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"𝘐𝘵 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘣𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘪𝘨𝘨𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘥𝘳𝘶𝘨 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳." - 𝘑𝘪𝘮 𝘊𝘳𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘳 𝘑𝘦𝘧𝘧 𝘉𝘦𝘻𝘰𝘴' 𝘕𝘦𝘹𝘵 𝘉𝘪𝘨 𝘔𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯 - 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘌𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘈𝘭𝘻𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘳'𝘴 [Main logotype Expert Modern Advice](       Dear Fellow Investor, ВіІІіоns оf dоІІаrs just started pouring into an unknown Small-Cap. Baillie Gifford bought 15.1 mіІІіоn shares. Vanguard bought 8.2 mіІІіоn shares. BlackRock has 8.1 mіІІіоn shares. Morgan Stanley, J.P. Morgan, and Goldman Sachs all give it a "Вuу" rating. [See why we think this stock could soar 113,548% ]( "The Buck Stops Here," I had an impression that our little procession was moving slightly er. Wver I looked I saw the same sun-drenched countryside, and the sky was so dazzling that I dared not raise my eyes. we struck a patch of freshly tarred road. A shimmer of heat played over it and one’s feet squelched at each step, leaving bright black gashes. In front, the coachman’s glossy black hat looked like a lump of the same sticky substance, poised above the hearse. It gave one a queer, dreamlike impression, that blue-white glare overhead and this blackness round one: the sleek black of the hearse, the dull black of the men’s clothes, and the silvery-black gashes in the road. And then t were the smells, smells of hot leather and horse dung from the hearse, veined with whiffs of incense smoke. What with these and the hangover from a poor night’s sleep, I found my eyes and thoughts growing blurred. I looked back again. Pérez seemed very far away , almost by the heat haze; then, abruptly, he disappeared altoher. After puzzling over it for a bit, I guessed that he had turned the road into the fields. Then I noticed that t was a bend of the road a little way ahead. Obviously Pérez, who knew the district well, had taken a short cut, so as to catch up with us. He rejoined us after we were round the bend; then began to ground again. He took another short cut and met us again farther on; in fact, this happened several times during the next half-hour. But I lost interest in his movements; my temples were throbbing and I could hardly drag myself along. After that everything went with a rush; and also with such precision and matter-actness that I remember hardly any details. Except that when we were on the outskirts of the village the nurse said something to me. Her voice took me by surprise; it didn’t match her face at ; it was musical and slightly tremulous. What she said was: “If you go too slowly t’s the risk of a heatstroke. But, if you go too , you perspire, and the cold air in the church gives you a chill.” I saw her point; either way one was in for it. Some other memories of the funeral have stuck in my mind. The old boy’s face, for instance, when he caught up with us for the last time, just outside the village. His eyes were streaming with tears, of exhaustion or distress, or both toher. But because of the wrinkles they couldn’t flow down. They spread out, crisscrossed, and formed a smooth gloss on the old, worn face. And I can remember the look of the church, the villagers in the street, the red geraniums on the graves, Pérez’s fainting fit—he crumpled up like a rag doll—the tawny-red earth pattering on Mother’s cin, the bits of white roots mixed up with it; then more people, voices, the wait outside a café for the bus, the rumble of the engine, and my little thrill of pleasure when we entered the first brightly lit streets of Algiers, and I pictured myself going straight to bed and sleeping twelve hours at a stretch. ON WAKING I understood why my employer had looked rather cross when I asked for my two days ; it’s a Saturday . I hadn’t thought of this at the time; it struck me when I was ting out of bed. Obviously he had seen that it would mean my ting four days’ holiday straight , and one couldn’t expect him to like that. Still, for one thing, it wasn’t my fault if Mother was buried yesterday and not ; and then, again, I’d have had my Saturday and Sunday in any case. But natury this didn’t prevent me from seeing my employer’s point. ting up was an effort, as I’d been rey exhausted by the previous day’s experiences. While shaving, I dered how to spend the morning, and decided that a swim would do me good. So I caught the streetcar that goes down to the harbor. It was quite like old times; a lot of young people were in the swimming pool, amongst them Marie