustn’t blush, young man,” said the proprietress as she pulled away from the man without a name.

“Duchemin, I have important things to talk to you about. Pay attention.”

“I’m listening, pal,” responded Henri Duchemin, determined to echo the familiarity of his interlocutor.

“Would you like to be rich?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t just say ‘yes.’ Say ‘I’d love to.’”

“I’d love to.”

A customer, dozing off near the stove, gave a start. The moisture evaporating from his overcoat and shoes enveloped him in a transparent cloud. The proprietress, reading a novel, had trouble turning the pages.

“Are you listening to me, Duchemin?”

“I’m listening.”

“Between the life you’re leading and riches, which do you choose?”

“Riches.”

From a leaky faucet drops of water fell into a tub.

“You choose riches.”

“Yes.”

“Congratulations! You are saved!”

The man without a name drew close and took Henri Duchemin’s hand.

“Are you brave?”

“Yes.”

Everything was motionless in the brightly lit room.

“Good. In a little while, we’ll go into a house. A banker is to spend the night there.”

“A banker?”

“Yes. When he falls asleep, you...”

The man without a name removed his hat so that the sweat on his forehead would not dampen the leather.

“When he falls asleep, you...”

“I...”

“You’ll kill him.”

“I’ll kill him?”

“Yes...”

Henri Duchemin felt dizzy, as if he had not eaten. His vision became blurry. The ceiling lamp and the bottles fell behind the counter then moved through the room.

“You’ll enter his bedroom, the moon will light your way. You’ll just need to strike, and you’ll be rich.”

“Help! Help!” cried Duchemin.

The proprietress did not even raise her eyes.

As for the other customer, he swayed on his chair, waking and falling back to sleep by turns.

“You’ll buy clothes, Duchemin, new clothes.”

Henri Duchemin took a deep breath. The warm air dried his teeth.

“Shall we have a toast?”

“Yes.”

“Two cognacs, please!”

The woman poured their drinks with small, careful gestures so that the glasses would not overflow.

A minute later the two men headed for the exit. The trapdoor to the cellar trembled beneath their footsteps. The man without a name drew his mustache to his lips to suck up the last drops of cognac.

“Good evening.”

“Good evening, gentlemen.”

We did not pay for our drinks, and she didn’t ask us for anything, thought Henri Duchemin.

He wanted to share this thought with his companion, but he was afraid of appearing ridiculous.

* * *

It was raining again. Without exchanging a word, the two men, slipping wherever the sidewalk sloped, set out for the house about which the man without a name had spoken.

Henri Duchemin was ambivalent. It seemed to him, in this street that belonged to everyone, that the murder would be more difficult to commit. In the end he realized he should not have accepted and, because it was too late now to get out of the deal, he was determined to flee. But either because he was waiting for the right time, or because he was afraid of the man without a name, he kept postponing the moment.

Finally, at the sight of an empty lot, he ran away as fast as his legs would carry him. In order not to trip over a clod of earth or a stone, he raised his knees high, like a horse on parade. His tie floated behind him. Hollows and mounds followed one after the other beneath his feet, reminding him of the time when as a child he would jump from the top of a hillock the better to climb the next one.

A stitch in his side forced him to stop running. Henri Duchemin was sluggish by nature, prone to stitches.

Intoxicated by his freedom, his neck stiff, he wandered down a muddy path. Hedges with dead branches scratched his hands. The wind cut his breath short.

A tin can he knocked over with his foot splashed his ankles as it toppled. Despite this, he felt like whistling, but the air came out of his lips as if out of a tube. He did not know how to whistle. So he sang the only song he knew by heart.

“Duchemin!” cried a distant voice, one of those lone voices that can be heard in the woods on Sundays.

He listened without breathing. He was afraid. He wanted to run. But his legs were shaking like they did during the war when he was a stretcher-bearer and had to carry a fellow soldier.

“Don’t be afraid. It’s me.”

It was the man without a name. So as not to frighten Henri Duchemin, he did not scold him. On the contrary, he told him he would have done the same thing in his place.

The two men left the path and, on the sidewalk, treaded as if they had clubfeet, trying to unstick the mud from their shoes.

Henri Duchemin, who had been too warm, was now trembling, which made him fear he was coming down with bronchitis. He no longer thought about running away; all he wanted now was a bed to sleep in.

The two men wandered the streets for a full hour. Sometimes they stepped in a puddle and were splashed to the knees.

These events had no importance in relation to what was about to happen.

At last the man without a name stopped in front of a new house.

“It’s here.”

He rang. A window lit the street. Grumbling and the clattering of old slippers could be heard even outside.

“Who is it?”

“Me!”

The lock clicked and the door opened. A light bulb fixed on the ceiling made the upper part of the foyer brighter. The man who had just opened the door was in shirtsleeves. You could tell from his hair and the blotches on one cheek that he had been sleeping.

“Come in, follow me,” he said.

He showed his guests into the dining room where, winter or summer, a basket of artificial flowers always sat on the sideboard. A white porcelain lampshade covered an electric lamp hanging motionless at the end of a wire.

Henri Duchemin took off the overcoat that was numbing his shoulders and, more comfortable, his arms longer, he inspected his jacket for stains. They had disappeared.

The man without a name lay down on a sofa with his feet hanging off so as not to dirty the red velvet. He shut his eyes and fell asleep.

Henri Duchemin sat in a wicker armchair that creaked loudly even when he did not move, and blew on his hands. Eyes closed, he imagined his whole body bathed in warm breath. He felt his feet were cold and wet, but this did not bother him. His feet were so far from his body. Every now and then a car drove down the street, almost grazing the shutters.

Suddenly there was a knock at the door.

The man without a name got up like a passenger on a train who had been occupying two seats. Henri Duchemin, trying to find his bearings, did not understand what was happening.

“Duchemin, he’s here.”

“Who?”

“The banker.”

Yes, it was the banker. He was wearing an overcoat with a silk lining and holding a top hat in his hand. He came in, bowed in greeting, sat down in a chair, unfolded a newspaper, and studied the stock prices.

The silence was marred only by the rustle of the large sheet of paper.

Then the banker stood, motioned good-bye, and left the room.

The two men who remained alone wore the scheming expression of servants who had just won the sympathy of their masters.

“Follow me, Duchemin.”

On tiptoe, one hand against the wall, they walked down the dimly lit hall.

“In here.”

They entered a room with walls covered in flowered fabric.

“Sit down, Duchemin.”

“Fine.”

“Take off your shoes.”

Henri Duchemin obeyed. It seemed to him that it was not his own shoes he was removing.

“Listen to me, Duchemin.”

“I’m listening.”

“The bed is on the right, the window is open, the moon will light your way.”

“But there is no moon.”

“I’m telling you, the moon will light your way. You’ll strike as if you wanted to split a tree trunk, and then you’ll be rich.”

Tiny sounds came through the wall.

“Take this hammer. The banker is in bed.”

“What if he’s not sleeping?”

“Go. It’s for your own happiness.”

Henri Duchemin rose. His damp socks left the imprint of his feet on the wood floor.

He stopped a few feet from the door.

“I’m frightened.”

“Go. Afterwards, you’ll be rich.”

“I’ll be rich?”

“Yes.”

Still, he hesitated.

“Go on, I tell you. You’ll be rich.”

Henri Duchemin entered the banker’s bedroom. He had held the doorknob tightly in his hands for so long that his fingers smelled of copper.

Exactly as the man without a name had said, moonlight illuminated the room. It was the light of insomnia, a light for sick eyes.

The banker’s body was hidden by blankets and his head, resting on the pillow, seemed to lack a torso. There was also something ridiculous about this older man’s head perched on its exposed neck.

Henri Duchemin knew that if he did not want his courage to flag, he must not think at all. And, understanding that what he was doing was not right, he headed straight for the bed so that he would not be able to stop himself.

His knees knocked against the bed.

He raised the hammer as high as he could. He closed his eyes. When he opened them, he saw blood on the sheets and the hammer in the eiderdown.

A wallet lay on the night table. He took it without thinking he would not have needed to kill the man to do so.

Then he went back to the room where the man without a name had led him.

It was empty. The lamp’s forlorn light lit only motionless objects.

Henri Duchemin called out, opened the wardrobes, touched the furniture without taking his eyes off the switch for fear someone would shut off the light.

There was no one. It was impossible. He was going crazy. He fell to the ground. For a long time he remained crouching, his forehead pressed against the wood floor, for he thought no one could find fault with him in that position.

When he stood up, he felt better. He put on his shoes, looked around to make sure he wasn’t forgetting anything, walked through the dining room, slipped on his overcoat, and went out.

* * *

The rain had stopped. A few clouds floated among the stars. Henri Duchemin wanted to run but in order not to attract attention, he walked rapidly instead. He held his hand in his inside pocket, which the fat wallet had unstitched.

He drew himself up. To look at him, who would have guessed he was carrying a fortune over his heart? Who would have believed that this poorly dressed man was now a person of independent means?

The gas lamps drew two dotted lines at the level of a second story. They appeared brighter in the crisp air.

Lulled by the rhythm of his footsteps, Henri Duchemin imagined women sitting on bank notes, and all the while he took detour after detour so that the police would lose all trace of him.

As he passed in front of a café, he heard the exquisite music of a player piano, half tin, half crystal. Women were laughing, probably over nothing. He attempted to look above the curtain at what was going on inside, but he was too short.

So he went in, sat down quickly, and waited until the attention he had attracted died down.

Three women were sitting on a velvet bench.

Henri Duchemin gazed at them lustfully, wondering which one of them attracted him the most. And although he was determined to be a different man now, he still did not dare invite them to his table.

Nevertheless, without his having to make a single gesture, one of them came to sit next to him. Her necklace of small pearls was too tight. She had the white, unattractive skin of women who never blush.

Henri Duchemin rested a hand on the young woman’s lap and felt her garter button beneath his fingers.

He wanted to sing, laugh, shout, but did not dare.

Little by little, however, he began to feel at ease. No one was making fun of him. The customers went so far as to get on well with him for, one by one, glasses in hand, they came to his table.

“Music! Music!” he cried.

Although he realized he had raised his voice, it did not bother him.

The barmaid slipped two coins into the piano slot.

“How about a game of poker?” asked a young man who was entertaining himself shuffling a deck of cards.

“Good idea!” cried Henri Duchemin.

The young man spread out a small red carpet. The center of a slate was wiped clean. The deck was cut and the game began.

It did not last long.

Even though Henri Duchemin did not know how to play, he kept on winning. The other players, at the ends of their resources, had to give up. They were not happy and conversed softly.

Their bad mood annoyed Henri Duchemin. He could not explain to himself how he had won; he never had any luck. And so, for fear of alienating his friends, he suddenly gave them back all the money he had won.

Stunned, they stopped speaking. Then, having recovered, they thanked him with exaggerated warmth. In their entire existence, they had never known such a generous man. He was a true friend, no doubt about it! And might the whole world follow his example!

Henri Duchemin rejoiced at the thought of having so many friends.

“Let us be brothers,” he said with eyes raised.

He was not crying, but tears were streaming down his cheeks. He glanced at the woman next to him.

“I am so happy! Life is so wonderful! What is your name, my child?”

Not receiving a response, he continued:

“Allow me to kiss you. Oh! If you were to accept, we’d get married. I have money. I’d buy you everything you wanted. I’d rescue you from this dive. You are too pure to live here. We would love one another.”

He stopped talking when he realized he could no longer be heard over the laughter.

“Please! Be quiet, let him speak,” said a customer, winking in case anyone took his words seriously.

“My friends, if you’d like, we’ll never leave each other. Love will unite us until death. I have money. Why should I have any and not you? Let us share, share.”

This time, all hell broke loose. Everyone cheered him, except the woman next to him who pinched him under the table.

“Why should we despise one another? Let us love each other, let us show the way, we who are brothers.”

He rose amid the cheering. For a second he thought about throwing his wallet to his admirers, but something held him back. He simply threw down a handful of bills.

“Take it, my friends. My true friends. It’s for you. Are we not brothers? And you, my darling, be happy like the others. I love you, life is beautiful.”

“Let’s go,” she said.

“Where?”

“To my place.”

The room filled with boos.

“No!”

“Leave him with us.”

“He amuses us!”

“She wants the money.”

Everyone was speaking at the same time, and Henri Duchemin began to sense that they did not like him. The ugliness of life appeared to him. Until then, as long as they had been listening to him, he had lived in a dream.

Now, everything was finished.

Head in hands, he walked to the door. They begged him to stay, but it was useless.

Standing on the sidewalk he tried to hear through the door what was being said about him, but only a murmur reached his ears.

He wiped his lips so the cold would not chap them. He now knew that all men were ingrates. And let them stay that way! Henri Duchemin had no need to worry about them. He could do without the entire world because he was rich.

He had been walking for an hour when the idea came to him to return to the new house where he’d killed the banker. No matter how he tried to convince himself that there was no point in doing so, the temptation was too great.

Hoping to lose his way, he wandered aimlessly, his hands scraped by the walls; yet in spite of himself, each step brought him closer to the house.

Suddenly he saw shapes moving behind the lit windows of a building. He drew closer. He recognized the new house. Two police officers, whose shadows stretched to the middle of the road, were chatting in the entranceway.

The crime had been discovered.

Henri Duchemin thought about turning himself in. But, changing his mind, he fled. His unbuttoned overcoat floated behind him. A gust of wind carried off his hat. He was getting ready to chase after it when he had the feeling time was running out.

Bareheaded, he took off at a run. Arc lamps lit a boulevard from above. The stores’ metal shutters were drawn down to the sidewalk. Against the darkened café storefronts, cane chairs were stacked one atop the other.

Upset by the loss of his hat, Henri Duchemin did not dare look at the few pedestrians he encountered.

For the second time, he thought of turning himself in, but the law terrified him. He was familiar with it because he had already ventured into criminal court with Monsieur Leleu. With a flushed face, he had pushed open the heavy padded doors. They had seen lawyers whose feet seemed huge beneath their robes. He had found not peaceful city policemen, but municipal guards dressed in the same sky blue as soldiers.

No, he would not turn himself in. It was better to remain free, for these heartless people would never understand the reasons behind his crime. Indeed, no one would understand them. He would have been happier among madmen in whose company he would have skipped, laughed, and sung.

Henri Duchemin heard the rumbling of a carriage. In the silence of the night, the noise terrified him. He imagined a prison van was following him and that the little slanted shutters were hiding policemen.

But the noise faded and he relaxed.

Not daring to return home or to take a room in a hotel because they might have his description, he went into a train station.

There was no one in the main hall, which was cheerless like all places abandoned by the crowd. In the distance locomotives sat idle. A lantern swayed to the rhythm of footsteps.

Henri Duchemin entered a waiting room and walked over to a sheet-metal stove that blew little puffs of warm air through the openwork toward his face. From time to time his gaze would meet the staring eyes of a traveler who was awake.

Sleepiness was making Henri Duchemin’s eyelids heavy and, like a horse, he dozed standing. His head fell forward.

Suddenly shouts rang out.

His teeth chattered. He shivered. He looked at the room. Newspaper photographs shading a lamp formed dark squares. People were getting up.

“Passengers for Dijon, Mâcon, Lyon, and prison, all aboard,” shouted an employee.

He had been found out.

Terrified, he stepped over packages and, running, opened a door that slammed when he was already far away.

Soon he stopped. The street was deserted.

I’m so foolish! he thought.

He wanted to retrace his steps, but though he was sure he had been tricked by his imagination, he did not dare.

* * *

Henri Duchemin was overcome by such an enormous desire to sleep that he closed his eyes as he walked—but not for long, because he was afraid of veering off course.

A lantern, like a common star, was twinkling in the distance. He had no reason to be anxious; people had every right to light lanterns. Still, he did not take his eyes off it because it seemed to him that on this night everything that was lit was lit because of him.

As he approached this lantern, he could read, etched in its blue paint: “Police Station.” So, without turning around or paying attention to the streets he ran down, he fled.

When he was out of breath he stopped and began to think. Wasn’t it ridiculous to be afraid like this when he possessed a fortune? In the morning, everything would be better.

He was wandering aimlessly in the streets when exhaustion forced him to sit on a bench. The air was bitterly cold. He shoved his hands in his pockets and did not move. He knew that cold could kill. And so he tried hard to stay awake. To help, he thought of every joy his fortune could bring him.

His legs grew heavy. He stood up.

The streets were becoming narrower and narrower. Not a single light shone in the windows. From time to time he would cross a street, then cross back to the sidewalk he had just left. Sometimes he would stop, turn around as if someone had called to him, then take off again.

As he walked along the barred windows of a night shelter, he read: “Post No Bills.” And, to show that they weren’t fooling, “Law of 29 July 1881.”

The shelter seemed abandoned. He went in, making sure to leave the door open so he could flee if necessary. The silence was bottomless. A disagreeable odor floated in the air. The black pipe from a stove led straight up to the ceiling. The bunks, in rows along the whitewashed walls, were all occupied. The beggars must have been tormented by bad dreams for their clothes hung down to the floor or lay scattered among the beds. In a glass booth, the watchman, partly lit by a lamp with a shade, was reading a book whose pages curled at the corners.

Henri Duchemin lay down on the floor. He felt safe. For a few minutes the rays from the lamp shone between his eyelashes. Then everything grew dim. Despite the hard stone bruising his hips and elbows, despite the cold tugging at his face, he had fallen asleep.

Who was it who was stubbornly striking him on the shoulder? One of his enemies, no doubt. Or a policeman. Henri Duchemin did not move a muscle. He knew that there was nothing easier to do than to pretend to be asleep. But what he did not know was that one never tires of trying to wake somebody.

And, indeed, the irksome person did not tire.

So Henri Duchemin imagined that a prison guard, who naturally held a lamp in his hand, was offering him a final cigarette. In order to know what was going to happen, he took it while he was asleep and, for the first time in his life, swallowed smoke. Then he got up and followed the guard. A guillotine appeared on a square. He saw its steel blade.

He was about to die when he was bullied awake.

“What are you doing here?”

“Sleeping.”

“You have to leave. No one’s allowed in after 9:30 at night.”

Henri Duchemin obeyed. As he left, he saw the watchman’s empty booth, the book resting on the table, and the lamp lighting the chair.

Henri Duchemin tried to forget everything that had just happened by walking hurriedly, which also warmed him. As he was crossing a street, the fact of not having to watch out for cars seemed odd to him. His shoes struck dry asphalt. Sometimes, he searched the sky in the hope of seeing the dawn, but the stars, still in the same place, remained clear and bright.

He saw a small park where mothers strolled with their children during the day. The hope of finding a bench and the fact that the fence was not high prompted him to enter. The guard was asleep, so he climbed over the roll bars and paced the frost-covered lawn with a pleasure that was all the greater since he knew only the gardeners had the right to step there. Then he looked through the panes of the guard’s kiosk. He imagined a multitude of objects filling the booth, but all he saw were a few chestnuts on a table of black wood.

Disappointed, he sat down on a bench. Across the way, between the bare trees, he saw a building, pale in the moonlight, whose shutterless windows and balcony railings reminded him of a city hall in a toy construction set. Not a breath of wind. The motionless cold of an icebox.

Eyes wide, his eyelids not once closing over them, even for a moment, Henri Duchemin was thinking. He was thinking that now he would be respected. And this respect would have been even greater had he not given half his fortune to those people who, rather than being grateful, had made fun of him. But since Henri Duchemin did not like regrets, he filed that memory away.

The loss of his hat annoyed him as well, especially since he would have had the time to pick it up. But what’s done is done, one’s thoughts must not linger on the past. What good would it do him to go back in time? Tomorrow, he would buy a brand new hat and a vest. He liked vests. Aren’t they a bit like the face of one’s body and don’t they wear a satisfied expression when the jacket is unbuttoned?

And at dawn, he’d go abroad. He pictured himself on a train. He even felt slight bumps as he passed imaginary switching points. He saw the countryside and a very red sun rising over the frozen plowed fields. A peasant opened a barn door. He was just starting his day’s work whereas he, Henri Duchemin, was escaping into the unknown.

Henri Duchemin got up and began to walk quickly to give himself the feeling he was traveling.

He soon found himself on a crowded street where, despite the late hour, people were enjoying themselves. The crowd, the illuminated shops, the rosy poultry gave the impression of a celebration. The copperware glistened in the light, so much so that it looked like liquid. The scent of tangerines was in the air. Everyone was laughing, having a good time. The pavement was dry. Along the sidewalk frozen puddles riddled with trapped bubbles gleamed in the gold of the lights.

