A Happy Death by Albert Camus

It was ten in the morning, and Patrice Mersault was walking steadily towards Zagreus' villa. By now the housekeeper had left for the market and the villa was deserted. It was a beautiful April morning, chilly and bright; the sky was radiant, but there was no warmth in the glistening sunshine. The empty road sloped up towards the villa, and a pure light streamed between the pines covering the hillside.

Patrice Mersault was carrying a suitcase, and as he walked on through that primal morning, the only sounds he heard were the click of his own footsteps on the cold road and the regular creak of the suitcase handle.

Not far from the villa, the road crossed a little square decorated with flower beds and benches. The effect of the early red geraniums among grey aloes, the blue sky and the whitewashed walls was so fresh, so childlike that Mersault stopped a moment before walking on through the square. Then the road sloped down again towards Zagreus' villa. On the doorstep he paused and put on his gloves.


Translated from French by Richard Howard