"Figeac, tell the men they can go ahead."

 

After that he told me he would be attending the funeral and I thanked him. He

sat down behind his desk and crossed his short legs. He informed me that he and

I would be the only ones there, apart from the nurse on duty. The residents

usually weren't allowed to attend funerals. He only let them keep the vigil.

"It's more humane that way," he remarked. But in this case he'd given one of

mother's old friends-Thomas Perez­ permission to join the funeral procession. At

that the director smiled. He said, "I'm sure you understand. It's a rather

childish sentiment. But he and your mother were almost inseparable. The others

used to tease them and say, 'Perez has a fiancee.' He'd laugh. They enjoyed it.

And the truth is he's taking Madame Meursault's death very hard. I didn't think

I could rightfully refuse him permission. But on the advice of our visiting

physician, I did not allow him to keep the vigil last night." We didn't say

anything for quite a long time. The director stood up and looked out the window

of his office. A moment later he said, "Here's the priest from Marengo already.

He's early." He warned me that it would take atleast three-quarters of an hour

to walk to the church, which is in the village itself. We went downstairs. Out

in front of the building stood the priest and two altar boys. One of them was

holding a censer, and the priest was leaning toward him, adjusting the length of

its silver chain. As we approached, the priest straightened up. He called me "my

son" and said a few words to me. He went inside; I followed.

 

I noticed right away that the screws on the casket had been tightened and that

there were four men wear­ ing black in the room. The director \vas telling me