Cardona, who used to be a typist at the ice. I was rather keen on her in those days, and I fancy she liked me, too. But she was with us so short a time that nothing came of it. While I was helping her to climb on to a raft, I let my hand stray over her breasts. Then she lay flat on the raft, while I trod water. After a moment she turned and looked at me. Her hair was over her eyes and she was laughing. I clambered up on to the raft, beside her. The air was pleasantly warm, and, half jokingly, I let my head sink back upon her lap. She didn’t seem to mind, so I let it stay t. I had the sky full in my eyes, blue and , and I could feel Marie’s stomach rising and fing gently under my head. We must have stayed a good half-hour on the raft, both of us half asleep. When the sun got too hot she dived and I followed. I caught up with her, put my arm round her waist, and we swam side by side. She was still laughing. While we were drying ourselves on the edge of the swimming pool she said: “I’m browner than you.” I asked her if she’d come to the movies with me that evening. She laughed again and said, “Yes,” if I’d take her to the comedy everybody was talking about, the one with Fernandel in it. When we had dressed, she stared at my black tie and asked if I was in mourning. I explained that my mother had died. “When?” she asked, and I said, “Yesterday.” She made no remark, though I thought she shrank away a little. I was just going to explain to her that it wasn’t my fault, but I ed myself, as I remembered having said the same thing to my employer, and realizing then it sounded rather foolish. Still, foolish or not, somehow one can’t help feeling a bit guilty, I suppose. Anyhow, by evening Marie had forgotten about it. The film was funny in parts, but some of it was downright stupid. She pressed her leg against mine while we were in the picture house, and I was fondling her breast. Toward the end of the show I kissed her, but rather clumsily. Afterward she came back with me to my place. When I woke up, Marie had gone. She’d told me her aunt expected her first thing in the morning. I remembered it was a Sunday, and that put me ; I’ve cared for Sundays. So I turned my head and lazily sniffed the smell of brine that Marie’s head had left on the pillow. I slept until ten. After that I stayed in bed until noon, smoking cigarettes. I decided not to lunch at Céleste’s restaurant as I usuy did; they’d be sure to pester me with questions, and I dislike being questioned. So I fried some eggs and ate them the pan. I did without bread as t wasn’t any left, and I couldn’t be botd going down to it. After lunch I felt at loose ends and roamed about the little flat. It suited us well enough when Mother was with me, but that I was by myself it was too large and I’d moved the dining table into my bedroom. That was the room I used; it had the furniture I needed: a brass bedstead, a dressing table, some cane chairs whose seats had more or less caved in, a wardrobe with a tarnished mirror. The rest of the flat was used, so I didn’t trouble to look after it. A bit later, for want of anything better to do, I picked up an old newspaper that was lying on the floor and read it. T was an advertisement of Kruschen Salts and I cut it out and pasted in into an album w I keep things that amuse me in the papers. Then I washed my hands and, as a last resource, went out on to the balcony. My bedroom overlooks the main street of our district. Though it was a fine afternoon, the paving blocks were black and glistening. What few people were about seemed in an absurd hurry. First of t came a family, going for their Sundayafternoon walk; two sm boys in sailor suits, with short trousers hardly down to their knees, and looking rather uneasy in their Sunday best; then a little girl with a big pink bow and black patent-leather shoes. Behind them was their mother, an enormously fat woman in a brown silk dress, and their father, a dapper little man, whom I knew by sight. He had a straw hat, a walking stick, and a butterfly tie. Seeing him beside his , I understood why people said he came of a good family and had married beneath him. After they had passed, the street graduy emptied. By this time the matinees must have begun. a few shopkeepers and cats remained about. Above the sycamores bordering the road the sky was cloudless, but the light was soft. The tobacconist on the other side of the street brought a chair out on to the pavement in front of his door and sat astride it, resting his arms on the back. The streetcars which a few minutes before had been crowded were almost empty. In the little café, Chez Pierrot, beside the tobacconist’s, the waiter was sweeping up the sawdust in the empty restaurant. A typical Sunday afternoon. ... I turned my chair round and seated