A Happy Death, Albert Camus

Contents
Part One, Natural Death
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five

Part Two, Conscious Death
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five

Part One, Natural Death

Chapter One

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 the 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 the grey aloes, the blue sky and the white-washed 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. Mersault opened the door which the cripple never locked and carefully closed it behind him.

He walked down the hall to the third door on the left, knocked and went in. Zagreus was there of course, a blanket over the stumps of his legs, sitting in an armchair by the fire exactly where.Mersault had stood two days ago. He was reading, and his book lay open on the blanket; there was no surprise in his round eyes as he stared up at Mersault, who was standing in front of the closed door.

The curtains were drawn back, and patches of sunshine lay on the floor, the furniture, making objects glitter in the room. Beyond the window, the morning rejoiced over the cold, golden earth.

A great icy joy, the birds’ shrill, tentative outcry, the flood of pitiless light gave the day an aspect of innocence and truth. Mersault stood motionless, the room’s stifling heat filling his throat, his ears. Despite the change in the weather, there was a blazing fire in the grate. And Mersault felt his blood rising to his temples, pounding at the tips of his ears.

Zagreus’ eyes followed his movements, though he did not say a word. Patrice walked towards the chest on the other side of the fireplace and put his suitcase down on a table without looking at the cripple. He felt a faint tremor in his ankles now.

He took out a cigarette and lit it — clumsily, for he was wearing gloves. A faint noise behind him made him turn around, the cigarette between his lips. Zagreus was still staring at him, but had just closed the book. Mersault — the fire was painfully hot against his knees now — could read the title upside down: Cap-ital Courtier by Baltasar Gracian. Then he bent over the chest and opened it. The revolver was still there, its lustrous black, almost feline curves on the white letter.

Mersault picked up the envelope with his left hand and the revolver with his right. After an instant’s hesitation, he thrust the gun under his left arm and opened the envelope. It contained one large sheet of paper, with only a few lines of Zagreus’ tall angular handwrit-ing across the top:

‘I am doing away with only half a man. In need cause no problem — there is more than enough here to pay off those who have taken care of me till now. Please use what is left over to improve conditions of the men in the condemned cell. But I know it’s asking a lot.’

Expressionless, Mersault folded the sheet and put it back in the envelope. As he did so the smoke from his cigarette stung his eyes, and a tiny chunk of ash fell on the envelope. He shook it off, set the envelope on the table where it was sure to be no-ticed, and turned towards Zagreus who was staring at the en-velope now, his stubby powerful fingers still holding the book.

Mersault bent down, turned the key of the little strongbox inside the chest, and took out the packets of banknotes, only their ends visible in the newspaper wrappings. Holding the gun under one arm, with the other hand he methodically filled up the suitcase. There were fewer than twenty packets of a hundred, and Mersault realized he had brought too large a suitcase.

He left one packet in the safe. Then he closed the suitcase, flicked the half-smoked cigarette into the fire and, taking the revolver in his right hand, walked towards the cripple.
Zagreus was staring at the window now. A car drove slowly past, making a faint chewing sound. Motionless, Zagreus seemed to be contemplating all the inhuman beauty of this April morning.

When he felt the barrel against his right temple, he did not turn away. But Patrice, watching him, saw his eyes fill with tears. It was Patrice who closed his eyes. He stepped back and fired. Leaning against the wall for a moment, his eyes still closed, he felt his blood throbbing in his ears. Then he opened his eyes. The head had fallen over on to the left shoulder, the body only slightly tilted. But it was no longer Zagreus he saw now, only a huge bulging wound of brain, blood and bone.

Mersault began to tremble. He walked around to the other side of the armchair, groped for Zagreus’ right hand, thrust the revolver into it, raised it to the temple and let it fall back. The revolver dropped on to the arm of the chair and then into Zagreus’ lap. Now Mersault noticed the cripple’s mouth and chin — he had the same serious and sad expression as when he was staring at the window. Just then a shrill horn sounded in front of the door.

A second time. Mersault, still leaning over the armchair, did not move. The sound of tyres meant that the butcher had driven away. Mersault picked up his suitcase, turned the door knob, gleaming suddenly in a sunbeam, and left the room, his head throbbing, his mouth parched. He opened the outer door and walked away quickly. There was no-one in sight except a group of children at one end of the little square. He walked on.

Past the square, he was suddenly aware of the cold, and shivered under his light jacket. He sneezed twice, and the valley filled with shrill mocking echoes which the crystal sky carried higher and higher. Staggering slightly, he stopped and took a deep breath. Millions of tiny white smiles thronged down from the blue sky. They played over the leaves still cupping the rain, over the damp earth of the paths, soared to the blood-red tile roofs, then back into the lakes of air and light from which they had just overflowed.

A tiny plane hummed its way across the sky. In this flowering of air, this fertility of the heavens, it seemed as if a man’s one duty was to live and be happy. Everything in Mersault fell silent. He sneezed a third time, and shivered feverishly. Then he hurried away without glancing around him, the suitcase creaking, his footsteps loud on the road. Once he was back in his room and had put the suitcase in a corner, he lay down on his bed and slept until the middle of the afternoon.

Chapter Two

SUMMER crammed the harbour with noise and sunlight. It was eleven-thirty. The day split open down the middle, crush-ing the docks under the burden of its heat. Moored at the sheds of the Algiers Municipal Depot, black-hulled, red-funnelled freighters were loading sacks of wheat. Their dusty fragrance mingled with the powerful smell of tar melting under a hot sun. Men were drinking at a little stall that reeked of creosote and anisette, while some Arab acrobats in red shirts somersaulted on the scorching flagstones in front of the sea in the leaping light.

Without so much as a glance at them, the stevedores carrying sacks walked up the two sagging planks that slanted from the dock to the freighter decks. When they reached the top, their silhouettes were suddenly divided between the sea and the sky among the winches and masts.

They stopped for an instant, dazzled by the light, eyes gleaming in the whitish crust of dust and sweat that covered their faces, before they plunged blindly into the hold stinking of hot blood. In the fiery air, a siren never stopped blowing.

Suddenly the men on the plank stopped in confusion. One of them had fallen, landing on the plank below. But his arm was pinned under his body, crushed under the tremendous weight of the sack, and he screamed with pain. Just at this moment, Patrice Mersault emerged from his office, and on the doorstep the summer heat took his breath away. He opened his mouth, inhaled the tar vapours, which stung his throat, and then he went over to the stevedores. They had moved the man who had been hurt, and he was lying in the dust, his lips white with pain, his arm dangling, broken above the elbow.

A sliver of bone had pierced the flesh, making an ugly wound out of which blood was dripping. The drops rolled down his arm and fell, one by one, on to the scorching stones with a tiny hiss, and turned to steam. Mersault was staring, motionless, at the blood when someone took his arm.

It was Emmanuel, one of the clerks. He pointed