Maigret and the Toy Village by Georges Simenon

Author:Georges Simenon [Simenon, Georges]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Georges Simenon
ISBN: 9780151555543
Google: NtvxAAAAMAAJ
Amazon: 0156551543
Barnesnoble: 0156551543
Goodreads: 2752670
Publisher: Harcourt
Published: 1943-12-31T11:00:00+00:00

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5

Number 13

Maigret’s patience, that morning, was inexhaustible. All the same! He had not been able to prevent Félicie from wearing her full mourning outfit, including the absurd flat black hat with the crepe veil, which floated like the draperies on a Grecian frieze. And what on earth had she done to her face? Had she merely tried to cover up her bruises? It was impossible to tell with her, her sense of the dramatic being so highly developed. Whatever the reason, her face was dead white, as thickly daubed with grease and powder as the face of a clown. In the train on the way to Paris she sat motionless, like a priestess, her melancholy gaze fixed on distant horizons, the whole effect deliberately contrived to evoke the response:

“Good God! How she must be suffering!… And what admirable self-control! She is the very embodiment of anguish. Our Lady of Sorrows in the flesh!”

And yet, not once did Maigret permit himself so much as the ghost of a smile. When they came to a grocer’s in Rue du Faubourg-Saint-Honoré, and she wanted to go in, he murmured kindly:

“I don’t think he’s in a fit condition to eat anything, my dear.”

Was he being obtuse, then? No, he understood and, seeing that she persisted, let her have her way. She bought a bunch of the finest Spanish grapes, some oranges, and a bottle of champagne. She insisted on buying flowers as well, a huge bunch of white lilac, and she staggered along, carrying it all herself, and still looking like the Tragic Muse incarnate.

Maigret trotted along at her heels, resigned and indulgent, like any fond papa. He was relieved to find, when they arrived at Beaujon Hospital, that visitors were not admitted at this hour, for, looking the way she did, Félicie would have given the patients a shock. He was, however, able to persuade the house surgeon to arrange for her to catch a glimpse of Jacques Pétillon in his cubicle, which was right at the end of a long corridor, gleaming with glossy paint and filled with stale smells, with open doors at either side, through which could be seen rows of beds, wan faces, and white walls, white linen, and white equipment, too much white altogether, for white, in this place, was the color of pain.

They were kept waiting for some considerable time, and all the while she just stood there, clutching her parcels. At long last, a nurse appeared. She looked at Félicie, gave a little start, and exclaimed:

“I’ll take all that stuff… It will do for the children’s ward… Shh! You mustn’t talk. Don’t make a sound.”

She opened the door the merest crack, so that Félicie could see little in the darkened cubicle but the dim figure of Pétillon, motionless as a corpse.

Then the nurse shut the door again, whereupon Félicie saw fit to say:

“You will save him, won’t you? I beg you, I implore you, do everything you can to save his life.”

“But, mademoiselle…”

“Spare no

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