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Marie came that evening and asked me if I’d marry her. I said I didn’t mind; if she
was keen on it, we’d get married.
Then she asked me again if I loved her. I replied, much as before, that her question
meant nothing or next to nothing—but I supposed I didn’t.
“If that’s how you feel,” she said, “why marry me?”
I explained that it had no importance really, but, if it would give her pleasure, we
could get married right away. I pointed out that, anyhow, the suggestion came from
her; as for me, I’d merely said, “Yes.”
Then she remarked that marriage was a serious matter.
To which I answered: “No.”
She kept silent after that, staring at me in a curious way. Then she asked:
“Suppose another girl had asked you to marry her—I mean, a girl you liked in the
same way as you like me—would you have said ‘Yes’ to her, too?”
“Naturally.”
Then she said she wondered if she really loved me or not. I, of course, couldn’t
enlighten her as to that. And, after another silence, she murmured something about
my being “a queer fellow.” “And I daresay that’s why I love you,” she added. “But
maybe that’s why one day I’ll come to hate you.”
To which I had nothing to say, so I said nothing.
She thought for a bit, then started smiling and, taking my arm, repeated that she
was in earnest; she really wanted to marry me.
“All right,” I answered. “We’ll get married whenever you like.” I then mentioned
the proposal made by my employer, and Marie said she’d love to go to Paris.
When I told her I’d lived in Paris for a while, she asked me what it was like.
“A dingy sort of town, to my mind. Masses of pigeons and dark courtyards. And
the people have washed-out, white faces.”
Then we went for a walk all the way across the town by the main streets. The
women were good-lookers, and I asked Marie if she, too, noticed this. She said,
“Yes,” and that she saw what I meant. After that we said nothing for some minutes.
However, as I didn’t want her to leave me, I suggested we should dine together at
Céleste’s. She’d have loved to dine with me, she said, only she was booked up for
the evening. We were near my place, and I said, “Au revoir, then.”
She looked me in the eyes.
“Don’t you want to know what I’m doing this evening?”
I did want to know, but I hadn’t thought of asking her, and I guessed she was
making a grievance of it. I must have looked embarrassed, for suddenly she started
laughing and bent toward me, pouting her lips for a kiss.
I went by myself to Céleste’s. When I had just started my dinner an odd-looking
little woman came in and asked if she might sit at my table. Of course she might. She
had a chubby face like a ripe apple, bright eyes, and moved in a curiously jerky way,
as if she were on wires. After taking off her closefitting jacket she sat down and
started studying the bill of fare with a sort of rapt attention. Then she called Céleste
and gave her order, very fast but quite distinctly; one didn’t lose a word. While
waiting for the hors d’oeuvre she opened her bag, took out a slip of paper and a
pencil, and added up the bill in advance. Diving into her bag again, she produced a
purse and took from it the exact sum, plus a small tip, and placed it on the cloth in
front of her.
Just then the waiter brought the hors d’oeuvre, which she proceeded to wolf down
voraciously. While waiting for the next course, she produced another pencil, this
time a blue one, from her bag, and the radio magazine for the coming week, and
started making ticks against almost all the items of the daily programs. There were a
dozen pages in the magazine, and she continued studying them closely throughout
the meal. When I’d finished mine she was still ticking off items with the same
meticulous attention. Then she rose, put on her jacket again with the same abrupt,
robot-like gestures, and walked briskly out of the restaurant.
Having nothing better to do, I followed her for a short distance. Keeping on the
curb of the pavement, she walked straight ahead, never swerving or looking back,
and it was extraordinary how fast she covered the ground, considering her smallness.
In fact, the pace was too much for me, and I soon lost sight of her and turned back
homeward. For a moment the “little robot” (as I thought of her) had much impressed

me, but I soon forgot about her.

