MORT.

'I am free for nothing,' he reflected wearily. Not a sign

in the sky, nor on the earth, the things of this world were

too utterly immersed in the war that was theirs, they

turned their manifold heads towards the east. Mathieu

was moving swiftly over the surface of things, but they were

unconscious of his presence. He was forgotten: by the bridge

beneath his feet, by the roads that sped towards the frontier,

by that city that rose slowly upwards to look at a fire on the

horizon with which it had no concern. Forgotten, unknown,

and utterly alone: a defaulter: all mobilised men had gone

two days ago, he had now no business to be here. Shall i take

the train? What did it matter?-go, or stay, or run away-

acts of that kind would not call his freedom into play.

And yet he must risk that freedom. He clutched the stone

with both hands and leaned over the water. A plunge, and

the water would engulf him, his freedom would be transmuted

into water. Rest at last - and why not? This obscure suicide

would also be an absolute, a law, a choice, and a morality, all

of them complete. A unique, unmatchable act, a lightning-

flash would light up the bridge and the Seine. He need only

lean a little further over, and he would have made his choice

for all eternity. He leaned over, but his hands still clutched

the stone, and bore the weight of his body. Why not?

He had no special reason for letting himself drop, nor any

reason for not doing so. And the act was there, before him,

on the black water, a presentment of his future. All hawsers

cut, nothing now could hold him back: here was his free-

dom, and how horrible it was! Deep down within him he

felt his heart throbbing wildly: one gesture, the mere un-

clasping of his hands, and i would have been Mathieu. An

effluence from the river bemused his senses: sky and bridge

dissolved: nothing remained but himself and the water: it

heaved up to him and rippled round his dangling legs. The

water, where his future lay. At the moment it is true, I'm

going to kill myself. Suddenly he decided not to do it. He

decided: it shall merely be a trial. Then he was again upon

his feet and walking on, gliding over the crust of a dead star.

Next time, perhaps.

Jean-Paul Sartre. THE REPRIEVE.

heartbreaking.