Free The Widow by Georges Simenon Page B

into the red and sticky puddle.
    â€œAmélie! … Tati! …” yelped Françoise, crazy with fear.
    â€œIt’s lucky I can control myself,” panted Amélie while she looked fearfully at Jean in case he might intervene. “Where’s Désiré? Désiré! … Désiré! … Hector! … Where are you both?”
    She had opened the door. The sun, coming into the kitchen, painted on the red tiles a broad lozenge dancing with fine dust.
    Amélie wanted to cry. Françoise had got up.
    â€œDésiré! … Hector! … I’ll bet that child’s gone and fallen into the canal…. ”
    This gave her an excuse for sobbing.
    â€œYou go too, old girl!” Tati advised as she gently pushed the inert Françoise before her. “Go and find your slut of a daughter. Go on! …”
    And she kicked the door to.
    â€œIt’s the house…. ” she declared, coming back to the middle of the room and addressing Jean. “They get positively sick at the thought that they won’t have the house to share between themselves. But who’s got to put up with the old man, I ask you? Would it be fair?”
    For the first time, she was looking at Couderc with a sort of tenderness.
    â€œThe idea of losing his Tati and not having his bit of fun now and then … !”
    She stroked his cheek, and narrowed her eyes in a look of promise. “Come on! This time you’ll have really earned it.”
    She jerked her head in the direction of the staircase. Jean had his back to her just then, but he had the impression that she made an obscene gesture.
    He was looking out the window. Amélie, hatless, her hair disheveled, was delivering a violent harangue, to the shame of her husband. The child, one shoe dripping with water, had evidently just been slapped, for one of his cheeks was red and he was rubbing his eyes with his dirty hands.
    Amélie and Françoise embraced, the way people do after a funeral.
    Then the three from St. Amand made off toward the main road where they would have a wait of an hour and a half for the bus.
    When Jean turned around, there was no one left in the kitchen. He could hear noises overhead and he preferred to go out into the yard where the chickens huddled in the shade of the cart.
    What was there to be done that day?
    He turned the well wheel and began watering the lettuces.

4
    T HAT SATURDAY turned out like one of those special days which a child anticipates for too long.
    Did it not indeed begin with childish impressions? Jean’s panic when, half awake, he heard the drumming of the rain on the sloping glass just over his head! On all the other days the weather had been radiant. Was it going to rain on purpose? He had to make an effort to open his eyes halfway. He had always been a heavy sleeper, coming to only with difficulty. It was still dark, fortunately. What time could it be? There was a moon, and the drops of water glistened as they slid down their zigzag track.
    He went to sleep again, telling himself that the weather could still improve, and when he heard a door bang and leapt to his feet, the sun was indeed shining bravely, a richer, graver sun than on other mornings, and the chestnut trees were a deeper green.
    When he was in the shed, getting the mash ready for the poultry, Tati’s window opened. Tati leaned out, busy combing her hair as it hung down on her shoulders.
    â€œDon’t forget the pullers in the basket!”
    And he felt as light as air, light as one is when something out of the ordinary is sure to happen. He whistled as he carefully arranged all the things Tati was to take to market: a basket of white pullets, tied in pairs by the feet; twelve dozen hen’s eggs; three dozen duck’s eggs (for the pastry cook) and five big goose’s eggs; then the bricks of butter wrapped in cabbage leaves.
    â€œDid you pick the red currants?” she called to him again, almost ready