this never happened. On the contrary, he stayed away longer and longer, to the point that he was hardly ever there, disappearing the minute he was free and returning just in time to begin his shift. When he was on duty during the day, he would come back at ten o‘clock, eat his breakfast in five minutes and then not reappear until half past eleven. When his colleague came down to take over at five o’clock, he would rush off straight away and sometimes be out all night. It was as much as he did to come back for a few hours’ sleep. When he was working at night, it was the same. He finished work at five in the morning, but must have gone somewhere else to eat and sleep, because he didn’t come back home till five in the evening. Despite this chaotic regime, he had continued to turn up punctually for work, like a model employee, always on time, even though he was sometimes so exhausted he could hardly stand on his feet. None the less, he had gone about his business and performed his duties conscientiously. Recently, however, there had been a few lapses. Twice already, the other assistant stationmaster, Moulin, had had to wait an hour for him to arrive, and one morning, decent fellow that he was, hearing that he hadn’t reappeared after breakfast, he had even come down and stood in for him, so that he wouldn’t get into trouble. Roubaud’s job was beginning to suffer the effects of the dissipated life he was leading. During the day, he was no longer the energetic man he used to be, personally inspecting every train that arrived or departed, noting everything down in his report to the stationmaster, making sure everyone was working hard and working hard himself. At night he just fell fast asleep in his armchair in his office. Even when he was awake he appeared to be half asleep, wandering up and down the platform with his hands behind his back, giving orders in a monotone and totally unconcerned whether anyone carried them out or not. If he managed to get things done, it was by sheer force of habit, although on one occasion his negligence led to a collision, when a passenger train was accidentally run into a siding. His colleagues merely joked about it, saying he shouldn’t spend so much time womanizing!
The truth was that Roubaud was now virtually living in the little back room upstairs at the Café du Commerce. It had gradually become a veritable gambling den. People said there were women there every night; in fact there was only ever one woman there, the mistress of a retired sea captain, who was at least forty years old, an incurable gambler herself, and totally sexless. The only appetite Roubaud satisfied when he visited the Café du Commerce was his melancholy passion for cards. It had started shortly after the murder, through a chance game of piquet; since then it had grown into an irresistible habit, providing release from all his cares and complete oblivion. It had taken such a hold on him that his desire for women, which had previously been insatiable, was now totally dead. It held him completely in its grip, providing the only distraction that afforded him any pleasure. His need to forget came not from any feelings of remorse over the murder, but from the break-up of his marriage; his life had been ruined, and this was his one consolation, a form of happy self-indulgence which numbed his senses and which he could enjoy alone. His passion had now taken over his whole life and it was destroying him. Alcohol could not have provided him with such pleasure and freedom from care or made the time go by more swiftly. He had even stopped caring about life itself, yet he had the impression he was living life to the full. It was as though he were somewhere else, cut off; none of the things that used to irritate him so intensely now seemed to affect him at all. Apart from feeling tired as a result of his late nights, he was really quite well; he was even putting on weight, growing rather fat and flabby in fact. His eyes had lost their sparkle and seemed always to be half asleep. When he did come home, he just lounged around and showed