“I want to be happy,” Henri Duchemin whispered as he stared at the women passing by.

One of them took him by the arm.

“I love you,” she said.

She was tottering slightly, but you could hardly tell because the unsteadiness of women’s legs is hidden by their dresses.

“Let’s go eat.”

“All right.”

They went into a local restaurant. The heat coming from the food, the lights, and people’s breath warmed the room. It was disagreeable, like any heat that doesn’t come from a fire.

Henri Duchemin removed his overcoat, smoothed his hair, and furtively threw the cotton from his ears under a chair.

As he was wiping off his cutlery, he gazed around him. People envied him. Surely they thought that the woman with him was his mistress.

“Do you love me?”

“Yes.”

“Do you swear it?”

“Yes.”

Customers came and went. The electric light bulbs were reflected high up in the mirrors. Outside, groups walked by, singing. The squeaking of a balloon could be heard now and again in the room.

The young woman opened and closed her mouth, as if she were tasting something.

Henri Duchemin was thinking about the future. Yes, his heart would no longer race whenever someone knocked on his door. He would take care of his health. It’s wonderful to do so when you feel well. He would go to the dentist; he’d had a toothache for a long time. Gone was that awful sense that each day the pain, which could be cured if only one had the money, would continue to grow more acute.

“Listen. Let’s go away, away.”

“Where?”

“Abroad.”

The meal finished, Henri Duchemin felt better. He lit a cigar. The young woman’s eyes were closed. He looked at her more easily. Only the air passing between her lips proved this face was alive.

“Let’s go.”

She gave a start, then let her dull gaze flit from table to table.

“Your hat, Monsieur?” asked the waiter.

“No, no, I don’t have one.”

This incident upset Henri Duchemin. To hide his distress, he opened his overcoat, which he had just closed.

“Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go.”

A group of people passing by forced him off the sidewalk. He turned back and, in a voice he thought sounded like that of every man, he swore at them. He was sure of himself. No one could have managed to intimidate him, not even a policeman.

Despite the crowd, they arrived quickly at the young woman’s hotel. Shoulder against the wall, she went in first, opened the glass door of an office half way, and took her key.

A maid was making up her room. When the couple arrived, she withdrew.

Expressing his surprise that people were compelled to work at night, Henri Duchemin went in. The curtain around the dressing table was drawn back. He saw a blue pitcher and basin. There were photographs on the mirror. Pollen from a branch of mimosa mixed with ashes from the fireplace.

“Are you tired?” he asked her.

“I don’t feel comfortable.”

“Do you need a bit of air?”

“Yes, open the window.”

Henri Duchemin opened the window. A house so close that you could reach out and touch it got lost in the dark night.

“How are you feeling now?”

“I’m cold.”

“Do you love me?”

“I don’t know.”

“A little while ago you did.”

“Too bad.”

She took off her skirt, stepped over it, and began to wash. Half undressed as she was, her torso seemed too long.

“You’re beautiful.”

He went over to her and tried to take her by the waist.

“Leave me alone.”

She splashed him. Taken by surprise, he let her go. His lips were dry. A drop of water rolled down his nose.

“You don’t love me?”

“Leave me alone or I’ll scream.”

“No, don’t scream, don’t scream. I’ll go.”

“Go then.”

He opened the door. The sound of his footsteps filled the corridor as if he were a giant. He raced down the stairs, imagining he was falling with each step, for he did not have the time or the strength to move his legs.

* * *

When he got to the street, he walked away with long strides. The lights from the stores bothered him. He passed in front of a cinema and saw a poster. It was of the heroine of a film. She was crying. The candor on this face awakened a need for love in Henri Duchemin that made him cry along with her.

The farther he got from this neighborhood, the more numerous the streetlamps seemed, the wider the sidewalks, the bigger the windows.

Henri Duchemin was walking along the slatted wall of a cemetery when he noticed someone in front of him. He picked up his pace. Soon he was next to an old man. The sleeves of his too-long overcoat hid his hands.

“It’s bitter cold,” said Henri Duchemin.

The stranger’s white beard inspired trust. Henri Duchemin was afraid of being alone with himself. Talking with this old man until morning would make the time pass.

“Indeed it is.”

“You’re on your way home, I assume?”

“Yes.”

There was a moment of silence. The two men walked side by side. Henri Duchemin would have wanted to walk faster, but he did not.

“And you, young man, where are you going?”

“I’ll be leaving at dawn.”

“What’s your job?”

“I’m an office worker.”

A few black crosses rose above the wall. Farther on, behind the cemetery, were new houses.

“Perhaps you don’t have a place to sleep?” said the old man.

“I don’t.”

“Come home with me. It will be warmer. I don’t live far from here.”

The two men ventured down a dark street. From time to time they passed beneath an archway. It began to grow lighter. The moon was gone. It had not waited for the sun in order to disappear.

At last they entered a detached house whose sides had been battered by the wind.

There was no light to guide their steps; they groped their way up the stairs. At each landing, afraid of bumping into each other, they raised their feet one too many times. Above their heads, the woodwork presented a reverse image of the stairs. Drafts blew the doors shut noisily.

“Wait a moment. I have to find my key.”

A few seconds later, the two men entered a hovel. The old man lit a candle. A newspaper covered the table. Henri Duchemin sat down in an armchair no sturdier than the one in his room.

When the old man took off his overcoat, he appeared in a worn morning coat with a pocket in each of its distinct tails. Now, with an old man’s clipped movements, he paced back and forth, he bent down. Before lighting the fire, he had to pull the grate on the stove several times. The cloud of ash that rose settled on his shoes, turning them white.

Old clothes hung on nails fanned out near the floor. There was very little air in the garret. A doily lined a shelf. On the shelf, a fork, salt, a tin. Everywhere, broken, ravaged furniture, the kind found in handcarts.

The fire blazed. It could be seen through the stove’s bands. The old man was straightening things up. From time to time he stopped to ask Henri Duchemin if he were cold. Or else he would bring his hand close to the dormer window to make sure no air was seeping in.

At last he sat down. His face was lit by the candle flame. He sat straight on his stool, legs next to each other, hands clasped.

The circle of smoke the candle made on the ceiling moved ceaselessly. The only sound was the crackling of the wood. A gentle warmth pervaded the garret. Drops fell from the ceiling like diluted ink.

The old man poured some ashes on the fire. It seemed to go out. Thick smoke came out of the ill-fitted pipe. Then, all of a sudden, the fire blazed again.

Henri Duchemin noticed with joy a pale dawn through the dormer window. He had a feeling that all was for the best. More than anything else, he must not think, because it might make him sad, which would be ridiculous just when day was dawning.

He really had deserved an easier life. He had suffered his share. Now, he was able to see that the world was well designed. Aren’t both happy and unhappy people necessary?

He looked at the pained face of the old man.

“You are unhappy!” he said.

“Yes.”

“You haven’t been lucky!”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Now, you know, it’s too late. I don’t know what I’d do if I were you.”

“What can I say? A person can get used to anything. I’m not as unhappy as I seem,” the old man answered.

“You’re not unhappy?”

“No, nor happy.”

“Well I, I am happy. I can do anything I want. I won’t be made fun of any longer. I’m going abroad in a little while. And I have a lot of money on me. One would never know it.”

“No.”

“You see. One can be wrong. I have a lot more money that you realize.”

“Yes, but you murdered someone.”

Henri Duchemin grew pale. It seemed that all the blood in his body was draining out through a hole. He looked at his hands. They were open. He had never looked at them when he was suffering.

The old man spoke. He said: “I obey the voice of the heavens. It tells me to stay poor. It tells me of the joy that comes from the love of God.”

A pale light was falling from the dormer window. The stains on the wall circled the entire garret.

The old man was praying. He swayed as if his stool were resting on a cloud.

Henri Duchemin stammered:

“What will become of me? What will become of me? I am lost, I’ve killed, I’ve killed.”

The old man raised his eyes.

“In order to redeem yourself, you must suffer.”

The sky was still growing lighter. The stars were disappearing one by one. Suddenly an infinite elation entered Henri Duchemin’s soul. A beatific vision replaced the sordid walls that surrounded him. Slowly, in the light of day, the old man, standing with one hand raised, began to move away. A myriad of stars flashed like diamonds. Dazzled, Henri Duchemin was walking along the paths of paradise. Everywhere were baskets of flowers, gilded vases, and angels flying upside down.

“Yes, I have killed, but I shall suffer, suffer my entire life. I shall redeem myself. I shall be forgiven. I will do everything. I’ll endure anything to be forgiven. Oh, to be forgiven! I shall be so happy. I shall suffer, suffer, my entire life.”

But like a flock of birds, the angels flew off together toward a corner of the sky.

Henri Duchemin followed them with his eyes. He saw them growing ever smaller. Then, he turned his gaze toward the vases: they were no longer gilded.

He opened his eyes wide to see better. He awoke.

Henri Duchemin got up. The cold had chilled his body to the bone. Now he recognized the wallpaper and the sideboard to which he did not have the key. The light of dawn was coming through the curtains. The marble fireplace, the two chairs, the bed had never seemed so still.

Henri Duchemin picked up his hat and went out. For the first time, he saw flowerpots in the concierge’s window.

The street was empty. A frightening calm fell from the starless sky. With a few flaps of its wings, a bird slowly crossed the empty space.

Henri Duchemin walked straight ahead. On the horizon, wisps of smoke stood motionless against the gray sky. It was Christmas Day.

He vaguely remembered his dream. He recalled an old man who had said that in order to redeem oneself, one must suffer. But that did not concern him, for he had never done anyone any harm.

ANOTHER FRIEND

I prefer English gardens to French gardens. It’s not that order and harmony are distasteful to me, nor that the imitation of nature delights me. I simply like not knowing exactly where I am. English gardens are mysterious with their waterfalls and secret alleyways. Though you quickly end up where you began, for a few moments you have the wonderful illusion of being lost. Most of all, you don’t have to walk across vast open spaces where so many people look at you.

One hot August day I was strolling in the Parc Montsouris. Although it was noon, the sun was not in the middle of the sky. I could see it without moving my head, simply by raising my eyes.

The morning hours are the finest in the whole day. All those evening thoughts—too ambitious or too modest—have vanished. Night has made me a new being.

For me, the joys of the day never last beyond noon. That day, however, I was happy. I listened to the singing of the birds. I did not understand how some people could find it so appealing. Nothing in this chirping brought me any solace.

I was walking very slowly down a shaded alleyway looking for an isolated bench as close to the center of the park as possible, so that all around me an equal expanse of trees and lawn would separate me from the city.

The sky was blue. The air shimmered in the sunlight. A few insects that did not need to fear other, stronger insects hopped about on the grass. The intense, buzzing life of the fields and woods did not burst forth from this sheltered environment. The ground on which I walked reverberated. It did not absorb my footsteps the way country soil does.

I like giving bread to the birds. I do it because it’s a sign of a charitable soul. I’m even more commendable in that nothing attracts me to them. Like most people, I am fond of their grace and independence, but not to the extent that I find contentment throwing them crumbs.

As soon as I had located the bench I was looking for, I removed from my pocket the piece of bread I’d brought with me.

There were already a dozen or so birds around me when I noticed, a few yards away, a man watching me. I will not say, as some people would, that I felt him looking at me. That would be a lie. Yet I am sure that a woman in my position, seeing this stranger as I saw him then, that is, out of the corner of my eye without turning my head, would certainly have sworn she felt this gaze weighing on her.

Still, I continued tossing crumbs. I tossed them as close to me as possible. It’s always very satisfying to see birds come close. The trust they show in us enchants us and, although we know they would trust anyone, we want to believe they have gleaned our good intentions.

The stranger was still looking at me, and so I spoke to the birds. I even gave them nicknames. I wanted one of them to come take a crumb from my fingertips, which would have made it seem that those birds knew me, and that I often came to the park. Sadly, none of them did.

And as interested as I appeared to be in what I was doing, I didn’t stop thinking about the man watching me. He must have been saying to himself: “Some people are odd. Here is a poor wretch sharing the little he has with the birds. If nothing else, he must have a big heart. I’ve never seen a poor man do this.”

Surely he was telling himself this. I was conscious of my generosity. Since I had only a tiny piece of bread left, I divided it into crumbs. The stranger took a few steps toward me. The birds flew away. I turned to him humbly, my expression reproachful.

“Don’t be angry with me, monsieur,” he said gently. “The birds will return.”

Only then did I dare observe the stranger closely. He was an elderly man of average height, well-dressed. He had on pince-nez and those rubber boots that can be worn on either foot. He was looking at me with so much kindness that for a moment his pince-nez seemed to mist over.

“Do you come here often?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

For the first time in my life I was not embarrassed to meet someone. I was in such a perfect position to be liked that I could speak to anyone without being afraid.

“You must be fond of animals?”

“Very.”

I stood up, and without really thinking, simply to give myself something to do, I threw the bread in the grass where the birds had been.

“You’re a good soul,” he said after a moment of silence.

I did not answer. And yet these were not words that should have remained between two silences. No one ever complimented me before. No one ever said to me what other people hear so frequently. These fine words filled me with joy. I even felt I could have cried had I wanted to.

I continued to throw smaller and smaller crumbs. This stranger surely was very sensitive. He was embarrassed. When I looked at him, I had just enough time to see his eyes, for he lowered his head at almost the same moment.

“You know,” he said, pointing to the birds so I would not look at him, “they’ll come back.”

“But I don’t have any more bread.”

Now I have to confess something. When I said “But I don’t have any more bread,” there was a spiteful tone to my voice. We all have our weaknesses. No one is perfect. I said “But I don’t have any more bread” as if I were criticizing him for not having any, as if he should have foreseen I would run out, as if I wanted him to buy me some so I could go on giving it to the birds.

Fortunately, I am intelligent. Right away I understood what was petty in my attitude and I made up for it by saying in a natural voice:

“The birds have had enough for today.”

“Do you think so?”

The stranger was so kind he had not even noticed my little outburst.

We moved away. He was walking slowly, at his own pace. I matched my step to his. From time to time, he stopped to look at the sky.

“What a day!”

An immense joy filled me. I could tell that this stranger had a great love of simple things. He took interest in a thousand little trifles. He was, then, a man like me. Someone who does not know me well could think at first that I am hard to please and that this is why I am unhappy. No, all I ask for is a little friendship. I know the sign of great wisdom is not asking men to give what they cannot. One must take men as they are. I know this. I am wise. I ask only to take them as they are. But even this is denied me.

I walked next to the stranger with cautious steps, prepared to speed up or slow down, like those girls who proposition passersby.

I could hear each and every noise. The garden was almost deserted. Sometimes, across a lawn, we could see someone going by.

The stranger walked with his head bowed. I watched him. We didn’t know where we were going.

On a bench, a poor man was eating a bit of bread with a slice of meat. One always wonders, where do people who eat outside sleep? The stranger looked at him with pity. Oh! Don’t think I was jealous. Not at all; it was a great joy for me to see that, in spite of everything, there were men on earth who felt compassion for the wretchedness of others. No, I was not jealous. I am not jealous of actual beggars, of people whose poverty does not surprise them, who desire nothing and don’t notice when someone feels sorry for them. The man eating on his bench was not a schemer. He did not even exchange a look of complicity with the stranger. He was truly a poor man, the sort of poor man I like.

We were still walking without saying a word. It’s so pleasant to walk next to someone who is well dressed, whose thoughts you don’t know, who will perhaps change your life—someone you sense to be powerful.

This stranger was almost a father to me. I felt a protective strength in his gait, in his silence. Even as a child when I went out with my father, I never had this same sense of security.

From time to time, the stranger turned to me and stared, shaking his head. And, imbecile that I am, I did not know how to look at him. To look meekly would have been ridiculous because he was the stronger man; coldly, impolite; submissively, undignified. So I carefully avoided his gaze, which I sensed skimming over my worn-out clothes, my shoes too big for my feet and, what was particularly painful, over my collar.

We were nearing the exit. In a few seconds, it would be necessary to speak. How I longed for us still to be in the center of the park.

We stopped. Near the gate was a park keeper’s hut painted the same yellow as the iron chairs.

So it was over already! We were going to part.

I shivered. Luckily the stranger was not looking at me just then. It was hot. When I lowered my eyes, I could feel that my eyelids were damp.

Though his face was covered with sweat, the stranger did not wipe it off. This inattention pleased me. I attributed it to his extreme shyness and his immense fondness for me.

For the first time in years, I had the impression that at long last I had a friend.

The stranger pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, one that had not yet been unfolded and, before wiping his face, he asked:

“Where are you having lunch?”

“I don’t know, monsieur.”

I sensed that there was probably an answer that would have been more advantageous to me, but I am not quick and I did not have time to come up with it.

“Would you like to eat with me?”

A lunch is such a small thing; it’s over so soon. Still, if you only knew how this invitation filled me with joy.

Unfortunately, I never have the courage to accept what is offered to me. I’m always afraid of accepting too quickly.

“No, thanks, I would only be a bother to you,” I stammered.

“Come now. I invited you, didn’t I? Let’s go.”

I thought neither of the heat nor of my poverty. I forgot my life. I saw the blue sky above me, the park to my right, the street to my left. It was all so immense.

“Oh, monsieur, all right. Yes.”

Yes—I had said yes. If only you knew how difficult it is for me to say yes. I have never said yes. I don’t know how to say yes. It seems to me that yes means freedom, happiness.

* * *

The stranger lived on a mezzanine floor. Maybe it’s because I’ve always lived on the attic floor or perhaps for some other obscure reason, but I know even if I were rich I could never live on a mezzanine floor.

When we arrived on the landing, even though he was returning to his own home, the stranger did not look in his pocket for the key. He rang. A maid, young and innocent-looking, but probably stubborn too, opened the door.

“Come in, my friend,” said the stranger, motioning toward the foyer.

I obeyed, but without wiping my feet because the loose sole of one of my shoes might have caught on the carpet. I was about to remove my hat when the stranger said:

“Don’t trouble yourself. Leave it on. You’re at home here.”

I could say at this point that these words humiliated me because they were no doubt addressed only to people like me, but what good would it do? There are so many things that hurt me, it’s best not to draw attention to them all.

I removed my hat anyway. I took two steps forward, looked at a stuffed animal mounted on the wall, and waited.

The stranger had left me in the foyer. He returned a few moments later.

“Come. Let’s go into the dining room. I’ve asked for a place to be set for you.”

I followed him.

“Sit down. Make yourself at home.”

The stranger looked at my hands, then said: “You must be wondering, my dear friend, who I am. I shall tell you. My name is Boudier-Martel. I am fond of those whom life has treated harshly. I could see that behind your timid appearance you have a pure soul. That’s why I wanted to get to know you, to be of help to you, to encourage you. Don’t let your pride suffer from this. I could be your father. You have a friend in me. Every time I am able to make someone’s life a little less painful, I do so. You are someone who is worthy of being looked after.”

I listened to these words as if they were spoken by the perfect being about whom I had thought so often. I listened without trying to understand them because I was afraid some of them might displease me. I focused my attention on the words I love: dear friend, help to you, pride. I could not believe the friend I had been seeking for so long was there, in front of me. And yet, there he was, and I felt how ill prepared I was to speak to him.

“You mustn’t think, my friend, that I have a cold heart. I do everything in my power to make life a little less difficult for the needy. I know nothing greater than turning one’s attention to the misfortunes of the meek.”

These words soothed me. It seemed as if the chair on which I was sitting had no legs, that my heels were no longer resting on the parquet floor, that I was living in a dream. A new life was about to begin for me. I had a friend. With all his gifts, with his heart, he was coming to me.

“Oh, monsieur, how happy everything you are saying makes me!”

“Yes, yes, I thought as much. Come now, let’s eat. And then, on Sunday, I’ll come see you in your little room. It is a little room on the top floor, isn’t it?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“If only you could understand how well I know you. I can picture your whole life. You wake up and get out of bed, then go for a little stroll. You are very fond of animals. You eat lunch; you stroll about some more; you eat supper; you go to bed. Alone. You are alone, completely alone. No one bothers you. By the way, what do you live on?”

“My annuity.”

“Of course! You have a small annuity. You are happy. You are wise. I admire you.”

I will remember that lunch my whole life. There was so much trust between Monsieur Boudier-Martel and me, so much solicitude, that I can hardly believe nothing remains of it today.