myself like the tobacconist, as it was more comfortable that way. After smoking a couple of cigarettes I went back to the room, got a tablet of chocolate, and returned to the window to eat it. after, the sky clouded over, and I thought a summer storm was coming. However, the clouds graduy lifted. the same, they had left in the street a sort of threat of rain, which made it darker. I stayed watching the sky for quite a while. At five t was a loud clanging of streetcars. They were coming from the stadium in our suburb w t had been a footb match. Even the back platforms were crowded and people were standing on the steps. Then another streetcar brought back the teams. I knew they were the players by the little suitcase each man carried. They were bawling out their team song, “Keep the b rolling, boys.” One of them looked up at me and shouted, “We licked them!” I waved my hand and ced back, “Good work!” From on t was a steady stream of private cars. The sky had changed again; a reddish glow was spreading up beyond the housetops. As dusk set in, the street grew more crowded. People were returning from their walks, and I noticed the dapper little man with the fat amongst the passersby. Children were whimpering and trailing wearily after their parents. After some minutes the local picture houses disgorged their audiences. I noticed that the young fellows coming from them were taking longer strides and gesturing more vigorously than at ordinary times; doubtless the picture they’d been seeing was of the wild-West variety. Those who had been to the picture houses in the middle of the town came a little later, and looked more sedate, though a few were still laughing. On the whole, however, they seemed languid and exhausted. Some of them remained loitering in the street under my window. A group of girls came by, walking arm in arm. The young men under my window swerved so as to brush against them, and shouted humorous remarks, which made the girls turn their heads and giggle. I recognized them as girls from my part of the town, and two or three of them, whom I knew, It struck me that I’d better see about some dinner. I had been leaning so long on the back of my chair, looking down, that my neck hurt when I straightened myself up. I went down, bought some bread and spaghetti, did my cooking, and ate my meal standing. I’d intended to smoke another cigarette at my window, but the night had turned rather chilly and I decided against it. As I was coming back, after shutting the window, I glanced at the mirror and saw reflected in it a corner of my table with my spirit lamp and some bits of bread beside it. It occurred to me that somehow I’d got through another Sunday, that Mother was buried, and tomorrow I’d be going back to work as usual. Rey, nothing in my had changed. I HAD a busy morning in the ice. My employer was in a good humor. He even inquired if I wasn’t too tired, and followed it up by asking what Mother’s age was. I thought a bit, then answered, “Round about sixty,” as I didn’t want to make a blunder. At which he looked relieved—why, I can’t imagine—and seemed to think that cd the matter. T was a pile of bills of lading waiting on my desk, and I had to go through them . Before leaving for lunch I washed my hands. I always enjoyed doing this at midday. In the evening it was less pleasant, as the roller towel, after being used by so many people, was sopping wet. I once brought this to my employer’s notice. It was regrettable, he agreed—but, to his mind, a mere detail. I left the ice building a little later than usual, at half-past twelve, with Emmanuel, who works in the Forwarding Department. Our building overlooks the sea, and we paused for a moment on the steps to look at the shipping in the. harbor. The sun was scorching hot. Just then a big truck came up, with a din of chains and backfires from the engine, and Emmanuel suggested we should try to jump it. I started to run. The truck was well away, and we had to chase it for quite a distance. What with the heat and the noise from the engine, I felt half dazed. I was conscious of was our mad rush along the water front, amongst cranes and winches, with dark hulls of ships alongside and masts swaying in the ing. I was the first to catch up with the truck. I took a flying jump, landed safely, and helped Emmanuel to scramble in beside me. We were both of us out of breath, and the bumps of the truck on the roughly laid cobbles made things worse. Emmanuel chuckled, and panted in my ear, “We’ve made it!” By the time we reached Céleste’s restaurant we were dripping with sweat. Céleste was at his usual place beside the entrance, with his apron bulging on his paunch, his white mustache well to the fore. When he saw me he was sympathetic and “hoped I wasn’t feeling too badly.” I