As I was turning in at my door I ran into old Salamano. I asked him into my room,
and he informed me that his dog was definitely lost. He’d been to the pound to
inquire, but it wasn’t there, and the staff told him it had probably been run over.
When he asked them whether it was any use inquiring about it at the police station,
they said the police had more important things to attend to than keeping records of
stray dogs run over in the streets. I suggested he should get another dog, but,
reasonably enough, he pointed out that he’d become used to this one, and it wouldn’t
be the same thing.
I was seated on my bed, with my legs up, and Salamano on a chair beside the
table, facing me, his hands spread on his knees. He had kept on his battered felt hat
and was mumbling away behind his draggled yellowish mustache. I found him rather
boring, but I had nothing to do and didn’t feel sleepy. So, to keep the conversation
going, I asked some questions about his dog—how long he had had it and so forth.
He told me he had got it soon after his wife’s death. He’d married rather late in life.
When a young man, he wanted to go on the stage; during his military service he’d
often played in the regimental theatricals and acted rather well, so everybody said.
However, finally, he had taken a job in the railway, and he didn’t regret it, as now he
had a small pension. He and his wife had never hit it off very well, but they’d got
used to each other, and when she died he felt lonely. One of his mates on the railway
whose bitch had just had pups had offered him one, and he had taken it, as a
companion. He’d had to feed it from the bottle at first. But, as a dog’s life is shorter
than a man’s, they’d grown old together, so to speak.
“He was a cantankerous brute,” Salamano said. “Now and then we had some
proper set-tos, he and I. But he was a good mutt all the same.”
I said he looked well bred, and that evidently pleased the old man.
“Ah, but you should have seen him before his illness!” he said. “He had a
wonderful coat; in fact, that was his best point, really. I tried hard to cure him; every
mortal night after he got that skin disease I rubbed an ointment in. But his real
trouble was old age, and there’s no curing that.”
Just then I yawned, and the old man said he’d better make a move. I told him he
could stay, and that I was sorry about what had happened to his dog. He thanked me,
and mentioned that my mother had been very fond of his dog. He referred to her as
“your poor mother,” and was afraid I must be feeling her death terribly. When I said
nothing he added hastily and with a rather embarrassed air that some of the people in
the street said nasty things about me because I’d sent my mother to the Home. But
he, of course, knew better; he knew how devoted to my mother I had always been.
I answered—why, I still don’t know—that it surprised me to learn I’d produced
such a bad impression. As I couldn’t afford to keep her here, it seemed the obvious
thing to do, to send her to a home. “In any case,” I added, “for years she’d never had
a word to say to me, and I could see she was moping, with no one to talk to.”
“Yes,” he said, “and at a home one makes friends, anyhow.”
He got up, saying it was high time for him to be in bed, and added that life was
going to be a bit of a problem for him, under the new conditions. For the first time
since I’d known him he held out his hand to me—rather shyly, I thought—and I
could feel the scales on his skin. Just as he was going out of the door, he turned and,
smiling a little, said:
“Let’s hope the dogs won’t bark again tonight. I always think it’s mine I hear. ...”

A passage from L' Étranger, 1942. Albert Camus.

Woodcut by Edvard Munch, Melancholy III. 1902.

Description

Marie came that evening and asked me if I’d marry her. I said I didn’t mind; if she
was keen on it, we’d get married.
Then she asked me again if I loved her. I replied, much as before, that her question
meant nothing or next to nothing—but I supposed I didn’t.
“If that’s how you feel,” she said, “why marry me?”
I explained that it had no importance really, but, if it would give her pleasure, we
could get married right away. I pointed out that, anyhow, the suggestion came from
her; as for me, I’d merely said, “Yes.”
Then she remarked that marriage was a serious matter.
To which I answered: “No.”
She kept silent after that, staring at me in a curious way. Then she asked:
“Suppose another girl had asked you to marry her—I mean, a girl you liked in the
same way as you like me—would you have said ‘Yes’ to her, too?”
“Naturally.”
Then she said she wondered if she really loved me or not. I, of course, couldn’t
enlighten her as to that. And, after another silence, she murmured something about
my being “a queer fellow.” “And I daresay that’s why I love you,” she added. “But
maybe that’s why one day I’ll come to hate you.”
To which I had nothing to say, so I said nothing.
She thought for a bit, then started smiling and, taking my arm, repeated that she
was in earnest; she really wanted to marry me.
“All right,” I answered. “We’ll get married whenever you like.” I then mentioned
the proposal made by my employer, and Marie said she’d love to go to Paris.
When I told her I’d lived in Paris for a while, she asked me what it was like.
“A dingy sort of town, to my mind. Masses of pigeons and dark courtyards. And
the people have washed-out, white faces.”
Then we went for a walk all the way across the town by the main streets. The
women were good-lookers, and I asked Marie if she, too, noticed this. She said,
“Yes,” and that she saw what I meant. After that we said nothing for some minutes.
However, as I didn’t want her to leave me, I suggested we should dine together at
Céleste’s. She’d have loved to dine with me, she said, only she was booked up for
the evening. We were near my place, and I said, “Au revoir, then.”
She looked me in the eyes.
“Don’t you want to know what I’m doing this evening?”
I did want to know, but I hadn’t thought of asking her, and I guessed she was
making a grievance of it. I must have looked embarrassed, for suddenly she started
laughing and bent toward me, pouting her lips for a kiss.
I went by myself to Céleste’s. When I had just started my dinner an odd-looking
little woman came in and asked if she might sit at my table. Of course she might. She
had a chubby face like a ripe apple, bright eyes, and moved in a curiously jerky way,
as if she were on wires. After taking off her closefitting jacket she sat down and
started studying the bill of fare with a sort of rapt attention. Then she called Céleste
and gave her order, very fast but quite distinctly; one didn’t lose a word. While
waiting for the hors d’oeuvre she opened her bag, took out a slip of paper and a
pencil, and added up the bill in advance. Diving into her bag again, she produced a
purse and took from it the exact sum, plus a small tip, and placed it on the cloth in
front of her.
Just then the waiter brought the hors d’oeuvre, which she proceeded to wolf down
voraciously. While waiting for the next course, she produced another pencil, this
time a blue one, from her bag, and the radio magazine for the coming week, and
started making ticks against almost all the items of the daily programs. There were a
dozen pages in the magazine, and she continued studying them closely throughout
the meal. When I’d finished mine she was still ticking off items with the same
meticulous attention. Then she rose, put on her jacket again with the same abrupt,
robot-like gestures, and walked briskly out of the restaurant.
Having nothing better to do, I followed her for a short distance. Keeping on the
curb of the pavement, she walked straight ahead, never swerving or looking back,
and it was extraordinary how fast she covered the ground, considering her smallness.
In fact, the pace was too much for me, and I soon lost sight of her and turned back
homeward. For a moment the “little robot” (as I thought of her) had much impressed