* * *

Sunday came at last. Monsieur Boudier-Martel was to arrive at four in the afternoon, after the heat of the day had died down.

I spent the entire morning getting ready. I bought wine, a tin of biscuits, some lemon soda. My room, tidied up, seemed larger than usual. I sat down on my bed, at the spot where there is a big hole in the quilt, and I waited. The window was open. The blinds are broken, so the harsh light from outside flooded the room.

I was in that contented state in which you find yourself when you’ve just finished a thousand little chores that are so easily forgotten. There were just the two glasses that I had not yet washed. I knew it. I was saving that task so I would have something to do when Monsieur Boudier-Martel arrived.

Suddenly I heard footsteps on the stairway. It had to be him. I stood and picked up the glasses so I would be busy rinsing them when he knocked.

I heard him on the landing. Although I had explained to him which door was mine, he was looking down the other end of the landing, where Lecoin lives. How I wished my neighbor could see Monsieur Boudier-Martel coming into my place!

There was a knock. I went to open the door.

There he was. Despite the fact that it was Sunday, he had put on old clothes to come see me. No doubt he had done so out of tact. He walked in, removing his hat at the door.

“As you can see, I’m just rinsing the glasses. Please sit down,” I said, and offered him my best chair.

“Oh, don’t trouble about me. I can sit anywhere.”

He sat on the bed, at the same spot I had been sitting because the sagging mattress forms a hollow there.

“Why, this is a very nice room. It’s clean, it’s airy. It’s a bit high up, but it’s airy.”

“You think so?”

“Rooms like this are rare.”

His admiration for my quarters displeased me. I had hoped that after he’d seen my place he would offer me a big, comfortable room in his apartment. Now I realized it was pointless to count on that.

“Do you do your own cooking?”

“Oh, no, monsieur!”

“You don’t?”

“No, I eat out.”

“You eat out?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“But restaurants are very expensive.”

“I have a little arrangement.”

“Oh, that’s different! When one is in a situation like yours, you have to know how to make little arrangements.”

“Indeed, monsieur.”

There was a moment of silence. While looking out the window, Monsieur Boudier-Martel was testing my bed with the back of his fist. Every now and again he raised his heel and struck the floor. He also turned around, looking everywhere.

While I was trying to find a dishrag, he said: “No, don’t dry the glasses. You mustn’t trouble yourself. I like drinking from glasses that have been freshly rinsed. You know, it’s not as bad as all that here. You probably have running water not too far.”

“Yes, on the landing.”

“Excellent. The other day, I couldn’t talk to you as I would have liked. I barely knew you. Now I want to tell you how noble I find your self-denial, your simplicity.”

These words, which I found full of truth, moved me. I looked tenderly at Monsieur Boudier-Martel. I felt that whatever was still separating us was about to vanish.

“Would you like a little wine, monsieur?”

“As you please, my child.”

My child. He said my child. This time, all my sorrow vanished. I was trembling as I poured the wine. He was about to get up to take his glass, so I said:

“No, don’t bother.” And I brought it to him, not without spilling a little.

He drank leaning forward, the way one drinks at a bar.

I found this tactless. I don’t think he should have noticed that I had filled the glass too much because if I did, it was because his kind words had disconcerted me. Even if he were to spill a little on himself, he should have drunk as if he were at home.

“You are very sensitive, my friend.”

For a second I thought he was reading my mind.

“I am fond of people like you. Human misery moves me. Tell me about your life. If something is troubling you, confide in me.”

Tell him about my life! Can one tell the story of one’s life to a friend? Can one tell the story of one’s life without making it more beautiful, or uglier, without lying? As for confiding, is it possible to do it just like that, on demand? To talk about my life, about myself, to a man who had just walked in—no, it could not be done.

Monsieur Boudier-Martel was waiting for me to speak, pretending to be very attentive. Yes, I said pretending: though his gaze was fixed on me, from time to time his eyes would momentarily turn away toward some object in my room.

“Do you wash in that basin?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“That must not be easy. Come now, tell me about your life, confide in me. You have a friend in me, a brother.”

“A brother?”

“Yes. I too have suffered from poverty.”

“You’ve suffered from poverty?”

“Yes.”

I sensed he wanted me to rejoice at this news. Yet deep down I respected him less.

“Would you like a little more wine, monsieur?” I asked, expecting a polite refusal.

I was mistaken. Monsieur Boudier-Martel accepted.

Have you noticed how often we are wrong about people? We are sure they will say one thing and they say the opposite. But this mustn’t change our opinion of them. For some infinitesimal reason that was unknown to me, Monsieur Boudier-Martel had not said no, yet his whole being was refusing the wine I offered.

This time I poured the wine slowly so that Monsieur Boudier-Martel would spare me from seeing him lean forward to drink. Though the glass was only half full, he still leaned forward.

“Well, then, when are you going to tell me about this life of yours?” he asked, looking for a place to set down his glass.

If only you could have seen how he searched! If he had truly cared about me, if he had truly been drawn to me by some feeling, he would not have had that self-conscious air about him; he would have set the glass on the floor.

“So, what about that life of yours?”

“Oh, monsieur! It’s not all that interesting.”

He stood, came over to me, and stroked my hair.

I lit up with joy, even though I was torn between the desire for him to stop and for him to go on—for him to stop, because there is something grotesque about emotional outpourings between men; for him to go on, because it was a sign of such deep friendship.

“Oh, child, child,” he said, pulling away from me. “I’m leaving now, my friend.”

“You’re going to leave?”

And I had thought we would stay together until nightfall!

“Come have lunch with me whenever you like. I’m not insisting. You are a free man. I’m not setting a date. I respect other people’s freedom too much.”

If only Monsieur Boudier-Martel knew how little one values one’s freedom when one is alone.

He took his hat and did not wait to go out to put it on. I realized he had made an effort to be tactful at first and now he was tired and couldn’t be bothered.

I caught a glimpse of the vast solitude awaiting me.

I stood up also.

“You’re leaving?”

“Yes, I must get back.”

I lost my head.

“Monsieur, monsieur, don’t go.”

Disconcerted, Monsieur Boudier-Martel drew back a step. As a precaution, pretending to be surprised, he opened the door as if he weren’t thinking.

“Don’t go; I’ll be so alone without you, if only you knew how I suffer when I’m alone. Stay. You’ll talk to me. You have been so kind.”

Reassured, Monsieur Boudier-Martel released the doorknob.

“Come, come, my child, calm down. You know you can count on me.”

I realized it was impossible to keep him. I don’t know anything more agonizing than the feeling that, no matter what you do, you cannot prevent someone from leaving.

With a final burst of energy, I approached him and, kneeling awkwardly, the way people who don’t go to church do, I stammered:

“Don’t be angry with me, I acted without thinking. You understand me, please forgive me. You can count on me for everything. I’ll go to any lengths, please stay, monsieur.”

I got up. Monsieur Boudier-Martel, who had stepped back even farther, was on the landing.

“Come now, my friend, take heart. I shall not forget you. I am very fond of you. Good-bye. Come see me.”

And he went out without even having heard that I had said I would go to any lengths for him.

Alone again, I sat down on the bed. It was still quite light out. Someone was playing a guitar in a house nearby. At times he played the same tune twice in a row. Birds flew across the blue sky so quickly they seemed to be following a straight line. They were black, the way all birds are in the late afternoon.

I got up. I picked up my hat. I waited a bit so I would not catch up to Monsieur Boudier-Martel. I opened the door; the landing was deserted. I went out and strolled about until night fell.

* * *

I will always remember that radiant day that was one of the saddest of my life.

The previous night I had fallen asleep late because in my bed I had been thinking about Monsieur Boudier-Martel. I am such a good person that whenever I am far from people I no longer see their faults. I had foolishly imagined that Monsieur Boudier-Martel, in his bed, was also thinking about me. So I looked at my watch. I decided right then to go to his house the next day to tell him that at 11:10 p.m. our thoughts had crossed.

In the morning the idea seemed ridiculous to me. But since it had already been three days since we’d seen each other, I did not go back on my decision. He had been so insistent for me to come to lunch at his house that I was not afraid of abusing his kindness.

I put on my best clothes. When I’m in my room, I always find I look fine, but as soon as I go out, as soon as I am on the street mixing with the crowd, I realize how poorly I’m dressed. It’s not a question of contrast. No one notices me. It’s because I think everyone can see the life I lead and that they are all saying: “He’s only got what he deserves.” So I am fearful, and I lack confidence. I’m wrong. No one pays me any mind.

I left my room at eleven thirty. Usually I leave earlier, but that day I wanted to arrive at Monsieur Boudier-Martel’s fresh and clean, without a trace of dust.

The heat was overwhelming. A vehicle washing down the streets wet my feet. I walked slowly because even though the visit I had decided to pay was entirely justified, I was nervous.

The noon bells were ringing everywhere when I arrived in front of Monsieur Boudier-Martel’s. I went straight in. The corridor was not as cool as it had been the previous time; all the doors were closed. In summer, doors seem as though they are never supposed to open.

The elevator wasn’t there. I climbed the stairs. The railing was too wide to be held. When I got to the door, I removed my hat, then put it back on. I was panting, but with emotion—I couldn’t blame it on having climbed six flights of stairs.

I had to ring. Without bothering to switch on the hall light, I pressed the bell. I waited a few seconds.

“Is Monsieur in?” I asked the maid, one hand on the wall, the other in my pocket.

I struck this pose as soon as I saw her because I cannot bear servants. I wanted to show her that, although I was poorly dressed, I was above her. No doubt she felt it and, either out of unkindness or to get even, she asked:

“Monsieur who?”

I almost lost all the confidence I had worked so hard to gain.

“Your master,” I answered insolently.

I immediately regretted this outburst. I realized I was, after all, at the mercy of this woman. What could I have done if she had answered, “My master! He’s not in!” So right away I added:

“You must recognize me. I came for lunch the other day.”

And although I stammered, humiliated and frightened now, I was nonetheless reserving the pleasure of speaking ill of her later to Monsieur Boudier-Martel.

“Yes, he’s here. Come in.”

I removed my hat, despite the fact that I was loath to do so in front of this maid. She was capable of thinking I’d done it on her account.

“And whom should I announce?”

I hesitated a moment.

“Announce the gentleman who came to lunch the other day.”

“But which one? Gentlemen come every day.”

This time, I had to say my name. She was going to make fun of me; she would laugh. Oh, well, after all, my name is my name. I don’t have to be afraid of saying it.

“Monsieur Bâton.”

“Bâton.”

“Yes.”

“Please wait here.”

I sat in one of those foyer chairs where one sets down packages and hats, but where only people like me actually sit.

A door opened. Monsieur Boudier-Martel appeared without a collar, in his dressing gown. I leaped up.

Without moving, he held his hands out to me.

“Ah, it’s you. I am so pleased to see you. Come in. Let me introduce you to a friend, a man like you. Come in, come in.”

“A man like me?”

“Yes, come in.”

I did not have time to think. I went in stunned, happy, as in dreams we remember.

Suddenly I stopped cold. Instead of circulating through my whole body my blood all rushed to my head. Monsieur Boudier-Martel was pointing at me. The maid was somewhere behind me. Someone was speaking. I heard some words. The door, gently and by itself, was closing.

I had just seen, right there, in the same chair where I had sat, a poor man, a poor man like me. I needn’t look at them for long. I recognize them immediately. It was obvious that, right there, in the armchair, was a poor man.

“Come in, come in, my friend.”

I said nothing. Now I understood everything. Monsieur Boudier-Martel did not love me. He loved poor people.

“Well, come in, Bâton. What’s wrong?”

“No, no, I’m leaving. I don’t feel well.”

I was backing away. Monsieur Boudier-Martel followed slowly. I could tell he did not want to come any closer to me. You never draw close to people who abruptly change their attitude.

“Stay, dear man, stay. You’re at home here; you are my friend.”

I was still retreating, and then I opened the door.

“I’ll come back shortly, Monsieur. I don’t feel well. I’m ill. I have to go.”

I went out, leaving the door open. I could have closed it, but I did not have the will. As long as it stayed open, something was still possible between Monsieur Boudier-Martel and me. He could follow me, beg me to come back. I don’t know what I would have done in that case.

If I left the door open, it was so he would be the one to close it, so that he would be the one to break off our friendship forever, so that in my loneliness I would at least have reason to suffer because of other people’s lack of understanding.

Monsieur Boudier-Martel remained in front of his door as I descended the stairs. It seemed as if the landing was as far as he could go, and that the stairway was an abyss. He leaned forward, calling to me, not daring to place a foot on the first step.

“Come back, Bâton. What’s the matter?”

I, for my part, walked away very slowly. When I got to the hallway, I stopped. Was it because my suffering was not as great as I thought that I caught myself on guard, listening to what was happening on the mezzanine?

The door slammed shut. It was over.

In the blinding light of the street, it seemed that everything that had just happened in the shade of the house was already lost to the past. I did not weep. One never weeps right away. I was so on edge that, although I was not laughing, my face was contracted as if I were.

Days passed.

I would have forgotten this sad story a long time ago had I not retained the impression that Monsieur Boudier-Martel knew why I had left. He was certainly aware that a base sense of jealousy had forced me to flee, that I would have stayed if there had been a rich man instead of a poor man in the dining room. I’m sure he knew all the petty thoughts going through my mind at the time. Yes, without a doubt, he knew them all because, had I been in his shoes, I too would have guessed them.

NIGHT VISIT

What was making me sad? My books—all my books—were sleeping on the shelves. No one had spoken badly of me. My family and friends had no particular worries. I found myself in the midst of all things. So I did not need to fear that events, in my absence, would take a turn I would be unable to change. I was not unhappy with myself. And, even had I been, this intensity of feeling was different.

It was eleven o’clock at night. A lamp without a shade lit my desk. I had not gone out all day. Whenever fresh air has not put color in my cheeks, I don’t feel at ease. My wrists are smoother and I notice, with some displeasure, that the down covering them is silkier, and when I go to bed, my unexpended energy makes me uncomfortable.

I was dozing in an armchair. At the seam where the red velvet meets the wood, golden tacks form a border. One of them was missing and, there, the edge sagged a bit. I sat motionless. My hand tugged at this seam without my being aware of it, as it sought unconsciously to pull out the next tack.

It was only once I had managed to pull it out that I became aware of what I was doing. I felt a small joy at this discovery, as I feel each time I catch myself doing something without realizing it, or when I bring to light a sensation in me of which I was unaware. It makes me as happy as a ray of sunshine or a kind word. Anyone who would criticize me for this tiny joy will never understand me. I think that seeking knowledge of oneself is a pure deed. To criticize me for digging too deeply into myself would be to criticize me for being happy.

I have to say, though, that this joy is very fragile. It really is not equal to the joy a ray of sunshine brings. Quickly it disappears, and I have to look for something else inside me to bring it back to life. Then, in the intervals, it seems that everything is hostile to me and that the people around me, with their simple joy, are in reality happier than I am.

* * *

I was reading when there was a knock at the door. It was my friend Paul. He rushed in and the door, which he had yanked behind him so it would close, stopped half- way.

“What’s the matter, Paul?”

“Nothing.”

His face was pale, and his eyes were darker than usual. He dropped onto the sofa, which he knew was soft.

“But what is it?”

He stood, walked around the room as I put my book down, and lit a cigarette, then sat again. He was smoking the way nervous people do, his cigarette drooping from his mouth. From time to time, he would spit out bits of tobacco.

“Please, Paul, tell me what’s happened to you.”

I looked at him. I tried to find a gesture, an expression, something in his bearing that would reassure me. But there was nothing. If he had been holding some object, his fingers would have trembled. He must have realized this because he avoided touching anything whatsoever.

“Paul, I’m your friend. Tell me everything. You know if there’s anything I can do for you, I’ll do it. It hurts me to see you like this, without being able to help you.”

He was so upset that I alone heard my words. I saw them drift over his head without ever reaching his ears. It seemed as if the words were balls that I was tossing haphazardly. I grew tired of his lack of concentration and stopped paying attention to what I was saying, and just then he appeared to listen to me.

Cautiously he drew near me. It was as if he were afraid that the slightest sound would close my mouth. He looked at it, blinking; his eyelids were missing a few lashes. The light from the lamp as it glided across the roundness of his eyes made their color fade. He burst out laughing. Yes, he burst out laughing. His fingers trembled one after the other, their thin fingernails molded to the flesh rather than sitting atop it. A few teeth I had never seen appeared at the back of his mouth, similar to the others but unfamiliar to me. They revealed physical mysteries. I was aware that I no longer had a friend in front of me, but a man like myself. And this did more to make me feel sorry for him than his desperate behavior.

“Why are you laughing?”

“Hmm! I don’t know, you’re right, I shouldn’t be.”

And he went on laughing. His nose seemed longer as the muscles of his face contracted. His mouth, which had lost the rhythm of his breath, was trying to recover. In spite of everything, Paul had to breathe through this confusion, and so his breath vibrated on his palate before escaping from his mouth.

At last he sat down, calmer, which made me wonder if his pain was as great as it had seemed.

A streetcar passed. Was it because the rain continued to fall that I thought, from the noise the streetcar made, that the electrical current was stronger?

There was a moment of silence. When the rumbling of a taxi interrupted it, I listened to the sound until it became imperceptible. And my concentration was so intense that I still heard it, even though it no longer existed. A pinkish light, projected from outside, lit up a spot on the wall where it would have been difficult to hang a painting.

My friend was not moving. Having parted his lips once and for all, he was breathing feebly, his tongue folded over so as to be out of the way. And his hair, which he had not combed with his hand, was untidy.

“Say something, Paul!”

His eyes left the comforting flame of the lamp, seemed to follow the flight of a bird, then landed on me. They were shrouded by a dark glaze, fringed by the shadow of his lashes. Perhaps because each eye was so intensely alive, I realized very clearly that there were two of them. As for my gaze, even though it was full of compassion, I felt it was not honest. As hard as I tried to open my eyes wide to see more clearly, it was hopeless. Paul took my hand. I questioned him.

“Tell me, what has happened to you?”

He leaned forward to take my other hand, which was quite far from him. He did it gently. Then he began to speak.

I did not hear the first sentences, as I was busy trying to find the mark of pain on my friend’s features. I placed more importance on that than on whatever he was about to tell me. For when a man is suffering, what can he tell us that we don’t already know?

“Jean, a great misfortune has just happened to me.”

Now he was calm. Beneath his thick clothes, one could see he wasn’t trembling. The circle of lamplight extended beyond us. We were sitting up in the middle of it, on the tangled shadows of the chair rungs.

“You know, dear Jean, how strong my attachment to you is. We met during the difficult days of war and from the start—and it had nothing to do with danger—we were attracted to each other. You would read me your letters. I read you mine. And we trusted each other enough not to hide anything. Sometimes we would get angry with each other and even though we both easily bear grudges, it never took us long to patch things up. We were true friends. And do you remember the demobilization? Do you remember our joy at finally being free? At the time, everyone’s happiness was so great that all our friends no longer even thought about friendship. But we weren’t like that. We had tears in our eyes when we parted. Do you remember? You came to Paris while I went to the South to join my fiancée. After only a few months, we met again by chance. How we celebrated that wonderful encounter! What a night! Well, my friend, in the name of this unblemished friendship I am asking you to listen to me. I want to believe that my presence in your home at this hour is not unpleasant for you. We have spent too many sleepless nights side by side for you not to want to spend one last night with me. It will be less dangerous than all the others, but much sadder. Before, we were waiting, hoping for something when we couldn’t sleep. Today, everything has changed.”

This preamble might seem affected. Obviously a man who is suffering, when he confides in a friend, does not go back to the beginning of the friendship that binds them. But ours is a very particular case. Paul and I, in truth, are no longer friends. We were friends only during the war. So it was natural for him to speak that night about what we had meant to each other in order to confer on the tenuous relationship we have today the significance it once had.

My friend, who had stopped talking, pulled out his handkerchief and mopped his brow oddly, insistently, with the care he would have taken for his entire face. I did not look straight at him so as not to embarrass him.

He rose, removed his overcoat, and sat back down in the larger chair. Without the fullness of his clothing, he seemed even more depressed. His hands were uneasy in the small pockets of his jacket. Everything he was wearing seemed no longer to belong to him.

Suddenly he burst into sobs. He hid his face in his hands and I could only see the lower half. His chin tensed so much that dimples appeared in unsuspected places. Have you ever seen dimples like that? They are made of tiny, trembling wrinkles that disappear then reappear somewhere else.