said, “No,” but I was extremely hungry. I ate very quickly and had some cee to finish up. Then I went to my place and took a short nap, as I’d drunk a glass of wine too many. When I woke I smoked a cigarette before ting my bed. I was a bit late and had to run for the streetcar. The ice was stifling, and I was kept hard at it the afternoon. So it came as a relief when we cd down and I was strolling slowly along the wharves in the coolness. The sky was green, and it was pleasant to be outof-doors after the stuffy ice. However, I went straight , as I had to put some potatoes on to boil. [𝘋𝘶𝘭𝘢𝘯 𝘑𝘰𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘦, 𝘊𝘌𝘖 & 𝘍𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳] I took the two-o’clock bus. It was a blazing hot afternoon. I’d lunched, as usual, at Céleste’s restaurant. Everyone was most kind, and Céleste said to me, “T’s no one like a mother.” When I left they came with me to the door. It was something of a rush, ting away, as at the last moment I had to c in at Emmanuel’s place to borrow his black tie and mourning band. He lost his uncle a few months ago. I had to run to catch the bus. I suppose it was my hurrying like that, what with the glare the road and from the sky, the reek of gasoline, and the jolts, that made me feel so drowsy. Anyhow, I slept most of the way. When I woke I was leaning against a soldier; he grinned and asked me if I’d come from a long way , and I just nodded, to cut things short. I wasn’t in a mood for talking. The is a little over a mile from the village. I went t on foot. I asked to be owed to see Mother at once, but the doorkeeper told me I must see the warden first. He wasn’t , and I had to wait a bit. The doorkeeper chatted with me while I waited; then he led me to the ice. The warden was a very sm man, with gray hair, and a Legion of Honor rosette in his buttonhole. He gave me a long look with his watery blue eyes. Then we shook hands, and he held mine so long that I began to feel embarrassed. After that he consulted a register on his table, and said: “Madame Meursault entered the three years ago. She had no private means and depended entirely on you.” I had a feeling he was blaming me for something, and started to explain. But he cut me short. “T’s no need to excuse yourself, my boy. I’ve looked up the record and obviously you weren’t in a position to see that she was properly cared for. She needed someone to be with her the time, and young men in jobs like yours don’t too much pay. In any case, she was much happier in the .” I said, “Yes, sir; I’m sure of that.” Then he added: “She had good s , you k, old folks like herself, and one s on better with people of one’s own generation. You’re much too young; you couldn’t have been much of a companion to her.” That was so. When we lived toher, Mother was always watching me, but we hardly ever talked. During her first few weeks at the she used to cry a good . But that was because she hadn’t settled down. After a month or two she’d have cried if she’d been told to the . Because this, too, would have been a wrench. That was why, during the last year, I seldom went to see her. Also, it would have meant losing my Sunday—not to mention the trouble of going to the bus, ting my ticket, and spending two hours on the journey each way. The warden went on talking, but I didn’t pay much attention. Finy he said: “, I suppose you’d like to see your mother?” I rose without replying, and he led the way to the door. As we were going down the stairs he explained: “I’ve had the body moved to our little mortuary—so as not to upset the other old people, you understand. Every time t’s a death , they’re in a nervous state for two or three days. Which means, of course, work and worry for our staff.” We crossed a courtyard w t were a number of old men, talking amongst themselves in little groups. They fell silent as we came up with them. Then, behind our backs, the chattering began again. Their voices reminded me of parakeets in a cage, the sound wasn’t quite so shrill. The warden ped outside the entrance of a sm, low building. I entered the mortuary. It was a bright, spotlessly clean room, with whitewashed ws and a big skylight. The furniture consisted of some chairs and trestles. Two of the latter stood in the center of the room and the cin rested on them. The lid was in place, but the screws had been given a few turns and their nickeled heads stuck out above the wood, which was stained dark walnut. An Arab woman—a nurse, I supposed—was sitting beside the bier; she was wearing a blue smock and had a rather gaudy scarf wound round her hair. Just then the keeper came up behind me. He’d evidently been running, as he was a little out of breath. He was a pleasant-looking man, with blue eyes and ruddy cheeks. He