The Stranger

I felt as I hadn’t felt for ages. I had a foolish desire to burst into tears. For the first time I’d realized how all these people loathed me.

I drank the coffee, and then I wanted a cigarette. But I wasn’t sure if I should smoke, under the circumstances—in Mother’s presence. I thought it over; really, it didn’t seem to matter, so I offered the keeper a cigarette, and we both smoked.

Since we’re all going to die, it’s obvious that when and how don’t matter.

Still, I had an idea he looked annoyed, and I said, without thinking: “Sorry, sir, but it’s not my fault, you know.”

I agreed it wasn’t a bad plan; it would punish her, all right.

Every time there’s a death here, they’re in a nervous state for two or three days

It was such a new experience, being a focus of interest; in the ordinary way no one ever paid much attention to me.

Wherever I looked I saw the same sun-drenched countryside, and the sky was so dazzling that I dared not raise my eyes.

anyone had told him ten years ago that he’d end his days as doorkeeper at a home at Marengo, he’d never have believed it. He was sixty-four, he said, and hailed from Paris.

What would it matter if he were accused of murder and then executed because he didn’t cry at his mother’s funeral?