He was crying. How sad are the tears one hides! Why wasn’t he crying freely, with his face uncovered? I could have consoled him. But like this, withdrawn into himself, he was completely alone with his pain.

“Paul! Paul!” I said, distressed.

My God, how firm my voice seemed! True, in order to ease someone’s pain, you need not suffer as well. You must use a familiar, cheerful tone, the one everyone uses because everyone has always realized that no other tone of voice can offer consolation.

“Please, Paul. Be serious. You come here to tell me your troubles and you start crying like a child. A little courage, Paul! You know I’m your friend and I only want to help you. Be reasonable. We are men. It’s ridiculous to cry like this before you’ve examined the problem. Afterwards, if there is no solution, there will be plenty of time to cry.”

My friend must have been waiting—not for these words, which he did not even listen to—but for that consoling tone of voice because he raised his head. He had not cried long enough for his eyes to be red. Just wiping his handkerchief across his face was enough to erase all traces of his tears.

Exactly as I would have done, he began by apologizing for having cried. He did so in words I wish to note because they are shared by all men.

“Forgive me, Jean. I couldn’t help it. But it’s nothing, just a moment of weakness. If you knew what happened to me, you’d understand.”

His handkerchief, damp from his tears, took up little space in his hand. One tear, to which he paid no mind, still glistened on his cheek.

“Come now, Paul. Tell me everything and then I can tell you what needs to be done.”

“Yes, Jean, I’ll tell you everything. Don’t be angry with me if I’m emotional. You know Fernande. You know how much I love her.”

I did not know Fernande. And when I nodded, I swear it was not because I was uncaring, or because I was afraid my friend was trying to prove to me that I’d already met his wife, but simply so as not to contradict him. I was too aware that a contradiction would upset him.

Paul spoke without a single gesture, like a sick person. From time to time, he would glance at the door and that was enough to make him lose his train of thought. It was as if he were reading and his eyes, distracted for an instant, could no longer find the line he had just read. And when he stopped speaking, I listened just as attentively so that he would begin again as quickly as possible.

“You know, Jean, I was living peacefully. I’m a simple man with modest tastes. Unfortunately, I am too good. My wife, my dear wife, often criticized me for this. Not because she would have wanted me to be unkind, but because she finds it disagreeable to know that I am good to others as well as to her. I never raised my voice. Even though I would have had reasons to do so, I’ve always understood that the volume of a voice adds nothing to the meaning of words. Tonight, as I speak to you, I will stick to this principle. I will tell you everything as simply as possible.”

He stopped speaking for a second but went on acting as if he were swallowing something, which lifted his double chin slightly.

“My life was calm. At times I’d have the impression that one day some misfortune was bound to come and spoil my happiness. But the feeling would not last. I would have had to have a pathological tendency to imagine vileness everywhere not to be happy. Often my wife and I would go to the countryside. Nature would fill us with wonder. We would go into ecstasies over the perfection of the plants and insects and, as unlikely as it may seem, I felt that in Fernande’s eyes, I held the key to mysteries I did not understand. There was, nonetheless, a small snag in our happiness: we had no children. I’m ashamed to admit it, but even that safeguarded our happiness. When we would go to visit friends, everything about us made it seem as though we regretted not having a child. And so our tranquility was preserved because, deep down, our friends pitied us. Life flowed on in this way, smoothly, without quarrels or conflict. And I have to say that sometimes, at the thought that I was happy with so little effort, I wondered if I truly was. But I would dismiss this misgiving as quickly as possible for I knew that if someone were to ask me to describe the happiness about which I dreamt, I would have had no choice but to paint a picture of the one I already possessed. To love, be loved, to do as we pleased, to have faithful friends, to never argue, never be ill, what more could one ask for when one is a simple, trusting soul? In any event, there are not that many ways to be happy! It is indeed happiness to have no worries, and to love. I don’t think the vagabond on the road who has no idea where he will sleep at night is happy, poor man, although some people claim this to be so.”

Paul broke off again, not as one does at the end of a period, but as if he were casting about for his words. His lips were moving. He gestured and finally managed to go on.

“It was eight in the evening when I got home. I took off my hat and went to Fernande in our bedroom. Lying on a divan, my wife seemed to me more beautiful than ever. Her eyes were closed, but I knew she wasn’t sleeping. She was holding a book with the grace of someone who has dozed off while reading. I went to her and kissed her softly on the forehead. She gave an elegant little start, not right when I kissed her, but a few seconds afterwards. ‘You, Paul!’ You know how hard it is to give a gentle intonation to two words. Yet if you had heard the tone with which she murmured ‘You, Paul!’ it would have delighted you. Then she closed her eyes again, without hiding her face from me, with that trust of women who love. Fernande often closes her eyes. In the theater, while we’re eating, everywhere. Not a day goes by when I don’t see her before me, eyes closed, even though she isn’t sleeping. It seems she has trouble tolerating the spectacle of life, that everything appears so trite to her that by closing her eyes she doesn’t think she is missing anything. We’ve been married for four years, but I’ve never been able to tell if there is any kind of deceit in all that. I did not do anything to wake her from this feigned sleep. I sat close to her and waited. I stayed like that for a long time, without even daring to read the newspaper. I love Fernande and it seems natural for me to watch over her. If she found it amusing to pretend to sleep, why would I stop her? To look at her without her seeing me was a joy for me. She had let her book slip, no doubt so that her slumber would seem more natural. It slid slowly. I let it fall. She opened her eyes.

“‘Paul, why didn’t you catch the book?’

“‘I was looking at you, my darling.’

“I understood then, in an instant, that she had realized that I knew her sleep was feigned. And instead of being slightly embarrassed, she said drily, almost vengefully,

“‘Were you really looking at me?’

“And then we said no more. I like silence when I am near my wife. I don’t believe in a meeting of souls, but in the evening, in silence, near the woman one loves, something happens.”

Paul stood up abruptly. He released my hands, shoved his chair with his foot. He was overcome by so many different emotions that I couldn’t have said if he was angry, upset, afraid, or filled with hatred. I felt lost. I can be quite a good psychologist, but only if people are calm.

“Listen to me, Jean. Everything on earth follows the same laws. Starting at one point, a man, an animal, a tree grows and grows, then slowly deteriorates. Whereas in Fernande’s mind, a feeling, instead of being born humble and fragile like everything else, sprang forth powerfully, in a monstrous way. Given what I just told you, you can imagine that we were happy, that nothing disturbed our tranquility. Then how to explain what happened? Do you want to know what happened? Well, it’s very simple. Just like that, all of a sudden for no reason, when I asked Fernande to come have dinner, she got up suddenly like I did just now, shoved her chair with her foot, and announced: ‘I don’t love you anymore. Tomorrow, I’ll be leaving.’ Did you hear what I just said? Tomorrow, she’ll be leaving. She doesn’t love me anymore. Why? I haven’t the slightest idea. Am I mad? I’ve begun to wonder if my wife’s calm hasn’t always been concealing some outburst. At first I thought she was playing, imitating an actress. She often does this, she exaggerates. But no, it wasn’t that. She doesn’t love me anymore. Tomorrow, she’ll be leaving.”

I looked at Paul. He was now gesticulating wildly. He raised his arms to the sky, then wrung his hands so hard that he almost broke a finger. He paced the room, turned around abruptly, started off again, hovered far from me and then suddenly came at me with great strides, as if he were walking down a road.

“Paul, calm down. All is not lost. Perhaps she said that without thinking.”

He dropped a book and did not pick it up.

“Don’t get so worked up.”

Then, either because a sudden rage swept over him or because he wanted to prove his strength, he struck the floor with his heel several times.

“I swear that’s what she said. She’s leaving tomorrow. She doesn’t love me anymore.”

“Of course she does!”

“So you think I’m crazy? You haven’t grasped what I just told you. I’m not making anything up. She said she doesn’t love me anymore. She said she would be leaving tomorrow. Don’t you understand? It seems very clear to me.”

I did not like his insolent tone of voice. I was only trying to console him and this is how he answered me! We were not, after all, such good friends for him to allow himself to treat me this way. When someone comes to tell you his troubles, he should at least be polite. I assure you if Paul’s pain had not seemed so genuine to me, I would have answered him coldly.

I raised my eyes. Paul was sitting on the sofa. All his anger had vanished. He appeared so unhappy, so weighed down, that my displeasure evaporated.

Poor Paul! How you were suffering. You who, during the war, spoke to me about peacetime with so much ardor, you who were expecting so many joys from it, how disappointed you must be! And to think that for a moment I was angry with you for being on edge.

My friend, although he had barely cried, was in that state of semi-consciousness that follows sobbing. He was looking at a corner of the room without even having chosen it. His hands were far apart, whereas when one is suffering they are like two close friends, never wanting to leave each other. His shoulders hunched, his head to the side, he was daydreaming.

“Paul, be brave.”

“I will be.”

We did not hear a sound, not even the sound the last buses of the night should have made. We stayed like this for several minutes, without moving.

Suddenly, so abruptly that I was startled, Paul got up, took a few steps, and kneeled down too close to me.

“Jean, Jean, I’m begging you, do something for me. Perhaps you could fix everything. You are my friend. You are almost my brother. We spent unhappy times together.”

I lowered my head and met Paul’s tearful gaze. That gaze! I will remember it the rest of my life! Humble, despairing, looking up at me, it struck me as the gaze of an animal at my mercy.

“Paul, stand up. I’ll do everything I possibly can.”

“Jean, if you wanted to, you could go see Fernande right now, you could tell her how much I love her, how I’m suffering. You could speak for me and perhaps she would be sorry.”

“Yes, Paul, I’ll take care of everything.”

My friend, holding on to a chair, rose with difficulty, stumbled a bit, then sat down. His face had brightened. His eyes had grown wide and looked at me without humility. He was breathing evenly. And for the first time, he did something normal: he looked at his watch.

* * *

It was still raining. Now, however, the drizzle was so fine that when I ran my hand across my overcoat, I wiped it away. It barely moistened anything, like a fountain on a windy day. It created a misty halo around the streetlamps.

We walked briskly, without speaking. Since my friend lived close to my place, we soon arrived in front of his house.

“Jean, let’s go into this little bar. I have more to say to you.”

We went in. It was a small, very clean café. There were mirrors everywhere, yet we were reflected in none of them. The nickel, the glasses, the tin counter gave the light the coolness of water. A bit of sand crunched beneath our feet, as though we had come to sit near a spring.

A waiter approached us. His left hand, folded in, seemed to be hiding a cigarette. We ordered coffee. So that our coffee would not taste like metal, we took the spoons out of the cups.

“Jean, listen to me. Since you are kind enough to go see Fernande, let me thank you with all my heart. My happiness is in your hands. I don’t have the strength to go with you. I’ll wait for you here. In fact, it will be much better if you go alone. You see the state I’m in. Tell her I cannot live without her. Tell her I love her so much that I would give my life for her. Perhaps I have not always acted as I should have but tell her that now I will obey her, that I will be her slave. I will do anything for her to stay, for her to want to continue the life we were living. I love her so much! You can make me the happiest or the unhappiest of men.”

The little café was completely hushed. The owner was already counting his money. The waiter, leaning against a column, looked at us now and again. As for Paul, no doubt from a habit he had with his wife, he was holding my hand.

“Go now, Jean. I’ll be waiting for you here. Oh! How I’d like to know already! My God, if you were to succeed in making her understand how much I love her, I think I would dance, jump for joy, and cry out with all my strength.”

I stood up. As if he were at home, Paul walked me to the café door. Never have I seen a man so moved. I felt he was looking for one last word to say to me, one word that would sum up his pain, his hope, and he could not find it.

* * *

I shall not attempt to recount my visit to Fernande. All I can say is that she was not welcoming. Whenever I asked her a question, she would answer with these same words: “I am free to do as I please.” Although I described her husband’s suffering and his love, her attitude did not change. After hearing what my friend had to say about her, I had thought that she was, if not beautiful, at least pretty. Not at all. She was a rather corpulent, rather common woman whom I had difficulty imagining in the languid poses Paul depicted. She spoke in a disagreeable, aggressive voice. I wouldn’t say she had the behavior of a shrew, but almost. In addition, she seemed very insolent. I knew that my visit, so late in the evening, was not likely to be met with good humor. Nonetheless, she should have behaved better with a stranger and not let her annoyance at my presence show so plainly on her face. Perhaps she thought I was defending her husband for want of anything better to do! Yet she must have been aware that all of this was as disturbing to me as it was to her, and she should have been grateful to me for defending so ardently a man who, after all, was her husband and whom she must have loved, whatever she said. The more I think about this visit, the more it seems that nothing but what happened could have happened. I assure you had I known it would end the way it did, I would not have troubled myself. Paul, naturally, is not to blame, poor fellow. He thought he was doing the right thing. But I will never understand how one can be so attached to such a woman. She must have influenced everything he did. And no doubt the anger she felt on seeing me stemmed from that fact that Paul had taken the liberty of sending me to her. She could not bear the idea that her husband had done something on his own. She took it out on me. Truly, you had to be someone as good as my friend never to get angry. But in the end none of that concerns me. What I especially disliked was the offhand, overbearing way she received me when in fact I was acting in her interest just as much as in her husband’s. It was pointless of her to try to appear to be the victim of two men. Perhaps Paul had done some things of which I was unaware. But I? I simply came to try to make Fernande see what she had misjudged in her husband. That’s all. I took no one’s side. And had she treated me properly, had she answered me clearly, I would have had no reason to be angry with her.

In the end, all this only confirms what I think about the world. Let her do as she pleases, it’s all the same to me. As for Paul, I pity him with all my heart, for it seems to me that, however this story turns out, he will not be happy.

* * *

When I left my friend’s wife, it had stopped raining. I took a few steps before I was entirely sure. Then I looked up. The sky, deep and black like marble not yet dry, was filled with stars. In the distance, the long, furrowless cloud that always floats along after it rains was low in the sky. The stars twinkled in the translucent air as if threatened by a celestial breeze. The street was still damp, but there was no mud as there is after a storm. And the white, ethereal moon rose unexpectedly high on the horizon.

I returned to Paul in the little café. He was watching for me through a curtain, sitting the way children do, sideways on a bench.

As I approached, he turned around and, hands on the table, looked straight at me. He was trying to guess what had happened before I spoke. He did not dare ask me. There was such distress in his eyes that they appeared about to close. It seemed his eyelids would droop at the slightest puff of air, that they were folded open only because his eyes were so round, and that if he were to look off to the side they would slip down.

“Paul!”

“So?”

I was incapable of pronouncing a single word. The despair into which my friend was about to plunge frightened me. I was expecting so much pain, so much shrieking when I told him his wife’s decision that I could not bring myself to give an account of my visit. I was waiting for him to infer Fernande’s attitude from my silence.

“Jean, what did she say?”

“She wants to leave.”

“She wants to leave?”

“Yes.”

My friend seemed not to comprehend. He was trembling, but his face remained impassive. It was as if only his body had understood. I was overcome with pity. I sat next to him and, my arm around his shoulders, attempted to console him.

“You’re young, Paul. You have your whole life in front of you. Be strong. You’ll see there will be more moments of happiness for you. That woman did not know how to appreciate and love you as she should have. I could see from her behavior that she was too fickle for you. Believe me, later she’ll regret what she did, she’ll never find another man with all your fine qualities. Let her go, and if one day you should meet again, be distant. Nothing can hold her, so at least have the strength to pretend not to care about her. That’s all it will take to humiliate her deeply. Without you in her life she is a lost woman. You were not only a husband to her, but also a father. One day she’ll understand that, you can be sure. Unfortunately, it will be too late. She needed a man like you to be happy. She did not understand that. It’s a shame. As for you, you loved her too much not to suffer from her behavior; you loved her too much not to miss her. I know. But you have to do something! Slowly, you’ll forget her. And then, who knows, one day you’ll meet another woman, more beautiful, more intelligent, who will love you with all her heart.”

As I spoke, Paul was gazing at me with an astonishment I could not explain. His half-open mouth and his furrowed brow made him appear stunned. From time to time, he would turn his head away sharply, then stare at me again with an even more surprised look in his eyes. Despite this odd attitude, I continued speaking.

“I have suffered, too, Paul. Two years ago I was with a woman who, like Fernande, left me for no apparent reason. Well, I got over it. Not without long months of suffering. But one has to live and most of all not become discouraged. Fernande wanted to remain ignorant of your generosity. She imagined you wanted to bully her when all you wanted was to make her happy.”

Suddenly Paul shoved the table away so that he could get out.

“Come, let’s go, I can’t stay here anymore.”

We started down a deserted street, half white from the moonlight, half dark with damp stone, and we did not cross to the sidewalk that was bathed in light, as we would have done during the day to move from shade to sun. We walked past the houses. The streetlamps lining the sidewalk were all that lit our way. An echo made it seem as though two other passersby were in front of us and, bizarrely, they seemed to have more energy.

“What’s to become of me?” Paul whispered.

My friend’s voice was so plaintive when he said these few words that I feared he might resort to the most drastic measures. He was so depressed that if the idea of a crime were to enter his head, he would not have pushed it aside. Still, I wanted to try to comfort him.

“Paul, be strong. That woman is not worthy of your suffering. Don’t think about your unhappiness any longer. Think of the future. Think that you have your whole life in front of you. Come on, make an effort. Let’s go. I’ll walk you to your door. You’ll go home, go to bed, and tomorrow you’ll come back and see me.”

“Go home?”

“Of course, you must go home. It’s late. You need to rest. You need to recuperate.”

We were on a wide avenue. The moon, which had risen higher now, seemed even colder because the sun gives off more warmth when it is in the same spot. Trees cast shadows on the sidewalks. We were stepping on a thousand drawings of intertwined branches. I had a vague, childish desire to place my feet only on blank spaces, but I would have found no pleasure in it.

“Paul, we absolutely must go home.”

My friend took me by the arm, leaned over to see me better and, hardly opening his mouth, whispered:

“You’re leaving me?”

“I must. It’s late.”

“You’re going to leave me alone?”

“We can’t stay outside all night!”

His lower lip trembled then. The sweat already beading on his forehead flowed out of the wrinkles and dripped below his eyebrows. He released my arm and leaned against a wall, either so he would not fall, or else in order to feel something solid.

I realized how difficult it would be for me to leave him. Although my friendship for him was strong right then, it seemed ridiculous to spend a night consoling him. If it could have eased his pain, I would have done it. But, with me or without me, he would be just as miserable. And if he wanted me with him, it was not because he hoped I would be able to comfort him. He knew that all my words could not change his wife’s decision in the least.

“Come on, Paul, we have to leave each other.”

“You want to leave me?”

“Yes, what do you expect!”

“No, Jean, please, don’t do that. Alone, I don’t know what will become of me. I’ll kill myself. Oh, I don’t know.”

He seemed completely distraught. He was not moving at all. It was as if he were no longer suffering, as if he had stopped fighting his pain, as if he were letting himself slip into unconsciousness.

Seeing him like that, I wondered if he was really determined to kill himself or if some sort of resentment was making him think I was the sole cause of his suffering; or perhaps he was trying to make me feel remorseful.

“Yes, I’m going to end my life,” he murmured.

I, too, have suffered. I too have thought about killing myself, yet I never did anything about it. Why should I have taken his threat seriously? In a few days, he would cheer up. In a few days, we would both laugh about this episode.

“See you tomorrow, Paul. Be brave.”

These few words that, in my opinion, should have left us in the same situation in regard to each other, brought him out of his dejection.

“So you’re not my friend?”

“Of course I am, but what can I do for you right now? Show some fortitude. Only you can overcome your pain.”

“I know that, Jean. But please take pity on me. Don’t abandon me. Do you want to make me really happy? Let’s stay together until tomorrow. I don’t want to be alone. I don’t think I have the strength. I’ll go home with you. I’ll sleep in an armchair. That’s all I ask. You can’t refuse.”

“You’re being ridiculous. How will that resolve anything?”

Suddenly Paul’s attitude changed from imploring to remote.

“So you want to leave me, Jean?”

Although I sensed my friend had made a decision, my position remained the same.

“I do. It’s late. We must part.”

“Very well. Adieu.”

He walked away without even offering me his hand. I had a foreboding of some misfortune. I am sure I’m no different from anyone else, yet I was afraid he would do what he said, that he would kill himself. I shouted:

“Where are you going?”

He did not answer, walking away with great strides.