drew up a chair for me near the cin, and seated himself just behind. The nurse got up and moved toward the door. As she was going by, the keeper whispered in my ear: “It’s a tumor she has, poor thing.” I looked at her more carefully and I noticed that she had a bandage round her head, just below her eyes. It lay quite flat across the bridge of her nose, and one saw hardly anything of her face except that strip of whiteness. As as she had gone, the keeper rose. “ I’ll you to yourself.” I don’t k whether I made some gesture, but instead of going he halted behind my chair. The sensation of someone posted at my back made me uncomfortable. The sun was ting low and the whole room was flooded with a pleasant, mellow light. Two hornets were buzzing overhead, against the skylight. I was so sleepy I could hardly keep my eyes . Without looking round, I asked the keeper how long he’d been at the . “Five years.” The answer came so pat that one could have thought he’d been expecting my question. That started him , and he became quite chatty. If anyone had told him ten years ago that he’d end his days as doorkeeper at a at Marengo, he’d have believed it. He was sixty-four, he said, and hailed from Paris. When he said that, I broke in. “Ah, you don’t come from ?” I remembered then that, before taking me to the warden, he’d told me something about Mother. He had said she’d have to be buried mighty quickly because of the heat in these parts, especiy down in the plain. “At Paris they keep the body for three days, sometimes four.” After that he had mentioned that he’d spent part of his in Paris, and could manage to for it. “,” he had said, “things have to go with a rush, like. You’ve hardly time to used to the idea that someone’s dead, before you’re hauled to the funeral.” “That’s enough,” his had put in. “You didn’t ought to say such things to the poor young gentleman.” The old fellow had blushed and begun to apologize. I told him it was quite right. As a matter of fact, I found it rather interesting, what he’d been telling me; I hadn’t thought of that before. he went on to say that he’d entered the as an ordinary inmate. But he was still quite hale and hearty, and when the keeper’s job fell vacant, he ered to take it on. I pointed out that, even so, he was rey an inmate like the others, but he wouldn’t hear of it. He was “an icial, like.” I’d been struck before by his habit of saying “they” or, less often, “them old folks,” when referring to inmates no older than himself. Still, I could see his point of view. As doorkeeper he had a certain standing, and some authority over the rest of them. Just then the nurse returned. Night had fen very quickly; of a sudden, it seemed, the sky went black above the skylight. The keeper switched on the lamps, and I was almost blinded by the blaze of light. He suggested I should go to the refectory for dinner, but I wasn’t hungry. Then he proposed bringing me a mug of café au lait. As I am very partial to café au lait I said, “Thanks,” and a few minutes later he came back with a tray. I drank the cee, 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; rey, it didn’t seem to matter, so I ered the keeper a cigarette, and we both smoked. After a while he started talking again. “You k, your mother’s s will be coming , to keep vigil with you beside the body. We always have a ‘vigil’ , when anyone dies. I’d better go and some chairs and a pot of black cee.” The glare the white ws was making my eyes smart, and I asked him if he couldn’t turn one of the lamps. “Nothing doing,” he said. They’d arranged the lights like that; either one had them on or none at . After that I didn’t pay much more attention to him. He went out, brought some chairs, and set them out round the cin. On one he placed a ceepot and ten or a dozen cups. Then he sat down facing me, on the far side of Mother. The nurse was at the other end of the room, with her back to me. I couldn’t see what she was doing, but by the way her arms moved I guessed that she was knitting. I was feeling very comfortable; the cee had warmed me up, and through the door came scents of flowers and breaths of cool night air. I think I dozed for a while. I was wakened by an odd rustling in my ears. After having had my eyes cd, I had a feeling that the light had grown even stronger than before. T wasn’t a trace of shadow anyw, and every object, each curve or angle, seemed to its outline on one’s eyes. The old people, Mother’s s, were coming in. I counted ten in , gliding almost soundlessly through the bleak white glare. None of the chairs creaked when they sat down. in my had I seen anyone so clearly as I saw these people; not a detail of their clothes or features escaped me. And yet I couldn’t hear them, and it was hard to believe they rey existed. Nearly the