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. 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 walked down the hall to the third door on the left, knocked and went in. Mersault opened the door which the cripple never locked and carefully closed it behind him. On the doorstep he paused and put on his gloves. Then the road sloped down again towards Zagreus’ villa. The effect of the early red geraniums among the grey aloes, the blue sky and the whitewashed walls was so fresh, so childlike that Mersault stopped a moment before walking on through the square. Not far from the villa, the road crossed a little square decorated with flower beds and benches. 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. The empty road sloped up towards the villa, and a pure light streamed between the pines covering the hillside. It was a beautiful April morning, chilly and bright the sky was radiant, but there was no warmth in the glistening sunshine. By now the housekeeper had left for the market and the villa was deserted. IT was ten in the morning, and Patrice Mersault was walking steadily towards Zagreus’ villa.
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