“Paul!”

Already another streetlamp was lighting him.

For a moment I glimpsed the consequences of my refusal. He was going to kill himself. For the rest of my life I would be aware of being responsible for his death. And everything going on in my head became more and more confused as he walked away. I ran behind him.

“Paul, where are you going?”

“Leave me alone.”

“Answer me! Be reasonable. Why are you running away like this?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know. Leave me be, I’m going to end it all.”

He kept on walking, staring ahead.

“You didn’t understand what I was saying before, Paul. Come on, let’s go to my place. Tomorrow, everything will be sorted out.”

He stopped and as he looked at me, he gradually realized what I had just said. He did not smile. Yet his face brightened. I took his arm and without a word we started off toward my place.

An automobile on its way to Les Halles passed very close to us. In the pure, freezing air, it left such a circumscribed scent of vegetables that when we took one step to the side, we could not smell it anymore. In the middle of the sleeping city, beneath the sky, we were alone. The moon had disappeared. And without it, as if they lacked a leader, the stars seemed to be in disarray.

WHAT I SAW

I don’t often write on an impulse like this. Something very serious has to have happened to me for me to decide to do so. So I shall ask, dear sir, for your indulgence. It is not an author you find before you. It is a man who is suffering and who is seeking the one word that will explain everything.

Slowly I had recovered from the great shock I’d had. Everything was going well. I felt strong again and then, suddenly, once more I began to doubt.

It would be impossible to explain why I am overwhelmed by anxiety. It returned, all-powerful, without my having any say in the matter. I was at home reading a book when, for no apparent reason, I realized I had not been mistaken. I tried not to think about it anymore, but you know that the harder you attempt to forget an ordeal, the more it clings to you.

Yes, I was reading a book that was as interesting to me as any book can be. I was so deep into this novel that I forgot where I was when, all of a sudden while turning a page, during that brief moment of distraction that interrupts the story with each new page, I had the clear realization that I had not been wrong.

I had seen the thing with my own eyes and as a result, it was true. My girlfriend could deny it all she wanted, but because I had seen it, it was true. The proof that I was wrong is all around me. My friends, to whom I made the mistake of telling this story, disagreed with me. My girlfriend’s parents hinted that I had taken leave of my senses. Even my Henriette, after having heatedly defended herself, in the end simply shrugged whenever I mentioned this scene.

And so I managed, by the strength of my will, to doubt my own eyes. Gradually I forgot what I had seen. I forced myself to think I had been wrong. Life became bearable again. My girlfriend was ever more loving.

And now, in some idiotic way, I have begun thinking about this episode again. And so, all my efforts have been in vain! That painstaking and salutary process I suffered through in order to find peace was for naught!

Ridiculously, I again find myself anxious and desperate, like on the first day.

Yet I believe I was wrong, that my girlfriend is innocent, and that I was the victim of a hallucination. I want to believe this, even though my eyes will not let me. But despite all my efforts, I feel I will always have before me that ludicrous vision that pains me so.

This is why I am writing to you, so as not to be alone with my doubts. And perhaps for you to give me some advice. I must confess that I feel the need to ask you to forgive me for writing. When a man suffers as I am suffering, writing should not be a consolation. Forgive me, dear sir, for speaking to you like this. You are not used to such confessions. They seem to you some artifice meant to hold your attention, whereas in reality they are the proof of deep despair. It’s true. I feel some embarrassment in writing. I know I shouldn’t tell you this. One never admits that the person who is writing to us is doing so reluctantly—and with good reason. If, at the theater, an actor were to say he did not want to play his part, that it annoyed him to do so, I admit that I, like any theatergoer, would boo him off the stage.

But this, I must say, is a different situation. I am suffering as much as a man can suffer. And I am not writing to entertain or interest you, but simply to ask you what I should do.

I will expose the facts one by one, very clearly. I will tell you everything I know about my girlfriend and will ask you, afterwards, to tell me if I was mistaken or not. I am addressing myself to you because as an outsider you will be able to be an impartial judge. It is in the interest of my parents and friends for everything to work out. They know me. They know I am impressionable. And they will believe me less than you, who do not know me.

Because you have agreed to hear me out, I must first tell you what happened. You can see from the tone of what I just wrote that I am a sincere man, that I do not lie. I therefore beg you, while I am telling you this story, not to think you need to know my girlfriend’s version before you form an opinion. Only the spineless want to know the pros and cons in order not to take sides. So I am asking you to judge this story simply through what I tell you, otherwise you will cause me great pain.

I shall recount the story you are about to read as if I were not the main character. I shall have no bias. On the contrary, I shall not mention anything that casts me in a good light. I shall lay out clearly everything that does credit to my Henriette. You can see that all I long for is to be wrong.

So I will begin. Pay close attention. Do not skip over anything, because my happiness is at stake. Some other time, I will write a long letter to amuse you, a letter full of youthful imagination. And if it annoys you, do not finish it. It will not matter. But today, I beg you, pay attention. At the risk of repeating myself, let me say yet again that my happiness is in your hands.

* * *

My girlfriend is as sweet as an angel. I must tell you that, although she was pure when she gave herself to me, she did not wait until we were married to abandon herself and I am open-minded enough not to reproach her for this. It would be human enough for me to use this fact to degrade her in your eyes. Believe me, I see nothing in this proof of love that could allow what my dear Henriette did to be predicted. If she gave herself to me without our being married, it is my fault.

A thousand signs prove to me that my girlfriend adores me. She has forgiven me what many women would never have forgiven. Even though she is beautiful, she recognizes that a man’s lapse is not as great as a woman’s. Naturally, she did not say this to me, but I felt, deep down inside, she knew it. When in the past I did what I should not have done, she was not angry with me, but rather, with man’s very nature. And this fact alone demonstrates my girlfriend’s immense goodness.

There are additional signs that make her pure in my eyes. Other men do not exist for her. I believe I can discern, from certain details, from certain attitudes, that they repulse her just as they do me. She often says exactly what I would say about a man were I a woman. She could not invent these feelings if she did not have them. And this is another reason why I love her so much.

A few times I asked her what she would do if I lost a leg. And she always responded ardently that she would love me just as much.

Please forgive me for providing such details but, when you want to prove a woman loves you, they are necessary.

There is something else that proves her love, and that is the way she admires me. She takes all my opinions for her own. Sometimes, when I have not finished voicing my opinion on a subject, embarrassed by the difficulty I have expressing myself, she will finish my thought differently from how I would have. As soon as she realizes this, she stops herself and is even ready to contradict herself until we agree. Is this not the mark of great love, to show such self-abnegation? Do you believe that if my adored Henriette did not love me she would follow my line of thinking in this way, step by step? No, of course not.

That’s not all. So many things at every moment of the day and night demonstrate her love. When we are lying next to each other, I am always the first to turn away. Candy, cake, fruit—she always goes without in order to offer them to me and, if I don’t take them, because I know how fond she is of them, she insists with so much love that I would be hurting her if I continued to refuse them. Nothing exists for her. She sees all of life through me. And when she arrives late for one of our dates, do not think it is because she is trying to be coy. She wants to imitate other women. She forces herself to be late because she is a woman and sometimes she is afraid she will lose me if she is not enough of one.

No, my Henriette, you did not do that, and yet...

One day she asked me if I ever had the feeling when I was away from her that I had not been as kind to her as I could have been. Without thinking, I said no. How can you detect in a question asked in an ordinary voice everything that someone expects from your answer? She became a bit sad. She did not say anything right then, but later in the evening she told me I was not kind, that I did not love her as much as she loved me. And she added that whenever she was away from me, she had the impression she had not pleased me enough.

Often she reminds me of things I said that I had forgotten and that she had thought about for a long time without my suspecting. Her sweet little brain works tirelessly to make me happy.

With her, as with little children, I never mention death. But I have the feeling if I asked her to die with me, she would. She led me to understand as much without pronouncing the word “death,” out of modesty.

Now that you are familiar with my girlfriend from what I have said about her, I ask you to believe the portrait I have painted of her. Everyone will only have good things to tell you about her. Love has not deformed my judgment. This is how she is. And although it may be difficult to believe the portrait that one person paints of another, it is less difficult than believing in true love.

* * *

You know her well now, or at least you know how much she loves me, and that is what is important. So I am going to tell you what happened.

This is what happened. Two months ago, I was not feeling well. It was a Friday. The day was a cold one, but the sun was shining in the blue sky. We’d had lunch at home. We were just finishing up when Henriette came over to me and kissed me.

“Darling, will you let me take a little walk?”

“Of course.”

“I’d like to buy a few things.”

“Shall I come along?”

“Why not, my darling?”

Then she changed the subject, busied herself with this and that and, picking up one of my books, sat down in an armchair. Jokingly, I said to her:

“You’re going to know that one by heart!”

Indeed, she only reads the books I have written, and since there aren’t many, she reads them over and over.

“That’s what I want, my love. I am jealous of your thoughts.”

I did not really understand what she meant, but I felt she was trying to make me understand that my work represented a rival to her.

I know that, even though she loved me very much, what she said was not completely sincere. She said it because women are supposed to be jealous of their husbands’ work. But I am indulgent. What is the use of taking offense at that? One shouldn’t ask too much of a woman. And then again, this lack of sincerity is also a kind of love.

She sat back down and continued reading. Although she admired my writing, she closed the book before the end of a chapter, stood up, and said to me:

“You are really amazing! You notice everything. Well, I’m going out, darling.”

“Don’t you want me to come with you?”

“Yes, of course. But wait, there is still something at the end of your book that I want to reread. You know, the story about the unfaithful wife. It’s amazing. Don’t tell me you haven’t been acquainted with a woman like her.”

“You’re mad, darling! You know how trustworthy I am.”

“Still, there’s something of you in this story. You are a bit like the husband.”

So she reread the story of the unfaithful wife. Then, getting up, she went to dress without saying anything. She came back a few minutes later.

“Good-bye, darling. I’ll be back around six o’clock. Be good and work well.”

“You don’t want me to come along?”

“How foolish you are! You are feeling poorly. You told me yourself you have a headache. It’s cold outside. You have a slight fever. Give me your hand. See, your hand is burning!”

“Yes, but if I dress warmly?”

“I don’t think it would be wise. A man like you must be well cared for.”

“You know I don’t like to stay home alone, darling.”

“But I’ll be back before six!”

And she left. It is obvious she did not want me to accompany her. But I pay this no mind. I understand that a woman can feel the need to be alone from time to time. It could even be that she truly did not want me to go out because I was feeling poorly. Perhaps she was thinking about my health, perhaps not. She wanted to be alone for no reason; she wanted to be alone for a variety of reasons. I know that just because one is hiding something, it does not mean that one is guilty. She could easily have been hiding the fact that she was going to see someone, meeting a girlfriend, without necessarily being unfaithful to me.

And so, I soon stopped thinking about her. Have you noticed that it takes several hours of absence before you think about the woman you love when she has gone out freely, happily, with her errands to run?

I sat down at my desk with the intention of writing. Do not think some vague suspicion was keeping me from working. I assure you I was not thinking about her. If I was incapable of doing anything at all it was more because I felt lazy than because I was worried.

To my great sadness it was then that, bored with my indolence, I decided to go out.

* * *

I shall always remember that radiant winter afternoon. No wind. A blue sky that grows dark before the evening papers come out. A pure sky where the sun seems to be an intruder. A white dust that surprises you because the previous day it was raining.

I was strolling calmly. It was pleasant to feel that my fever gave me permission not to hurry. Like a convalescent, I walked down a boulevard, taking interest in small things. Whenever our life is peaceful, whenever everything smiles on us, how agreeable it is to take interest in small things! You stop, you look. No one pays attention to you. These small things don’t really interest us. It’s our soul that is content with simple things, our soul that wants to find its youth again because it is happy contemplating small things, for no reason, simply not to think.

Such joy in being alive! And to imagine that we struggle to push away everything that could prevent us from moving along like this, gently, slowly, toward some intangible goal, almost unconsciously, happy to listen to the sounds, smell the aromas, see the light, touch a few objects.

A clock chimed. I did not count the chimes, but I sensed from the duration of the ringing that it was four o’clock.

And at that moment, dear sir, something horrible occurred. Have the kindness to read what follows attentively. I must tell you yet again that my happiness is in your hands. You know what a great responsibility it is for someone’s happiness to depend on you. Think of a person in your life who made you suffer. Think that, in his shoes, you would not have acted as he did. I am not asking you to do for a stranger what you would have done for a loved one. I’m simply asking you to attempt to understand and advise me.

I looked at a storefront. I looked at it distractedly, like people do when they have no one with whom to share what they notice. Then I turned around. Now you will find out what happened.

For merely a second, I saw a taxi pass close to me and in the taxi, my girlfriend was kissing a man.

You’ve grasped what I just said. I saw a taxi and, in this taxi, my girlfriend was kissing a man. She was blocking my view of him, but not entirely; I could see that he was hatless.

I swear on everything that is most sacred in the world that I saw my girlfriend kissing a man in a taxi. I swear. I saw them. He was letting himself be kissed. It was she who was leaning toward him. The taxi passed a few feet in front of me. I saw them. I’m sure of it, absolutely sure. Why would I say that if I had not seen them? I even remember today, two months later, all the details with extraordinary precision. She was to the left of this man. And her left knee was higher than the right and hid the man’s legs. I did not have the time to see her hands. I don’t know where they were. But, on reflection, I really have the impression that her right hand was behind her companion’s back, while her left hand must have been holding him around the neck. There is no possible doubt. She was kissing a man. I saw the bright color of the hat she had put on before going out. I saw her, my girlfriend in this taxi and I also saw a bit of the man she was kissing. Yes, it was her. But, then, I just don’t understand. If she doesn’t love me, why doesn’t she leave me? It was her. I saw her. I was not thinking about her when I saw her. Otherwise it would be easy to imagine that, since I was thinking of her so vividly, I gave her features to the first woman I saw.

And now, since I have offered you all my certainty, let me tell you again that it is true: I saw her in this taxi; it was her.

I went back home, completely demoralized. Before my eyes I continually saw the inside of this taxi that in my mind—a bit dark, lit from the front, with its cushions—resembled a small bedroom. I even imagined flowers in this taxi, flowers I had not seen. It is impossible to describe what I was feeling. I would have to choose among a thousand fleeting thoughts. I need to present you, dear sir, with a few of these inconsistent thoughts that, in my head, followed one another with dizzying speed. And if I could manage to sort some of them out, to see them separately from the others, it would seem, by their insignificance, that my pain was not as great as I claim. So I shall not describe my pain. Can one really portray suffering with words? In this account, I don’t think so. I am too removed from what happened. Any perfect description of pain presupposes an effort I can no longer make. I can only write as I am writing, just clearly enough for you to understand me.

I went home and lay down on a bed. Remaining motionless seemed odious to me, but by forcing myself to lie down, I wanted to prove I was still in control of myself.

Until my girlfriend returned, I never ceased thinking about her. No, I had not been mistaken. If I’d had even the slightest doubt, I would have done everything I could to fuel it until it became a certainty. But there was not even the shadow of a doubt. It is dreadful to find yourself confronting reality in this way. No matter what line of reasoning you come up with to forget it, it reappears quickly, more real than ever.

I spent two interminable hours like this, thinking, all the while waiting for the one I love.

Suddenly the door opened. She was there.

“I’ve been looking for you everywhere, darling. Why are you here? Do you feel ill? You should have undressed and gone under the blankets.”

I did not answer. I was torn between the desire to tell her everything I had seen, immediately, and the desire to remain silent in order to hold onto a reason to be sad, in order to take an incomprehensible pleasure in hearing my girlfriend lie. I hid my confusion behind an imaginary headache.

“Get under the blankets, my love. If I had known you were so sick, I would not have gone out. I would have taken care of you. Lie down now. I’ll make you something warm. And I’ll sit next to you and read you the papers. I have never seen you so ill. What’s wrong? Do you want me to go get a doctor?”

“He wouldn’t be able to cure me.”

My voice was filled with sadness as I pronounced this sentence. In my mind, it had a different meaning than the one my girlfriend heard and, like all such sentences, it required a disabused tone. I like those sentences, and you will see what I did with them.

“Go lie down now.”

“What’s the point?”

“Come now, don’t be so discouraged. The minute you are a tiny bit ill you think you’re going to die.”

“I wish it were true.”

My girlfriend, despite all my efforts, did not notice that my pain was entirely emotional. I would have wanted her to see it for herself so I could deny it feebly, and in the end explain to her why, so that she could reassure me. But she did not notice.

She undressed me by force, as badly as I would have undressed her.

“Now lie down. Close your eyes, my darling. I’ll bring you something warm.”

I obeyed. I felt I would not be able to keep what I had seen to myself. In spite of how sure I was of my girlfriend’s unfaithfulness, I still wanted to believe that a word from her would dispel my certainty.

“Henriette, what did you do this afternoon?”

“Errands of no interest to you, my little lamb. I brought you the papers. You see, I thought of you.”

“But what kind of errands?”

“How jealous you are, Jean.”

“I’m not jealous, my darling. I’m interested in everything you do.”

“Well, in that case: I went to the milliner’s. Then to Anne’s. We went for a walk together. Then she felt ill. We went into a café. And you know, when I was at the milliner’s, there was some old man who waited for me for at least an hour at the door. If you had seen him! He was looking at hats, but how he looked at me! In the café, it was the same thing. Two young men wanted to sit down at our table. You can imagine how Anne, who wasn’t feeling well, sent them packing!”

“And if she had been feeling well?”

“Oh! You are mad! You see everything in a distorted way. You know I would never talk to a man I didn’t know.”

“And you didn’t go down rue Saint-Lazare?”

As I said these words, I stared at my girlfriend, as much as one can when one is lying down. She answered me without hesitating at all:

“No, why?”

“Because I saw you.”

“You saw me?’

“Yes.”

“So you went out? That was not wise, sick as you are. You should have told me you wanted to go out. We would have gone out together.”

“I saw you.”

“You’re mistaken. What would I have been doing on rue Saint-Lazare? I was not even in that neighborhood. You dreamed it, and it doesn’t surprise me, my adorable little lamb.”

“I saw you in a taxi.”

“Well, that takes the cake! In a taxi, now! I swear I wasn’t. If I had taken a taxi, I wouldn’t hide it. And why would I have taken a taxi?”

“To kiss a man.”

My girlfriend, who was stirring a cup of tea, stopped. She looked at me with large, surprised eyes in which there was that hint of calm that precedes indignation.

“To kiss a man?”

“Yes.”

“My poor Jean, what is the matter with you? You are going mad, mad, mad. How can you think such a thing of me? Me, kiss another man? So you take me for a streetwalker? You are mad, completely mad.”

“I saw you.”

“Listen, Jean. You don’t know what you’re saying. You have a fever. You are so jealous that you’re losing your mind.”

“I saw you. Do you understand what that means? I saw you, you who are in front of me. I saw you kissing a man.”

“You’re lying. I swear on my life that I didn’t take a taxi, and that I have never kissed a man besides you.”

“But I saw you.”

“That’s impossible. What would keep me here if not love? We are not married. If I loved someone else, I would not be able to put on such a loathsome act, I would be incapable of concealing it. You know how frank I am. If I loved someone else, I would tell you. Even if it would make you suffer, I would tell you. You could not have seen me. It’s impossible. I belong to you alone.”

“I saw you.”

“Perhaps you saw someone who looks like me.”

I had been waiting for these words for several minutes and yet I did not know how to answer them immediately. I was afraid of them. I knew that they alone were capable of making me doubt my eyes without providing proof of my girlfriend’s innocence.

You, dear sir, will perhaps think what my friends thought, that I fell victim to a resemblance. When one is trying to console someone, one always manages to make statements that one would not believe oneself. To claim I fell victim to a resemblance is such a statement.

Let me tell you, sir, that I recognized my girlfriend, not just her clothing, but her neck, the color of her hair.

“You are the one I saw in the taxi.”

“It was not me. I told you exactly what I did and when. You can ask Anne if I spent the afternoon with her. You can come with me to the milliner’s, and to the café where we went when she felt ill. You can ask the waiter, if it’s the same one, what we had to drink. I cannot do any more, my Jean, to prove to you that I am faithful.”

I listened to these words without believing them. I know I would have got lost trying to figure out my girlfriend’s schedule. Yes, I could have seen a waiter who would have told me “It seems to me that I waited on those two women,” or who would not have remembered. My girlfriend would have shown me the table where she sat. But what would that have proved? The fact remained that I had seen her, in this taxi, kissing a man.