women wore aprons, and the strings drawn tight round their waists made their big stomachs bulge still more. I’d yet noticed what big paunches old women usuy have. Most of the men, however, were as thin as rakes, and they carried sticks. What struck me most about their faces was that one couldn’t see their eyes, a dull glow in a sort of nest of wrinkles. On sitting down, they looked at me, and wagged their heads awkwardly, their lips sucked in between their toothless gums. I couldn’t decide if they were greeting me and trying to say something, or if it was due to some infirmity of age. I inclined to think that they were greeting me, after their fashion, but it had a queer effect, seeing those old fellows grouped round the keeper, solemnly eying me and dandling their heads from side to side. For a moment I had an absurd impression that they had come to sit in judgment on me. A few minutes later one of the women started weeping. She was in the second row and I couldn’t see her face because of another woman in front. At regular intervals she emitted a little choking sob; one had a feeling she would . The others didn’t seem to notice. They sat in silence, slumped in their chairs, staring at the cin or at their walking sticks or any object just in front of them, and took their eyes it. And still the woman sobbed. I was rather surprised, as I didn’t k who she was. I wanted her to crying, but dared not speak to her. After a while the keeper bent toward her and whispered in her ear; but she merely shook her head, mumbled something I couldn’t catch, and went on sobbing as steadily as before. The keeper got up and moved his chair beside mine. At first he kept silent; then, without looking at me, he explained. “She was devoted to your mother. She says your mother was her in the world, and she’s alone.” I had nothing to say, and the silence lasted quite a while. the woman’s sighs and sobs became less frequent, and, after blowing her nose and snuffling for some minutes, she, too, fell silent. I’d ceased feeling sleepy, but I was very tired and my legs were aching badly. And I realized that the silence of these people was telling on my nerves. The sound was a rather queer one; it came and then, and at first I was puzzled by it. However, after listening attentively, I guessed what it was; the old men were sucking at the insides of their cheeks, and this caused the odd, wheezing noises that had mystified me. They were so much absorbed in their thoughts that they didn’t k what they were up to. I even had an impression that the dead body in their midst meant nothing at to them. But I suspect that I was mistaken about this. We drank the cee, which the keeper handed round. After that, I can’t remember much; somehow the night went by. I can rec one moment; I had ed my eyes and I saw the old men sleeping hunched up on their chairs, with one exception. Resting his chin on his hands clasped round his stick, he was staring hard at me, as if he had been waiting for me to wake. Then I fell asleep again. I woke up after a bit, because the ache in my legs had developed into a sort of cramp. T was a glimmer of dawn above the skylight. A minute or two later one of the old men woke up and coughed repeatedly. He spat into a big handkerchief, and each time he spat it sounded as if he were retching. This woke the others, and the keeper told them it was time to make a move. They got up at once. Their faces were ashen gray after the long, uneasy vigil. To my surprise each of them shook hands with me, as though this night toher, in which we hadn’t exchanged a word, had created a kind of intimacy between us. I was quite done in. The keeper took me to his room, and I tidied myself up a bit. He gave me some more “white” cee, and it seemed to do me good. When I went out, the sun was up and the sky mottled red above the hills between Marengo and the sea. A morning breeze was blowing and it had a pleasant salty tang. T was the of a very fine day. I hadn’t been in the country for ages, and I caught myself thinking what an agreeable walk I could have had, if it hadn’t been for Mother. As it was, I waited in the courtyard, under a plane tree. I sniffed the smells of the cool earth and found I wasn’t sleepy any more. Then I thought of the other fellows in the ice. At this hour they’d be ting up, preparing to go to work; for me this was always the worst hour of the day. I went on thinking, like this, for ten minutes or so; then the sound of a bell inside the building attracted my attention. I could see movements behind the windows; then was calm again. The sun had risen a little higher and was beginning to warm my feet. The keeper came across the yard and said the warden wished to see me. I went to his ice and he got me to sign some document. I noticed that