Maigret and the Old People by Georges Simenon

Author:Georges Simenon
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780241303900
Publisher: Penguin Books Ltd
Published: 2018-04-15T16:00:00+00:00

6.

He was woken by the sun coming in through the slats of the shutters and, with a movement that had become mechanical after so many years, reached towards his wife’s side of the bed. The sheets were still warm. Along with the smell of freshly ground coffee, a faint whistle reached him from the kitchen, the sound of water singing in the kettle.

Here too, as in the aristocratic Rue de Varenne, birds chirped in the trees, less close to the windows, and Maigret felt a sense of physical well-being, albeit mingled with something vague and unpleasant.

He had slept fitfully. He remembered having lots of dreams and even, at least once, waking with a start.

At a certain point, hadn’t his wife whispered something to him, holding out a glass of water?

It was difficult to remember. Several different stories had become confused, and he kept losing the thread. They had one thing in common: in all of them, he played a humiliating role.

One picture came back to him, clearer than the others: a place that looked like the V—residence, but much larger, if less opulent. It was like a convent or ministerial offices, with endless corridors and an infinity of doors.

What he had just done was not clear in his mind. He only knew that he had a goal to reach, and that it was enormously important. And yet he couldn’t find anyone to tell him the way. Pardon had told him as they parted in the street. He didn’t see Dr Pardon in his dream, or in the street. He was no less certain that his friend had warned him.

The truth was that he wasn’t allowed to ask the way. He had tried to at the beginning, before understanding that it was impossible. The old people merely looked at him, smiling and shaking their heads.

Because there were old people everywhere. Perhaps it was a retirement home, or an asylum, even though it didn’t look like one.

He recognized Saint-Hilaire, very straight-backed, his face pink beneath his silky white hair. A very handsome man, who knew it and seemed to be making fun of the inspector. Maître Aubonnet was sitting in a wheelchair and amusing himself by racing it very quickly along a gallery.

There were many others, including the Prince of V—, with a hand on Isabelle’s shoulder, indulgently observing Maigret’s efforts.

The inspector’s situation was delicate, because he had not yet been initiated, and they were refusing to tell him what tests he had to pass.

He was in the position of a new recruit, a new boy at school. They played tricks on him. For example, every time he tried to open a door it closed by itself or, rather than opening on to a bedroom or a drawing room, it revealed the start of a new corridor.

Only the old Countess of Saint-Fiacre was willing to help him. Since she wasn’t allowed to speak, she tried to communicate to him with gestures, which didn’t work. For example, she pointed to her own knees, and, lowering his eyes, Maigret discovered that he was in short trousers.

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