Or if she had said to me, “Yes, I took a taxi with Anne and I kissed her,” I would have believed that. I did not have enough time to see the person who was with my girlfriend and to be sure it was a man. But the fact that she denied so obstinately that she had taken a taxi proves to me she was unfaithful.

“I saw you.”

“Listen to me, Jean. I swear to you on our love, on your life, on my parents’ life, that I did not take a taxi, that I was not unfaithful to you, that I love you more than anything in the world, more than my family, and I am ready to do anything you tell me, I am your slave and your wife. I swear to you, my love, that if you were to die tomorrow, I could not survive. You are my sole joy in this world. I only live for you and through you. Look me in the eyes. You see, I don’t lower my lids. Do you believe if I had done what you say I would not die of shame beneath your gaze?”

Dear sir, I wound up believing my girlfriend. I wound up believing her but, in spite of everything, some doubt has remained in me. It is this doubt I am asking you to drive out. I repeated word for word what the woman whom I still love said. I also told you that, while I wound up believing my girlfriend, I am still sure I saw her in the taxi. It seems that nothing can shake this certainty. And yet, Henriette loves me so, she is so honest! Let me tell you as well that, if you had been in my shoes, you certainly would have recognized my girlfriend. You would have recognized her as I did. So it is useless to tell me that perhaps I did not see clearly.

Before you can reach your decision, you probably think you will need to know my girlfriend better. It is not worth the trouble. You know her. She is unable to do anything behind my back. She loves me. You were able to see that. Do not think I am blinded by love. She is exactly as I have presented her to you. And as sure as I am of having seen her kiss someone else, I am just as sure of her total love.

I am waiting, dear sir, for a letter from you that will allow me to know the truth. If you are not sensitive to my pain, perhaps you will respond with indifference. Know that I shall read your words with the same attention, for I am hoping nonetheless to find in what you say the word that will bring me peace.

THE STORY OF A MADMAN

To put the reader at ease, I need to state from the start that I am not crazy. And if anything could be proven by words, the fact I am affirming my lucidity should be enough to show I am in full possession of my faculties.

I know I may seem crazy at times. It’s true, it doesn’t take much for that to happen. But let’s be clear. To be sure, I may often seem crazy, but not so much so that two people would bother mentioning it to each other. I seem just crazy enough for one person to think so without his neighbor thinking so as well. And if I always provoke this feeling by some ridiculous action or question, I must say that I manage to stop myself when I sense that this inner misgiving might be externalized. If I do this it’s not to amuse myself, nor is it to make fun of the people for whom I am putting on an act; nor is it to ennoble myself in my own eyes by inflicting some kind of humiliation on someone. I do it simply, perhaps precisely because I am crazy.

No, I am not crazy. I just wrote what I did because I was driven by the need to explain illogical acts. And when one has such a need for clarity, I guarantee you, one is not crazy.

Still. None of that is important. It has no relation to the story you are about to read.

But what is oddest of all is that I have no willpower. I have always done just as I please. Fortunately, I am a good person at heart. I have no inclination to do harm. Otherwise I would surely have come to a bad end. I would have gone to prison. I would have killed people who had not done anything to me.

It’s quite funny. It’s funny because you will see with what willpower I have acted. They cried, they begged me, and I did not bend. It’s funnier and funnier. Honestly, I am both an odd and a likable guy. I am a man who will no doubt succeed in life, who will do great things.

But wait. Let us proceed in an orderly fashion. A person who does not put his mind in order is lost. Without order, nothing is possible. I who, according to what some people claim, am half mad, will show you how reasonable I am.

Above all, you need to understand who I am. I never knew my mother. I was raised by my father, which made me precociously mature. You cannot imagine how good I am. My goodness is so immense that everyone has always made fun of me, and the most incredible things have happened to me. I would not say I am incapable of killing a fly, for does any man exist who has no fits of bad temper? What makes me sad is that I have never been able to provide examples of my goodness. It seems to me that goodness held up as an example is not goodness anymore. But that’s something else entirely. Don’t be afraid, I am not losing my train of thought. I will recount the story you are about to read without going off track. The only thing I can tell you is that I am truly good. I assure you. I swear it. And what I swear is true. I am not like some other people who swear to anything on their parents’ lives.

I cannot bear to see someone suffer, and as a result it would seem I am incapable of doing any harm. But this is not so! You will be surprised at what I did. Suddenly, I discovered in myself unsuspected strength, which is the mark of great youth, and I plunged everyone around me into the deepest distress, including my parents and the woman I love. Yes, that is what I did. And now that I am free, now that everything is over, I wonder if I won’t regret it.

How could I have done that, I who am so good and whose heart melts into tears at the slightest pain felt by someone else? It’s incomprehensible, and that is why I am writing this story. Perhaps there will be someone to explain it, to feel sorry for me, because there is no question that strangers can be closer than friends.

As I said earlier, we are going to proceed in an orderly fashion so that everyone can understand what happened. But here’s the thing. At bottom, nothing happened. My poor head aches. I wish everyone could understand immediately what is seething in my brain without my having to write about it. That would simplify everything. What can I do? I like what is simple. As soon as I attempt to explain complicated feelings, I become confused and begin to lose my concentration. It’s very funny. I can see the thoughts that are in the foreground of my mind very clearly, but as soon as I try to go behind them, I find myself in a haze.

So, in order to be able to finish this story, I am going to recount it as simply as can be. It would be ridiculous to begin like this, very clearly, and then become confused at the end without the reader having been able to understand what I meant. And not only would it be ridiculous, but there would be no hope for me in the reader’s eyes. It would be better for me to write calmly, taking my time, and then you would understand me and say I am right. You’ll see that the people who think badly of me are wrong and that, despite what I did, I am a reasonable man.

If you doubt this, you should tell me. I won’t get angry. I am intelligent enough to grasp that everyone may be right. No, I won’t get angry. I will then find out that something in me is not normal. I will look after myself. I will take trips, I will get my mind off things, and later, when I feel better, when no one will be able to speak badly of me anymore, I will tell this story again. And this time, people will be forced to understand what I meant.

Now I will begin. Pay attention. Let’s be serious. I am about to begin. The first thing I have to say, which to my mind is very important, is that everything you are about to read is true. I am inventing nothing. This whole thing happened to me yesterday. I plunged everyone who knows me into sadness. And for the first time in my life, I am not suffering. I was right to act as I did. If I had hurt only one person, I would be unhappy today. But since everyone is crying because of me, I am smiling. I am alone. I am not suffering. Everything was perfectly calculated. We shall see what will happen now. I am gathering all my strength to remain in this state. I am fine. Everything happened the way I thought it would. I did not have to face any unforeseen circumstances, which no doubt would have disconcerted me. Now, my life’s goal has been attained. My happiness will not be compromised by some blunder. What will happen tomorrow? I have no idea. But for the moment, all is well. So let’s not talk about all that anymore. Let’s examine the facts.

* * *

Yesterday morning I woke up as usual at about eight o’clock. My eyes were not shocked by some unexpected position of the hands on my watch. So everything was starting out very well.

If you had seen me in my bed, you would have laughed. I did not move when I awoke. I did not move a muscle. I gazed at the ceiling. I closed my eyes again for no reason. I opened them again. I closed them again. It was funny.

None of that is serious. There is something much more serious. I made my family suffer, and my friends.

Now I am writing. You can see that I am writing because you are reading what I write. Well, they are suffering, they are suffering because of me. But I must not feel sorry or else I won’t finish this story, and that would be a shame.

Yes, had you seen me in bed, you would have laughed aloud. Had you seen how serious I was when I woke up! It was as if a scientist had awoken. Well, I don’t want to dwell on that. It’s only of secondary interest. What follows is much more serious. Now I must write seriously. You can imagine that if I am writing now, with my head aching, it is because I have something important to say, otherwise I would go out for a stroll.

So, it was eight in the morning. I waited a few minutes before getting up. That’s natural. Everyone does that. I don’t have to hide it. And I got dressed. Yes, I got dressed. So you see! If I were what some people think, I would have gone out naked. I dressed slowly, but I did dress. I was in no hurry. I had the whole day before me. I ate breakfast as usual. I put on my hat and went out.

Now pay attention! We are nearing the serious, very serious thing. No more smiling. Don’t think that it bothers me if someone smiles while I am speaking seriously. I don’t care. But now I am asking you, humbly, not to smile. It is too serious. Pay attention, reader! Read these lines by yourself. No one should be around you. I too am alone. We are both alone. Pay attention. Lock the door. Mine is already closed. You will see what happened. Shhh! Shhh! Listen. Don’t get up, don’t move. So. I was at my father’s. I was allowed into his bedroom because I am his son. So I saw my father in his shirtsleeves. He’s quite ugly like that. I can’t look at him. My father must be completely dressed, or else I feel ill at ease.

“Father!”

He turned around. He has a thick black beard and almost no hair on his head. He was surprised. He did not know why I had come. He suspected nothing. Ha! He did not know what I was about to tell him. But I knew. Everything was prepared in my mind. Nothing could make me change, not even his surprise. Nothing. I was determined. Ha! My poor father. He was about to know and he did not know yet.

“Father!”

“What is it?”

Don’t think that I started to laugh. No, I am not like that. I came because of something serious. So I had to act appropriately in his presence.

“Father, I have something to say to you.”

“Go ahead, go ahead.”

Watch out! Watch out! You’re going to see what I said. Ha! But it’s true. I said it in a firm voice. I could have weakened at the last moment. But I did not! I am finished with weakness. I am fed up with always changing my mind in front of someone. I want to be myself. After all, I’m a man. I fought in the war. I have seen dead people. It’s over now. Ah, yes. It’s good to obey when one is a child. Now everything has changed. My life is before me. You’ll see right away that I’m not lying, that I am also capable of great deeds. Ha! Now no one can say that I have no willpower.

“Tell me what you need to tell me!”

“I don’t want to see you anymore, Father.”

“You don’t want to see me anymore?”

“No. That’s what I’ve decided.”

“You’re mad.”

“No, I am not mad. If I were mad, I would know it, and I would not have made a decision like this.”

“What’s wrong, son? You must be ill.”

“No, I don’t want to see you anymore.”

“But what is it? You haven’t slept. You’re losing your mind.”

“It’s settled.”

“I’m going to have you locked up.”

“I am twenty years old. I am free to do as I please.”

“Explain yourself.”

“I won’t.”

“Why, why? I don’t understand what you mean. Not see me anymore?”

“Yes.”

“There’s no reason. You are free. You come here whenever you want.”

Ha! I left very quietly, without answering my father’s questions. He was still speaking and I was already outside. I could hear him through the door. Hmm, I was wrong to laugh. My father must be suffering! Poor Father, I loved you so! You alone had affection for me. Poor Father. Now you no longer have a son. You are suffering. You must be crying. And I, I am here in this locked room. Ha ha! You no longer have a child, my dearest father, you who thought I would always be beside you to brighten your old age! My smile will not warm your aged heart. The name you bear and of which you are so proud will die with you. You won’t know the joy of welcoming your child in your solitary retirement. Just when you thought you would at last live out peaceful days, when it seemed that the rigors of life would leave you alone so that you could regain the childlike soul that a man must have in order to die without suffering, once again I plunged you into pain. Farewell, poor Father. Don’t be angry with your son. He did what he had to do. Soon death will come and set you free.

* * *

But this story is not finished. I have a girlfriend whom I love more than anything in the world. She is beautiful, more beautiful than every other woman because I love her. Not a minute goes by when I don’t think about her. I love her so much that when I am far from her it always seems to me that I have not been as kind as I should have been. Now, like my father, she is suffering. I am sure my beloved Monique is suffering.

I went to her place. Monique is the only woman I have ever loved passionately. Monique is blond, her eyes are blue, and her skin so delicate that the slightest stroke leaves a mark.

Monique! I’ll never see you again. Poor Monique, how you will suffer, you who should never have known the ugly side of life! You are twenty and already you have lost all your illusions. You were made to go through life in a glow of happiness. And I, coward that I am, no longer wanted to see you. I’ve shattered your youth. Monique, do not forgive me. Suffer in silence until all is forgotten. Yes, suffer, my beloved. You will still know moments of happiness when you remember me. You will recall my silly, childish words. They won’t make you laugh as they did before, but they will remind you of so many delightful moments.

I went to Monique’s. My heart was pounding as I was about to knock on her door. She was asleep when I entered her bedroom. I saw her, half-naked, in her bed. I looked at her for a long time before waking her. You don’t know why I looked at her? Ha! It was so she would be embarrassed when I told her. Yes, I looked at her for a long time. She is so young and healthy that her sleep is restful. I was not simply looking at someone who had slept well. I was looking at a young woman completely prepared to live life again until the following evening.

I went up to the bed and woke her with the tenderness of someone who has been close to the sleeping person for a long time. She opened her eyes and immediately the blue of her pupils dazzled me. She stretched a rosy arm above her curls, an adorable arm, an arm that extended from shoulder to hand without a bend at the elbow. She raised a knee beneath the sheets with no trouble because her legs are not long. Then she turned her head toward me. A loving smile appeared on her face, still warm from trouble-free dreams.

She had no idea, poor Monique, of what I had come to tell her. She thought I was going to lie down next to her, kiss her, and that she would ask me to make silly faces to amuse her.

No, I am not like that. When I’ve made up my mind about something I do not back down. You have to have absolutely no willpower to assign yourself a task and not carry it out. You have to be a man with no backbone. I am not like that. You’ll see exactly what I said to my beloved Monique, what I had decided to tell her. I did not weaken my resolve at any moment. Nonetheless, I could have felt sorry for her. I am not heartless. When someone cries in my presence, well, it moves me. No, I resisted. I wanted to show once and for all who I am.

“Monique!”

“Fernand.”

Watch out here. I am going to bring you deep inside me. You will understand. Listen carefully. I love Monique. She loves me.

“Listen, Monique, I have to leave you.”

“Where are you going?”

“I’m leaving you for good.”

Monique sat up in bed. For the first time, she looked me in the eyes. But she could not read anything there because my eyes do not betray me. Ha! Eyes are like a nose. They are always the same.

“Are you crazy, Fernand?”

“I am not crazy.”

“But where are you going?”

“I’m leaving you for good.”

Then, getting out of bed, she wrapped her arms around me.

“Fernand, Fernand, you’re mad. What’s wrong? You know I love you and only you. Do you have anything to reproach me for? Tell me so I can defend myself.”

This is when you should have seen me. I was absolutely calm faced with the immense pain of the woman I love. I did not move. Although she begged me to speak, I said not a word. Ah! I was exactly as I always was. This, especially, is how great men are recognized. Major events have no hold over them. They are always the same. I was insanely in control of myself. Perhaps I was pale. But it takes so little to grow pale.

“Fernand, Fernand, you know I adore you.”

“I know,” I said with a deliberate smile.

“How could you, my Fernand, suspect me of anything? I love only you. You are the most beautiful man to me.”

Poor Monique, how you suffered!

But I did not weaken for a second. I know all too well that if I had simply consoled her, I would have lost my confidence. I absolutely had to remain pitiless.

“Fernand, I cannot believe it. You’re joking.”

“I am not joking.”

“Well, I just don’t understand. Don’t you love me a lot?”

“Of course I love you.”

“I don’t understand, I don’t understand. Is it because of André? You know I don’t love him. I love you.”

Poor Monique! What did I do to you? From the purest happiness, I sent you into the greatest despair. You cried leaning against me. I saw the tears fall from your eyes. And they were the saddest tears of all because they fell from your eyes that remained open. Poor Monique, you’re alone now. You no longer have any reason to live because we are no longer together.

“Farewell, Monique. Be strong! One must know how to be brave in the face of unhappiness.”

“So it’s true, Fernand?”

“Yes. Farewell.”

“But I didn’t do anything to you.”

“Farewell, Monique.”

And I left. I shut the door very gently so that my darling would not think I was angry. I left. Yes, I left. You see, it’s not difficult. And to think I believed it would be impossible to leave someone. It is not. It’s very easy. You need simply feel no pity. I know this kind of coldness cannot be acquired from one day to the next. But after a time, one manages. You can see that deep down it was not so terrible.

* * *

I spared no one. When I left my beloved Monique’s, I went to see my friend Léon. He was not home. I sat down at his desk, took a sheet of paper, and wrote:

My only friend,

I would have liked to see you one last time. It was not to be. This is sad, because I am leaving you forever. Farewell, Léon. From now on you will follow a path different from mine. It was what fate desired. But know that in difficult moments I will think of you with all my heart. I will always remember our perfect friendship. It will be the invisible companion of my life. I will turn to it whenever I am in pain. I will ask advice of it. My only friend, you are my only friend! Your feelings for me were not overly tender. They were what they should be between men. But they were sweeter to me than all the complicated feelings of love.

You are my only friend and so you will remain in my memory. I am sure you will suffer from my abandoning you, but know that it was necessary. I wanted, I do not yet know why, to be alone in the world. This cannot happen without making those who love me suffer. I beg you to forget me. It will be hard for you. One cannot forget people one loves. They remain as alive as ever in our memory and those who follow do not chase them away. Love does not die. The years have no hold on love.

Above all, Léon, do not be angry with me for destroying your life. It would have been better had you never known me. You would have been happy. The future smiled on you and now, because of me, you are losing everything. My poor friend, how I feel sorry for you! You are deprived of all joy. You are alone and helpless. And if a final word can console you, let me tell you that I, like you, am alone.

Farewell, my best friend. Forgive me for all the pain I am causing you. Forgive me, because forgiveness is the only thing that can revive a man who is losing his life.

Farewell, Léon. Be strong.

Fernand Blumenstein

Ha! That’s what I wrote. Never would I have been able to say all that to him directly. It was better he was not there. I left the letter on his table. When he comes home, he will find it. Before opening it, he will wonder who could have written to him. Then he will read it.

* * *

I also went to see my sister who just married a very commendable man who, it’s true, does not like me all that much, but who in spite of this has always remained very courteous to me. My sister even suffered a bit from this state of things. It was clear she would have liked her husband and me to be good friends.

Yesterday afternoon I went to their home. And in fact they welcomed me amiably. They went out of their way for me.

You poor young couple! If you had known what I had come to say, surely you would not have been so cheerful!

I went into their place with my usual casualness and sat down. They asked me several questions to which I responded calmly. Monsieur Laloz, my sister’s husband, came up to me and, placing his hand on my shoulder, talked to me of my future. He told me that if I was serious, hardworking, and honest, I would find an excellent position. He advised me to watch out for some of my friends and, with a great deal of tact, he let on that Monique was not entirely the woman who could understand and appreciate me. Then we talked about my father. I must say right away that Monsieur Laloz demonstrated a certain bias, rather excusable when you know my father was opposed to his marrying my sister.

Nonetheless, he lauded my father’s good qualities, which proves that Monsieur Laloz is open-minded, generous, and does not hold grudges. My sister, who is older than I am, listened to our conversation without seeming embarrassed in front of me about the authority her husband had over her. I took note of everything they said to me and when on occasion I tried to express my opinion, if Monsieur Laloz continued to speak, I did not insist that he hear me out.

As he was coming to the end of discussing my father’s intelligence with me—for in an hour of conversation one can touch on a variety of subjects—I said to him:

“You know, I don’t want to see the two of you anymore.”

My sister did not even raise her head. No doubt she had not heard, and Monsieur Laloz looked at me without any bewilderment whatsoever.

“You know, I don’t want to see the two of you anymore,” I said again, trying to give this sentence the tone of the conversation that had preceded it so that it would not seem too incomprehensible.

But it was precisely this tone, I believe, that caused Monsieur Laloz not to grasp what I was trying to say.

“You know, Monsieur Laloz, I don’t want to see either you or my sister anymore.”

My brother-in-law, who is in the habit of looking me in the eye, turned his head ever so slightly without taking his gaze off me to show me that he was truly looking at me.

“It’s true. I don’t want to see you anymore.”

My sister, who had surely heard what I said, stood up and went over to her husband, asking him:

“What did Fernand say?”

Married sisters have an odd habit of wanting to learn everything from their husbands’ mouths.

“I don’t know. I don’t understand. It appears your brother is saying he doesn’t want to see us anymore.”

“Did you say that, Fernand?”

“Yes.”

“But why?’

“Just an idea I had.”

“So you’re not thinking about the pain you will cause us?”