me, but I soon forgot about her.

As I was turning in at my door I ran into old Salamano. I asked him into my room,
and he informed me that his dog was definitely lost. He’d been to the pound to
inquire, but it wasn’t there, and the staff told him it had probably been run over.
When he asked them whether it was any use inquiring about it at the police station,
they said the police had more important things to attend to than keeping records of
stray dogs run over in the streets. I suggested he should get another dog, but,
reasonably enough, he pointed out that he’d become used to this one, and it wouldn’t
be the same thing.
I was seated on my bed, with my legs up, and Salamano on a chair beside the
table, facing me, his hands spread on his knees. He had kept on his battered felt hat
and was mumbling away behind his draggled yellowish mustache. I found him rather
boring, but I had nothing to do and didn’t feel sleepy. So, to keep the conversation
going, I asked some questions about his dog—how long he had had it and so forth.
He told me he had got it soon after his wife’s death. He’d married rather late in life.
When a young man, he wanted to go on the stage; during his military service he’d
often played in the regimental theatricals and acted rather well, so everybody said.
However, finally, he had taken a job in the railway, and he didn’t regret it, as now he
had a small pension. He and his wife had never hit it off very well, but they’d got
used to each other, and when she died he felt lonely. One of his mates on the railway
whose bitch had just had pups had offered him one, and he had taken it, as a
companion. He’d had to feed it from the bottle at first. But, as a dog’s life is shorter
than a man’s, they’d grown old together, so to speak.
“He was a cantankerous brute,” Salamano said. “Now and then we had some
proper set-tos, he and I. But he was a good mutt all the same.”
I said he looked well bred, and that evidently pleased the old man.
“Ah, but you should have seen him before his illness!” he said. “He had a
wonderful coat; in fact, that was his best point, really. I tried hard to cure him; every
mortal night after he got that skin disease I rubbed an ointment in. But his real
trouble was old age, and there’s no curing that.”
Just then I yawned, and the old man said he’d better make a move. I told him he
could stay, and that I was sorry about what had happened to his dog. He thanked me,
and mentioned that my mother had been very fond of his dog. He referred to her as
“your poor mother,” and was afraid I must be feeling her death terribly. When I said
nothing he added hastily and with a rather embarrassed air that some of the people in
the street said nasty things about me because I’d sent my mother to the Home. But
he, of course, knew better; he knew how devoted to my mother I had always been.
I answered—why, I still don’t know—that it surprised me to learn I’d produced
such a bad impression. As I couldn’t afford to keep her here, it seemed the obvious
thing to do, to send her to a home. “In any case,” I added, “for years she’d never had
a word to say to me, and I could see she was moping, with no one to talk to.”
“Yes,” he said, “and at a home one makes friends, anyhow.”
He got up, saying it was high time for him to be in bed, and added that life was
going to be a bit of a problem for him, under the new conditions. For the first time
since I’d known him he held out his hand to me—rather shyly, I thought—and I
could feel the scales on his skin. Just as he was going out of the door, he turned and,
smiling a little, said:
“Let’s hope the dogs won’t bark again tonight. I always think it’s mine I hear. ...”

A passage from L' Étranger, 1942. Albert Camus.

Woodcut by Edvard Munch, Melancholy III. 1902.