he was in black, with pin-stripe trousers. He picked up the telephone receiver and looked at me. “The undertaker’s men arrived some moments ago, and they will be going to the mortuary to screw down the cin. Sh I tell them to wait, to have a last glimpse of your mother?” “No,” I said. He spoke into the receiver, lowering his voice. “That’s right, Figeac. Tell the men to go t .” He then informed me that he was going to attend the funeral, and I thanked him. Sitting down behind his desk, he crossed his short legs and leaned back. Besides the nurse on duty, he told me, he and I would be the mourners at the funeral. It was a rule of the that inmates shouldn’t attend funerals, though t was no objection to letting some of them sit up beside the cin, the night before. “It’s for their own sakes,” he explained, “to spare their feelings. But in this particular instance I’ve given permission to an old of your mother to come with us. His is Thomas Pérez.” The warden smiled. “It’s a rather touching little story in its way. He and your mother had become almost inseparable. The other old people used to tease Pérez about having a fiancée. ‘When are you going to marry her?’ they’d ask. He’d turn it with a laugh. It was a standing joke, in fact. So, as you can guess, he feels very badly about your mother’s death. I thought I couldn’t decently refuse him permission to attend the funeral. But, on our icer’s advice, I forbade him to sit up beside the body last night.” For some time we sat t without speaking. Then the warden got up and went to the window. he said: “Ah, t’s the padre from Marengo. He’s a bit ahead of time.” He warned me that it would take us a good three quarters of an hour, walking to the church, which was in the village. Then we went downstairs. The priest was waiting just outside the mortuary door. With him were two acolytes, one of whom had a censer. The priest was stooping over him, adjusting the length of the silver chain on which it hung. When he saw us he straightened up and said a few words to me, addressing me as, “My son.” Then he led the way into the mortuary. I noticed at once that four men in black were standing behind the cin and the screws in the lid had been driven . At the same moment I heard the warden remark that the hearse had arrived, and the priest starting his prayers. Then everybody made a move. Holding a strip of black cloth, the four men approached the cin, while the priest, the boys, and myself filed out. A lady I hadn’t seen before was standing by the door. “This is Monsieur Meursault,” the warden said to her. I didn’t catch her , but I gatd she was a nursing sister attached to the . When I was introduced, she bowed, without the trace of a smile on her long, gaunt face. We stood aside from the doorway to let the cin by; then, following the bearers down a corridor, we came to the front entrance, w a hearse was waiting. Oblong, glossy, varnished black over, it vaguely reminded me of the pen trays in the ice. Beside the hearse stood a quaintly dressed little -man, whose duty it was, I understood, to supervise the funeral, as a sort of master of ceremonies. Near him, looking constrained, almost bashful, was old M. Pérez, my mother’s special . He wore a soft felt hat with a pudding-basin crown and a very wide brim—he whisked it the moment the cin emerged from the doorway—trousers that concertina’d on his shoes, a black tie much too sm for his high white double collar. Under a bulbous, pimply nose, his lips were trembling. But what caught my attention most was his ears; pendulous, scarlet ears that showed up like blobs of sealing wax on the por of his cheeks and were framed in wisps of silky white hair. The undertaker’s factotum shepherded us to our places, with the priest in front of the hearse, and the four men in black on each side of it. The warden and myself came next, and, bringing up the rear, old Pérez and the nurse. The sky was already a blaze of light, and the air stoking up rapidly. I felt the first waves of heat lapping my back, and my dark suit made things worse. I couldn’t imagine why we waited so long for ting under way. Old Pérez, who had put on his hat, took it again. I had turned slightly in his direction and was looking at him when the warden started telling me more about him. I remember his saying that old Pérez and my mother used often to have a longish stroll toher in the cool of the evening; sometimes they went as far as the village, accompanied by a nurse, of course.       ExpertModernAdvice.com is sending this newsletter on behalf Inception Media, LLC. Inception Media, LLC appreciates your comments and inquiries. Please keep in mind, that Inception Media, LLC are not permitted to provide individualized financial аdvіsе. 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