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.