Maigret is Afraid by Georges Simenon

Author:Georges Simenon
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780141984001
Publisher: Penguin Books Ltd
Published: 2017-04-06T04:00:00+00:00

6. The Ten-thirty Mass

When he realized it was Sunday, he lingered in bed. Already before that he had been playing a secret childhood game. He sometimes still played it lying in bed next to his wife, taking care not to give anything away. And she would be duped, saying, as she brought him his coffee:

‘What were you dreaming?’

‘Why?’

‘You were smiling in your sleep.’

That morning in Fontenay, before opening his eyes he sensed a ray of sunshine through his eyelids, whose delicate, tingling skin felt translucent. And probably because of the pulsing blood, it seemed of a brighter red than that of the sun in the sky – glorious, like in a painting.

He could create an entire world with that sun, showers of sparks, volcanoes, cascades of molten gold. He simply had to bat his eyelids gently, like a kaleidoscope, using his eyelashes as a grille.

He could hear pigeons cooing on a cornice above his window, then bells ringing in two places at once, and he pictured the tall bell-towers against a clear blue sky.

He continued with the game while listening to the noises from the street and then, from the echo of the footsteps, from a certain quality of silence, it dawned on him that it was Sunday.

He dallied for ages before stretching out his hand and picking up his watch from the bedside table. It showed 9.30. In Paris, on Boulevard Richard-Lenoir, if spring had also come at last, Madame Maigret in her dressing gown and slippers would have opened the windows and tidied the bedroom while a stew simmered on the stove.

He promised himself he would call her. Since there was no telephone in the room, he would have to wait until he went downstairs and phone her from the booth.

He pressed the electric bell. The chambermaid looked cleaner, more cheerful, than the previous day.

‘What would you like to eat?’

‘Nothing. I’d like a large pot of coffee.’

She had the same curious way of eying him.

‘Shall I run you a bath?’

‘Only once I’ve drunk my coffee.’

He lit a pipe and went to open the window. The air was still chilly, and he had to put on his dressing gown, but he could feel little waves of warmth. The façades and the cobblestones had dried. The street was empty, with the occasional family in their Sunday best walking past, or a village woman clasping a bunch of violets.

The pace of hotel life must have slowed down, because he waited a long time for his coffee. He had left the two letters received the previous evening on the bedside table. One was signed. The handwriting was as neat as on an engraving, in black ink, like Indian ink.

Has anyone told you that the widow Gibon was the midwife who delivered Madame Vernoux of her son Alain?

You might find that useful to know.

Regards.

Anselme Remouchamps

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