How theatrical, he thought as he fell, and yet I feel nothing.
He lay crumpled up on the ground, with his cheek on the cool flagstones.
It got dark, the sea carried him rocking on its nocturnal surface.
Memories passed through him, like streaks of mist over the water.
Outside, someone was knocking on the front door, he dreamed that they were coming to arrest him; but in what country was he?
He made an effort to slip his arm into his dressing-gown sleeve. But whose colour-print portrait was hanging over his bed and looking at him?
Was it No. 1 or was it the other—he with the ironic smile or he with the glassy gaze?
A shapeless figure bent over him, he smelt the fresh leather of the revolver belt; but what insignia did the figure wear on the sleeves and shoulder-straps of its uniform—and in whose name did it raise the dark pistol barrel?
A second, smashing blow hit him on the ear.
Then all became quiet. There was the sea again with its sounds.
A wave slowly lifted him up.
It came from afar and travelled sedately on, a shrug of eternity.