It’s true, you poor young couple! You were happy together, side by side in life, and I came to spoil your happiness. What will become of you now? Your life, which promised to be full of future joys, is destroyed. Without me, you would have had children, you would have watched them grow up, you would have loved them!

Later, when you had grown old, these children would have brought joy into your home, whereas now, because of me, you will live in sadness. Poor young couple! Be brave.

“Fernand, you wouldn’t do that,” said Monsieur Laloz, with a sad, sad smile.

I like my brother-in-law’s sad smiles. They bring to his face an expression of pain mixed with bitterness. Poor sister, poor brother-in-law, I won’t see you anymore. I pity you with all my heart.

“Speak to us, Fernand,” said my sister, holding her husband by the arm.

“Yes, I’ll speak to you. I came to see you one last time, to say farewell.”

Monsieur Laloz leaned toward my sister and whispered:

“Leave him be. At that age, a person knows what he is doing.”

Poor Monsieur Laloz! He did not realize how final my decision was. He thought I would come back tomorrow. He did not want to believe I was leaving the two of them forever, that it was the last time we would see each other.

And I walked out. My sister called to me in the stairwell. I did not go back.

* * *

I went to a shaded park. I don’t know anything more delightful than the walk I took there. The sun was pouring its gentle rays on the plants, directly into the dust raised by the children’s hoops. It was barely distorted behind its own heat. It held itself up in the sky without any system. Everything was calm. The guard made a comment to a child who was throwing white stones. He was wearing a uniform. Men in uniform are so charming in parks! They have all that space around them. And the statues. Why are they on pedestals? Why aren’t their bare feet resting on the grass?

I sat down on a chair. I was happy. I had finally arrived at what I wanted, though I might have weakened.

You can see I am not as weak as they say. I do have willpower. There are people who let themselves go, who are spineless, whom events can influence. They are at everyone else’s mercy. Not I. I have a lot of willpower when I want to. All I need is to will something, whereas others, even by willing, have no willpower. To do what I do takes courage. It is not just anyone who can plunge people dear to him into pain and find the strength to go on living without friends, as I decided to do.

And the funniest thing about it is that I am right. I am definitely right. What I did makes sense, otherwise I would not have done it. They are all suffering now. I’ve wanted to do that for a long time. Until now, I did not dare.

And you, reader, perhaps you are thinking that all this is not very logical. Right? Is that what you think? No, you find it all very clear. You understand what I meant. I left my parents, the woman I love, my friends. It’s understandable.

If something does not seem clear to you, I can do better. No, it’s not worth it. Everyone has understood.

Oh, yes! I just realized something. I know what you are thinking. You are thinking that what I did is not extraordinary, that it was not difficult. Yes, I am sure that’s what you are thinking. But you do not know me. I am intelligent enough to grasp that lots of people could have done what I did. I sense that you do not admire me, am I right? Am I mistaken?

I have an idea. Tomorrow morning I will carry it out. And then you will be forced to understand. Above all, do not say a word.

It has to remain a secret so that no one will bother me. I will walk along the Seine, and then, well, never mind, I would rather not tell you anything now. I have my idea. No doubt everything will happen as I imagine it. And tomorrow I’ll tell you what I did.

THE CHILD’S RETURN

On the train taking me back to the village I had left five years earlier, all was silent. The heat was stifling on this July afternoon. The sun’s rays must have been keeping pace with us, for otherwise—based on my memories of the long minutes I had spent motionless, magnifying glass in hand, browning sheets of paper—I would have been surprised that the sun was as strong shining through the windows as it would have been had the train come to a standstill.

I drew the curtains, which were the same color blue as the flagpoles. It was only three o’clock. I was unsettled by the idea that time was not passing more quickly even though we were traveling through the countryside faster than a man on foot.

Occasionally, in those spots where the rails were smoother, it seemed as if we weren’t moving anymore. Only the metal ring of the alarm trembled, as if the jolt that had set it in motion had been strong enough to make it sway for several hours.

My natural apprehension prevented me from placing my feet on the foot warmers: perhaps they had become boiling hot since a few moments earlier when I had leaned over to feel them with the outer edge of my fingers, the most sensitive part. I imagined it would not have taken more than the flick of a switch by some conductor, in the head or rear car, for the heat to have been turned on again in the interval. This flick, I feared, could have occurred while the conductor was distracted, smoking a cigarette or reading the paper.

Through a window, held half open by a strip of cloth (cloth because of an administrative decree from 1917, when the soldiers had been cutting off the leather straps to use as uniform belts), the artificial wind of speed penetrated the compartment, coating our hair with coal dust. Field insects sometimes fell on the seats, slipping between the cushions as if into a chasm, which made me feel sorry for them like I did for the little worms in lettuce carried off by water from the faucet toward some dark sewer.

The tunnels came in series, like everything in life, like good luck and bad. Not knowing how long they were, I would hesitate to close the window. The smoke would surround us and, long afterwards, the taste of it remained on my tongue.

My neighbor was sleeping. At times he moved like a man awake, even though he kept his eyes closed. He would take a handkerchief out of his pocket, nodding his head, blowing his nose, all while he slept. Some remote force was commanding his limbs to move in order to find a comfortable position, but faltered when it came to tidiness and propriety. In a small railway station, the train stopped for three long minutes, which, even though they were scheduled, seemed to delay my arrival by three minutes.

When the passengers who disembarked had reached the road, we pulled out again. Bags in hand, they watched us go by.

From high up on a railway bridge, closer to the only cloud, the front tip of which was pointed so it could cleave through the air and follow us, we glimpsed small valleys, hillsides. In the distance steeples rose, their weathervanes crooked. The cars on the road seemed to be following a longer path.

We were traveling through an inhabited countryside where fields followed villages, a countryside furrowed by small streams crossed by wooden footbridges from which men were fishing.

This was the countryside of my youth, of illustrations to help you learn German, in which every object the small farmer uses is in its place, and nothing is lacking.

There were grindstones, wheelbarrows, thatched cottages, pitchforks, two horses pulling a plow, herds of cattle.

Cows grazed, chasing flies with their tails. Foals stopped in front of hedges, rearing up without danger to anyone in the vast pastures. An old woman carried a bundle of firewood so that the word “bundle” would stick in the children’s memories more easily.

The landscapes we passed through—each of us thinking of arriving or departing, each of us filled with expectation or farewell—this countryside where we would never go except on train tracks unless by some impossible chance, but which cheerfully went on with its life nonetheless, filled me with melancholy.

A newspaper, which no one had bothered to fold back up and which had been tossed a number of times because it would not land properly, lay on the floor.

I tended to look for the absurd in everything, so I picked up this paper, bought in Paris in the morning and now doubly aged by time and distance, and attempted to find some stories from this countryside in it, stories whose journey had been pointless because I was bringing them back whence they came.

The people working in the fields had not yet read this newspaper. Being better informed than they were, carried along at uniform speed through landscapes where I would have stopped had I been alone, witnessing a rural life as private as the one inside houses—all this prompted me to dream, eyes half-closed, legs crossed so that no fatigue would bring me back to reality.

Passengers moved through the corridor in the direction opposite the train’s, fearful as they walked between cars, gaining a few steps on the ground as we lost a thousand in the countryside. We did not have time to see the clocks in the stations. A train passing us in the other direction caused me a dreadful fright.

I was leaving behind friends whom I had not forewarned, as well as my landlady, because I am unable to part company forever with even the most insignificant people.

I was leaving behind a young woman, Julienne, whom I loved and whom, only nine hours after my departure, I already missed, and who seemed to me to have so many fine qualities, as if we had been separated a long time.

I was leaving behind a dark office where only one window looked out onto rue Drouot, and five others onto an inner courtyard. The window facing rue Drouot was not for me. I would have had to wait for seven employees to leave in order to become the most senior and sit anywhere near it.

I was leaving behind habits, odd little ways born of poverty, sudden awakenings in the half-light, the fear that people would not return what I had loaned them, bad restaurants, and indigence at month’s end, prolonged by a day every month, that inevitably would have led me to total destitution.

I was leaving behind an ordered life, so well ordered that I was surprised, now, that it no longer existed. The person who would take over my room would not get up at the same time as I had. I would no longer buy my rolls at the neighborhood bakery. No one would see me anymore. In a month, after the customary time of an illness or a vacation, perhaps people would think of me for a moment, and then it would be over.

I was also leaving behind things, old things I had believed useful, and that I had never wanted to get rid of, even when I changed rooms: a pair of trousers, a metal can, a perfume bottle that was empty but made of heavy glass, photographs, worn-out shirts, letters and envelopes—I cannot tear up a letter, and I always keep the envelopes as if, without them, the letters would not be letters.

I had left everything. I was carrying only new things in my new suitcase. My brushes were wrapped in the day’s newspaper. I did not want anything to remind me of my life in Paris and wanted to focus my attention solely on driving out bad memories.

I was returning to my family. I, their son, their brother, was going to see them again. In an hour, I would be among them. At first they would not recognize me. Then, with tears of joy, my mother would hold me in her arms—but not for long, because she would go fetch my father to tell him the good news.

In my mind, until it occurred to me that perhaps it would be my father I would first lay eyes on, it was without a doubt my mother who would be the first to forgive me.

But what is the difference? My father would kiss me, and he too would hold me in his arms, against his firmer chest, the feel of which was more difficult for me to imagine.

There were lots of animals—dogs and cats—at home the day I left. But, afraid of becoming sad, I was not thinking about them. Animals don’t live as long as people. I did not know how old they were, so perhaps they had died. In fact, no one knew their ages. They were strays adopted by my mother, who was very kind.

Again I saw the small yard where as a child I would have liked to dig a hole as deep as I was tall.

Again I saw the rabbits. They would not be the same ones, but it did not matter because even if they had not died, I would not have recognized them.

Again I saw the well next to which I used to wash because I did not want to carry water anywhere or get my bedroom floor wet, and this would anger my father because he was afraid the soapy water that was absorbed by the earth would seep back into the well.

Again I saw the artichokes, so firm when they are raw; the low branches that allowed me to climb the trees; my collection of stamps, one of which was triangular; the little stream that ran right next to the house among the nettles; a sandy path for my bare feet; the donkey—bigger now; my kite, which was store-bought and made with whitewood rather than with young twigs; my bicycle that I took care of the same way I took care of myself, disregarding the dust that covered it, but very preoccupied with the ball bearings because of the predisposition of my mind to care more about fundamentals than form.

I heard the cock’s crowing, the one at eight in the morning, more coppery because of the sunlight and the shimmering of the streams, the mallets of the washerwomen, the barking of the dogs. All these sounds became muted in space. They died slowly, mixing with the vibrations of the warm air without an unexpected echo, without reverberating on some zinc roof.

* * *

I recognized a farm, a barn. I had arrived. Because I was in the head car, I had the feeling the train was not going to stop.

The platforms were deserted. The clock, which I finally located, said 5:10. A warm, dry breeze caressed my face.

Although I had not told my family I was coming, arriving like this on a station platform where no one was waiting for me was vaguely disappointing.

The ticket windows were open. The account books, the jar of liquid glue, the telephones, the scales jammed full of bags, the announcements that were tacked but not glued out of respect for the ones underneath—all those things that are damp and sad in cities were cheerful here.

I found myself at the exit with a few other passengers. A railway worker held our tickets in his hand. It was as if we all had agreed among ourselves to turn in our tickets to the same man.

I had an inexplicable fear of coming home with a suitcase after an absence of five years, so I left mine at the baggage check.

I still had a little under half a mile to go, without a car, without a train, on foot; that is, I was sure to arrive in ten minutes, if there were no accidents or delays. My heart was pounding. I was truly happy that it was hot outside: my emotion would not show on my already flushed face.

Yet I did not dare leave the public square, where there were still people and where I could go unnoticed, to walk along the straight, open road where I could be seen from a distance.

The train left the station. So I had arrived. I had not lost any time. After a long journey like the one I had just made, I had a right to freshen up at the inn. Seeing the travelers there cheered me up.

Suddenly, I froze with fear at the thought that my father might walk in by chance and see me. The magnitude, the surprise of my return would be spoiled. I would not even dare to kiss him in front of the customers. He would bring me back to the house thinking I had not been in a hurry to see him. My mother would not welcome me in the same way. Foolishly, everything would be ruined.

I quickly downed an alcoholic drink. Flies were buzzing in the middle of the room. They were bigger than the ones in Paris. An open door gave onto a garden, onto the sky, onto my life to come.

* * *

The road that leads to my parents’ house is lined with apple trees from which now hung wisps of hay that had been left by carts returning from harvest. Winter crows, black, slow, and sad, flew above a tree in the shadowless air.

I walked very quickly. Grasshoppers, trusting their weightlessness to exempt them from any pain when they fell, were jumping from the supple support of the grass to the middle of the road where their long legs, used to stubble, were ill at ease.

A dogcart drove by on its high, iron-rimmed wheels, between which a cloud of dust was rising at the spot where the dogs are attached. It had no license plate. It was as free as the air, as the fields, as the life I was about to lead.

A man, alone in an immense field, was reaping wheat. To my right, I could see the houses in the village from which, despite the hot weather, blue wisps of smoke were rising. They were fragile in a sky where they had too much room. You could sense that the slightest puff of wind would disperse them, not immediately, only after having caused them to fold in on themselves. A milestone reminded me that somewhere someone knew the road existed.

I now dreaded the moment I had been longing for a moment ago. I was afraid of catching sight of a member of my family in the distance. I was so hot that each time I passed beneath the shade of an apple tree I did not even realize it.

A butterfly flitted in front of me. It waited for me, not only on the flowers, but on the stones, and when I drew near it flew off—so delicate—without having seen or heard me, to set itself down farther on.

The scents of wood, grasses, ponds everywhere blended above the odorless road.

On a hill, between two trees of the same size, I suddenly saw my parents’ house. The windows were open. I waited to feel some emotion, the joy I had been expecting. Nothing. This emotion, this joy, came up against a thousand thoughts, a thousand memories evoked by the host of insects, the blades of grass, the specks of earth that surrounded me, scattered me, and made it so that for a moment I did not know where I was.

I stopped. I stared hard at the house. It resembled the ones I had seen from the train. Everything was normal. Nothing about it attracted my attention more than any of the others.

Something moved in a window, something like a light-colored cloth with swirls.

I opened my mouth as if to call out. I stretched my hands toward this sign of life. It was neither an animal nor laundry hung out to dry. It was still moving on the second floor, at my parents’ bedroom window. It was my father, my mother.

A shimmering spread across my field of vision. I was suddenly aware that what I had imagined was collapsing, that the words I had prepared would not come out, that traps would be set for me, that I would contradict myself, that I was as alone as I had been in the Paris train station this morning when I left. The distance I traveled had not brought me closer. No one was thinking of me. The one who, after five years of absence, found himself a few steps from his parents was still so far away, so forgotten that everything was going on normally: a piece of cloth was moving in a window, the house was white, the windows open.

Dust was falling on me. I could tell how thick it was from the blades of grass and the branches it covered.

I took a path that skirted the house so as not to arrive by the main door. The clearings, which only partly concealed me, did not allow me to be recognized from the way I walked. The long shadows from the trees accompanied me. When I passed near a swarm of mosquitoes, I looked beneath it to the ground, without thinking.

Birds sang and flapped their wings, ready to fly off again should the branches sag too much beneath their weight. The sun was setting. A buzzing life was being reborn with the first chill of evening. Other insects, those that like the rain, emerged from the cracked earth.

I continued to gaze at the house as I walked. Certain details began to make it familiar to me. A fence separated the yard from the vegetable garden. I recognized the curtains, the bench in front of the ground-floor window, a shovel whose smooth handle was worn thin from use. I saw a brand-new zinc pail that did not seem out of place because it had not been used without me. The trees had not grown taller.

I had only about fifty yards to go. My family would soon be in the dining room. My mother would be preparing supper. My father would be reading in his study. My sisters would be sewing.

I advanced slowly. My pulse, my temples, all my veins were throbbing in unison. Again I pictured the scene I had imagined so many times: the hugs, the tears, my parents’ happiness. It would happen as I had foreseen. There was no reason for me to have been mistaken because, until now, everything was just as usual.

Tears came to my eyes, mixing with the perspiration on my face. Yet they were cooler as they fell.

I would be forgiven for having taken the money, for having made a scene before I left, for having gone five years without writing.

Then, smelling the sweet scent of the grass, it suddenly seemed to me that what I had done was much more serious than I had thought, that I would have to beg them to let me stay, beg them to forget.

Everything I had imagined was fading in the buzzing life all around me that would continue until evening, impervious to my motives and the complexities of my thoughts.

I was now very close to the house. I did not dare enter yet. I had placed my hand on the fence that surrounds our property. A bush from our yard concealed me. Because it belonged to us, and because it seemed to become my accomplice, for an instant I regained my confidence.

I did not have the strength to take another step. I, who had believed everyone would laugh together and feel sorry for me, sensed that I would be unable to utter a single word. I had a dizzy spell. Now, with all my heart, I hoped someone would come out and see me. I would have fainted then. They would have carried me. I would have woken up in a bed with my family at my side, attentive to all my gestures.

But no one came. I heard my sister singing, my mother speaking, but did not see anyone even though the windows were open.

For a second I let go of the fence to test myself, to wipe my forehead from which new perspiration was dripping. I almost fell. I stumbled. With both hands I again grabbed the fence that the rain had turned a greenish color. I wanted to call for help. The memory of what I had done, along with the hope that I would recover, stopped me.

Suddenly my father came out of the house in his shirtsleeves. I saw him clearly. I bent down and spied on him through the leaves where a world of insects was teeming in the coolness. He did not see me. I was no longer his son. I was hiding, watching him intently without his being aware of it, like a burglar. He went into the garden. He was carrying a light, empty basket. He had aged. I was so shaken by this that I was not sad.

Five years ago, even when it was very hot out, he would never remove his jacket, he would hold himself erect and never go into the garden. I was the one who fetched the vegetables.

I wanted to run to him then, throw myself at his feet, beg him to forgive me. But I did not budge.

He passed in front of me again, slowly, turning around at the sound of a rooster crowing. Soon I saw him from behind, stooped over, sadder it seemed because he was going back into the house.

It was too late to follow him, to stop him. My father was leaving me outside.

I could no longer remain like this, hidden. I had to go in.

I forgot everything and, letting go of the fence, I took a step, then two.

I was about to go in. The great moment had arrived. My father, my mother would see me, look at me before they recognized me.

I raised the latch on one of the gates. I was in the yard. I stopped short and stood straight, motionless, my hands needing no support because the ground was level.

No one was in the courtyard. In my blurred vision, the line of the horizon seemed to spin as I looked at it. No tree, no bush concealed me. I was facing the walls of the house, the window, and the slope of the roof at which I had tossed balls as a child.

A few yards lay between me and the door. All I had to do was walk straight ahead on the cleared ground, uncluttered now by any pail, wheelbarrow, or basket.

Suddenly my gaze fell on the walls whose thickness I could see in the embrasures, on the objects made of wood and iron, on the bench, the shovel, the stones of the well and, for a second, on the chickens moving about at my feet. A clear voice rose from all that. I did not understand the meaning of what it was saying. My ears buzzed. I stiffened. One by one my calm, my strength, my will abandoned me. A groan escaped my throat. Because of the stables nearby, and a dog sleeping on the warm sand, it drew no attention.

I took another step. I waited, my body bathed in sweat, my chest heavy. As in a dream, I couldn’t catch my breath. I felt as though I had collapsed, that I was lying on the ground, that my feet were as close to the sky as my head.

I could not bear anymore. Even if I had continued moving forward, I would not have seen the door, I would have crashed into a wall. I was incapable of going any farther. I took a step backwards, without taking my eyes off the house. My breath returned to normal. Relief flooded my body. The chickens, more active now, pecked. The ground, in the shade, was slowly cooling off. A bird tried to carry off a wisp of straw. A sudden calm fell over the garden, the courtyard, the house, as if all I had to do was move away for the calm to return.

Slowly I reached the road. My dusty shoes had been wiped clean by the grass. I was coming back to life. Without turning around, I headed toward the village. The sun was setting behind me. It stayed with my parents’ house. My long shadow preceded me. I spared it from colliding with the trees, the piles of stones. I was calm. I tried not to think.

On the hill, when I reached the spot where the house had appeared to me when I arrived, I turned around.

The house rose between the two trees already dark against the blue sky. One window was closed. A single pane flashed. The day was coming to an end in the same peacefulness as the previous day. I felt guilty for having almost disturbed it.

A puff of warm air that the insects followed enveloped me. I looked one last time at the countryside that had not changed, that surrounded the house I was leaving forever, and I went on my way.

IS IT A LIE?

When the clock struck ten, Monsieur Marjanne began to worry. For the third time, he called the maid.

“Irene, madame didn’t tell you anything?”

“Honestly, no, monsieur!”

“Did you see her go out? How was she dressed? Did she have her suede purse?”

Monsieur Marjanne had noticed that whenever she went to a friend’s house or to the theater, his wife preferred her suede purse to any of the others.

“I didn’t see madame go out.”

Once alone, Robert Marjanne paced in the living room for a few minutes, then went into his wife’s bedroom. Everything was locked. He had never managed to get her to leave the drawers unlocked when she went out. “I don’t need the servants reading the letters you used to write to me. That’s nobody’s business,” she would respond whenever he said “What an odd habit you have of locking everything up like this!” It was useless for him to point out that Irene did not know how to read. The drawers he could open contained only insignificant things. He remained for a moment in the room, looking for something abnormal, then, returning to the living room, sat down in an armchair.

Robert Marjanne was a short, very well-proportioned man. Had he been stooped or deformed, he would have been ugly and his intelligence would perhaps have seemed surprising, whereas short and well built, he was oversensitive, and his misanthropy was such that it verged on neurasthenia. When asked his age, he answered like those people who pretend not to know where they are in their lives: “I was born in ’64. You do the math!” But he did not leave them time to obey this injunction, turning the conversation to other subjects. The only child of rich storekeepers, he had grown up surrounded by a great deal of care and attention so that once he had come of age, he had only a vague idea of life in general; until late middle age he had dreamed—and he kept this dream as hidden as a teenager might keep his knowledge of lovemaking—of a woman who would be an artist of some kind, of traveling, of the high life.

When he turned fifty, he had an abrupt change of heart. His parents had died. His commercial enterprises were running on their own steam. He wanted to live. As if audacity had come with age, he decided to move toward—but in his own way, that is, very slowly—what seemed to be his ideal. He had countless moments of leisure. It was during one such moment that he met a young woman, Claire Paoli, the daughter of an engineer. She was so beautiful that soon he confused her in his mind with the woman he had dreamed of marrying his whole life.

Some years earlier, Claire had left her family to be with a young man who had just finished medical school, but who did not have enough money to open his own practice. They had lived together for three years on rue Gay-Lussac using the money from a few private lessons he gave to young boys who always resided on the opposite side of Paris. Then they separated, and Monsieur Paoli had taken his daughter back solely, it seemed, to heap criticism on her day after day. So when Monsieur Marjanne offered to marry her, she accepted immediately.

From that moment on, Robert Marjanne lived as if in a dream. He couldn’t do enough to make his wife happy. He was attentive to her every need. Not like a man in his twilight years who uses all his past experience in order to continue to please, but like a man who had wasted his youth and had never been attentive to anyone before.

And Claire became attached to him. Every day, she cheered him up with little jokes, gave him serious advice that she did not believe and that would change a few hours later. Due to her poor treatment by her parents and the medical student, she found her husband’s thoughtfulness charming and no amount of pride could lead her to reject it. Nonetheless, she intended to retain a degree of independence. She had demanded to have her own bedroom. She always refused to give the slightest details about her schedule for the day. Once lunch was finished, she would go out and not reappear until dinnertime.

* * *

That evening, however, for the first time, Monsieur Marjanne waited for her in vain. He continually went to the window in the hope of seeing her step out of a taxi in front of the house. A few times he had even gone out to be at her side more quickly when she arrived. Then, suddenly, fearing she had come in without his seeing her, he climbed back up hurriedly and found himself in the empty apartment in front of the table, covered in a frosty white tablecloth, that had been set for dinner. Slowly time passed. The clock chimed ten, and Claire had still not come home.

After letting his mind wander for several minutes, Robert Marjanne got up again. For an instant he remained motionless. What could he do? Pace back and forth, sit down again, go out walking in front of the house once more, lean out the window? But how would any of that make his wife appear more quickly? He was in the most painful state of anxiety, the state in which, because the anxiety has lasted for so long, the weary mind seeks explanations, begins to try to reason, and, because there is nothing to be done, ends up becoming annoyed with itself.

“I’m just too tense,” he thought. “It’s ridiculous to get in such a state. She has been delayed. Why always look on the dark side? Everything seems complicated, but I’m sure it’s very simple. Naturally, because I am by myself, I have come up with all the conjectures one can come up with. By myself, the truth escapes me. Right now, I have no more grounds for thinking the worst than thinking the best. She was delayed. That’s undeniable. Everything else is just my imagination. Still, she could have found a minute to phone me.”

Thinking that perhaps his telephone was not functioning, Monsieur Marjanne was overjoyed to have to verify this, while confusedly imagining he would gain a few minutes in doing so. Very slowly he walked to his study, then, so as to still have this task before him and because he secretly hoped to find another one, several times he lit the room then made it dark again, trying to persuade himself that the light switch was not working properly. But whichever way he flipped it, it obeyed him.

At last Robert Marjanne sat down in front of the telephone. “Let’s see if it’s working,” he thought. “Whom can I call? The Bertrins? Perhaps Claire is at their house, after all!” But at the thought that, if this were true, she would make a scene when she got home or, in the opposite instance, it would be impolite to disturb friends at this late hour simply to ask them if his telephone were working, he refrained. “The best thing would be to telephone the operator.” He picked up the receiver and requested that she call him back in a few minutes to make sure the line was functioning properly.

A moment later, the telephone rang. Even though he was absolutely certain that it was a telephone employee, he was filled with emotion.

Because he had now returned to the dining room, he suddenly noticed the clock on the mantel. It was a few minutes before eleven. All at once he realized Claire should have been back four long hours ago. The uneasiness he had been experiencing abruptly became a sharp pain. It was the middle of the night. Everything such an absence could imply filled his mind. “She must have a lover,” he thought. “She is with him right now. He doesn’t want her to go. She doesn’t have the strength to leave him. If there had been an accident, someone would have called me. It doesn’t take much common sense to guess the truth. She is at his place. They are not asleep yet. They’re talking, laughing...”

He could not shake the idea that Claire was cheating on him while he was waiting for her. Yet he wanted to go on hoping she would come home from one minute to the next. But midnight chimed, then one in the morning. Robert Marjanne was hardly recognizable.

After going to get some blankets, he lit all the lights in the living room, sank down in the lowest armchair, and covered his legs. From time to time he heard the little clocks in the apartment. The same thoughts continued to come to him, one after the other.

Daylight arrived and Robert Marjanne got up from his armchair. He had dozed off, as one does on a journey, haunted by nightmares in which Claire had turned into an insolent, drunken woman, then into a repentant wife begging her husband to forgive her. He opened the window. The sky was gray like silty water. The bare trees of boulevard Raspail, which were not yet twenty years old, did not even reach the height of a third story. An east wind, heavy with rain, was shaking them and there was something infinitely sad in seeing them sway like this on the deserted boulevard. Monsieur Marjanne closed the window. The light of dawn and the light from the streetlamps blended together, forming a single pale glow that filled the room with a strange brightness. It was seven o’clock in the morning.

* * *

As he was about to enter the dining room, he suddenly found himself face to face with his wife, who had just come home and, before going to join him, had rushed to her bedroom, no doubt to reacquaint herself with her surroundings before seeing her husband again. She had already removed her hat and coat. She smiled and said:

“I see you didn’t go to bed. You should have gone to lie down. Really! You shouldn’t worry so much just because I was held up. You know that if something serious had happened, I would not have left you like this. Naturally I would have telephoned. And since I didn’t, everything was fine.”

Claire was talking volubly. Robert Marjanne did not take his eyes off her. He was filled with immense joy at seeing his wife again, so similar to the way she was every other morning, and at the same time he was overcome with anger. But he controlled his emotions. He was aware that if he reproached her, she would immediately withdraw into silence and what he wanted to know more than anything was what she had done during this interminable night. Still, he couldn’t help asking:

“So what were you doing then?”

Still smiling, she answered:

“I’ll tell you, but wait a bit. I need to get back to my routine. It’s no joy, you know, to have to spend the night at friends’. I don’t know if it ever happened to you, but as hard as they try, it’s still uncomfortable. You just don’t feel at home. But has Irene prepared breakfast? I slept so badly and I’m starved. Come into the dining room. I’ll tell you all about it. You’ll see how odd it is, and sad at the same time.”

Claire had never spoken with such candor before and so Robert Marjanne’s suspicions only grew stronger. It seemed strange that his wife who ordinarily worried so little about what he would think of her was trying so hard to seem sincere.

“Just tell me in a few words what you did last night. Afterwards, we won’t mention it again. It will be over, buried...”

“It’s impossible in a few words. I have to tell you everything. How do you expect me to explain everything that happened in a few words?”

“Well, simply tell me where you slept. That’s all I want to know.”

“Give me time. I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you. You’ll know everything.”

“What’s the harm in telling me right away? It can’t be that complicated. Just tell me where you slept. I don’t need to know the rest.”

“You should hear yourself! As if I had done who-knows-what!”

“All I’m asking is for you to tell me where you spent the night.”

“I’ll tell you everything or nothing,” Claire said drily.

Robert Marjanne then got the feeling that the story his wife was about to tell had been invented out of whole cloth and that, just like when she had told it to herself, she needed not to break off, not to be interrupted.

“Well then, tell me everything.”

“Now I’ll tell you everything because you are being reasonable. I have nothing to hide. Obviously if I had wanted to do something that was not right I would go about it differently. I’m not a child. Isn’t that so, Robert, that I’d go about it differently?”

She smiled again and continued:

“I told you yesterday, I think, when I left you, that I was going to spend the afternoon at Madeleine’s. So I went to her place, as you know. She was alone. Another girl came a little later, Maud. Have I already mentioned her to you?”

It seemed to Robert Marjanne that his wife was stretching out the true parts so that the lie would blend into the stream of words that preceded it.

“No, you never mentioned her to me. Who is she?”

“Let me finish first. I’ll explain later who she is.”

Claire said these words more gently. The fact that her husband showed interest in a minor point of her story seemed to reassure her. No doubt for this reason she brought the conversation back to Maud.

“All right, I’ll tell you right away. Then you’ll understand better what happened next. Maud is the daughter of an Englishman who has lived in Paris for, I think, twenty years. He’s a real character. He adores France.”

Robert Marjanne surmised that his wife really knew this Englishman and his daughter and that it was because their eccentricity had struck her that she had put them into her story: their exceptional nature would make it easier to accept the exceptional nature of the story she was preparing to tell.

“But why didn’t you come home?”

“Wait, I said. Let me explain everything or I won’t say anything.”

He was suffering so much at the thought that she had spent the night with a man that all he wanted was to be convinced of the contrary. He coaxed her to go on.

“Of course I’ll go on. So the three of us chatted. You know what it’s like when girls get together. We have no idea of the time. We talk about clothes and all kinds of things, and the time flies by. All of a sudden I realized that it was six o’clock.”

Just then Robert Marjanne had such a clear sense that Claire was going to lie that he thought she could feel it. And in fact, she seemed not to dare to go any further into her tale.

“I realize that it’s six o’clock,” she repeated. “My friends are surprised. I leave them at last and then, remembering I had something to buy, I catch a cab to the Printemps department store.”

“It must have been closed!”

“How annoying you are! Will you let me finish already? Don’t you know that the department stores close at six-thirty?”

“What was it that you wanted to buy so urgently?”

“What I wanted to buy? You want to know?”

Claire went to her room and returned a moment later with a small package that she opened in front of her husband. It contained a pair of gloves.

“You see. Nothing to worry about.”

Then, showing him the paper in which the gloves had been wrapped and on which was printed in a modern font “Le Printemps,” she added:

“Here’s the proof.”

“None of that tells me where you spent the night. You had to sleep somewhere, after all!”

“If you interrupt me one more time, I’m warning you I won’t tell you another thing. You think it’s amusing to recount everything in such detail? Listen to me now. So I leave Le Printemps. It was exactly six-thirty and I say to myself, ‘Robert must be waiting for me, I’ve got to hurry.’ But instead of taking a cab in front of the store—you know how crowded it is there, I would have waited for an hour—I go on foot to boulevard Malesherbes. And right then, when I am on the corner of rue du Havre, I run into—you’ll never guess who. Who do you think?”

“I don’t know.”

“Come on, guess.”

“Maud!”

“No, no. I told you a moment ago that I had left her at Madeleine’s.”

In Monsieur Marjanne’s mind Claire was only trying to give the illusion of truth. To be less alone with her lie, she wanted to make her husband participate in it. But he was determined not to let himself be dragged into it and simply answered: “I don’t know” and “What can I say?”

“Well! I’m going to tell you. I ran into Olga and her mother.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Don’t you remember? You have no memory! In Nice, at the Hotel Beauséjour.”

“Of course I remember, but you are not going to make me believe that you ran into them just like that, out of the blue.”

Right after their wedding, Claire and Robert Marjanne had gone on a long trip to Italy. When they came back to France, they had stopped in Nice for two weeks. Mme. Kalinina and her daughter Olga were staying in the same hotel as the Marjannes. They had become acquainted easily, even more so because at first Mme. Kalinina had thought that Monsieur Marjanne was Claire’s father. Claire had sensed, to the point of teasing him about it, how flattered her husband had been—coming as he did from a family where everything was always a question of self-interest and from which he had dreamed of escaping all his life—to make the acquaintance of Mme. Kalinina, who had been admitted to the court of the Czar, who belonged to one of the greatest families in Russia and who now, driven out of her country, had taken refuge in Nice.

Thus the idea immediately occurred to Robert Marjanne that his wife, having remembered his high regard for the two foreigners, had thought that simply mentioning Mme. Kalinina would cause his suspicions to fade.

“So they are in Paris?” he asked.

“And they asked about you first thing.”

Monsieur Marjanne then remembered the two delightful weeks he had spent in Nice where, the only man among these three women, he had accompanied them to the casino, to the theater, to tea, and how considerate everyone had been to him, and how proud he had been, and also the thought he had so often had: “If only my family could see me now!”

But Claire had begun speaking again.

“You can imagine, Robert, how surprised we were to meet again. All they could talk about was you. They asked me a thousand things, how you were, if you were happy, if you still loved me, if you spoiled me, if you hadn’t changed, absolutely everything!”

Robert Marjanne still remembered the look of admiration for Claire’s beauty he had seen in Mme. Kalinina’s eyes.

“They were on their way home,” Claire continued. “You can easily imagine that I felt I should accompany them. And as we walked they spoke to me for a long time, very frankly, as if I were part of the family. And I learned a lot of things about which you have no idea. They made me swear not to tell you anything, but now that they have gone, and I may never see them again, I will tell you everything.”

“They’re gone?” Robert Marjanne asked anxiously because he’d had a glimmer of hope at the thought that everything might be true, that he would go to see Mme. Kalinina that very day, and from her very mouth he would get confirmation of his wife’s words.

“Yes,” said Claire, looking surprised. “Didn’t I tell you? If they hadn’t had to leave for London this morning, you know very well that I would have had the time to see them again and I would not have stayed with them until now.”

With these words Monsieur Marjanne had the feeling that everything was collapsing around him. All this was nothing but lies. He was sure of it. However, he forced himself not to show his distress.

“They’ve left?” he asked again without even realizing he was speaking.

“This morning, on the train to Boulogne. I don’t know what time exactly, but you can check the schedule.”

Monsieur Marjanne ran a hand across his forehead.

“So I won’t see them?”

“Did you want to see them so badly?” Claire asked, feigning jealousy to tease him.

“But what did you do all night?”

“I was about to tell you a moment ago, but you interrupted me. I wanted to tell you everything. It’s not very nice of me, though. If only you’d heard how they especially asked me not to say anything to you.”

“But why didn’t you invite them to come back here?”

“Why, why? Well, what I was about to tell you would have answered your question. It would have been perfect. You thought you were laying a trap for me, but you’re the one who got caught in it. I don’t know if you recall in Nice when we met them they had jewelry, furs, real furs from Siberia. Well, already back then they were selling everything to live on. I knew it. They had told me but begged me not to say anything. I kept my word and always hid it from you. Now it’s different. When I met them yesterday, you cannot imagine how painful it was for me. They were not the same women. Mme. Kalinina was wearing a thin little black coat with a rabbit-fur collar dyed black to match. She wasn’t wearing any jewelry, not even a wedding ring, and neither was her daughter. Naturally I pretended not to notice, but I was quite upset. They were too. When they talked about you, one could feel that their laughter, their cheerful tone was not natural, that they were trying to be as carefree as when we’d met them. As soon as we had exchanged a few words, they wanted to be on their way. It was then that I realized they felt abandoned and that they wished I would stay with them and say to them: ‘Don’t go, let’s talk, let’s spend the evening together.’ And that’s what I said. The thought of inviting them home came to me of course, but I sensed how much their pride would suffer seeing you again dressed as they were. So we walked and then quite naturally I said you were going to be with friends that evening and I invited them out to dinner. Because they felt my affection for them, little by little they became more trusting and told me everything they had endured. I took a taxi with them to accompany them back to their hotel and on the way Olga began to cry. She had been terribly upset by what her mother had recounted. Once we got there, I went up to their room with them, I consoled them. We ordered tea, we talked some more. And that’s how it got to be midnight. And then I wanted to come home to you. I don’t know if you know how it is, but when you’ve had a lot of sorrows and have given an account of them to someone else, you want that person to stay with you. If she leaves, you feel more depressed than before. When I said I was going home to you, you should have seen them! Olga stopped crying and grew very pale. Mme. Kalinina took my hand. They didn’t say a word, but from their faces and everything about them I sensed that their situation would seem even more distressing to them once I had gone.”

“So you slept in their room?”

“I didn’t even lie down. We talked until very, very late. Then I sat down in an armchair and slept for maybe three hours at most. Early this morning we went to the Gare du Nord. And I left them barely an hour ago.”

“You spent the night in their room? In the hotel?”

“Naturally. I think they spent two days in all in Paris.”

“Which hotel?”

“A hotel. You know the street that goes up next to the Église de la Trinité?

“Rue Clichy?”

“No, the other one.”

“Rue Blanche?”

“Yes, that’s it. We took a taxi. The driver went up that street, then turned right and took another cross street. Two or three hundred meters farther along, he stopped. If you’d like we can go there one day together when we take a walk. You’ll see, I’ll be able to locate the hotel very quickly.”

This time, Robert Marjanne had the clear impression that Claire’s tale was nothing but one long lie.

“So, my Robert, were you bored without me? Did you sleep well? You see it was nothing as terrible as you supposed. Come on, admit that you thought, I don’t know, that I had a lover, that I’d gone to the theater, then home with him, and that we spent an extraordinary night together. I’m sure that’s what you thought. You were wrong. You never know what can happen in life. There are so many odd things, unforeseen events.”

Robert Marjanne did not respond. Suddenly it dawned on him that, after all, what Claire had told him might be true. Claire came to him and took his hands.

“Are you angry?” she asked.

“I don’t know. You told me a long story, but did you make it all up?”

“You’re mad, darling. How could I invent such a story? Really, put yourself in my place. What if I had lied and, for example, we ran into Mme. Kalinina and her daughter tomorrow! If I had invented such a tale, I couldn’t go on living. Every time I went out with you, I would say to myself, ‘Maybe we’ll run into them and Robert will find out that I lied to him!’ Life would be unbearable. You always have such bizarre ideas. This isn’t the first time.”

Monsieur Marjanne looked at his wife sadly and, in a steady voice, asked:

“Is the story you just told me true?”

“I swear it is, darling. If I’m lying, may I die this instant.”

“All right, I believe you.”

He clasped his wife to him. He did not believe her. He was profoundly convinced she had lied. But suddenly it occurred to him that he was nearing old age and, rather than losing everything, it would be better to suffer in silence in order to have the joy of living with the woman he loved and who had enough respect and fondness for him to go to the trouble of lying.

Content

Emmanuel Bove
Henri Duchemin and His Shadows

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

INTRODUCTION

HENRI DUCHEMIN AND HIS SHADOWS

NIGHT CRIME

ANOTHER FRIEND

NIGHT VISIT

WHAT I SAW

THE STORY OF A MADMAN

THE CHILD’S RETURN

IS IT A LIE?