Free The Mahé Circle by Georges Simenon; Translated by Siân Reynolds Page A

that nobody had ever been ill in Frans’s household when the regular
doctor wasn’t available!
    Alfred had followed him.
    â€˜Look! Those buildings against the umbrella pines.’
    â€˜Difficult to paint.’
    â€˜All the more reason! Have a go.’
    He had sat down alongside Alfred, his eyes fixed on the door, still open, where he sometimes glimpsed a red dress going to and fro in the gloom. He dared not stay all the time. He would go for a stroll and come back.
    â€˜You don’t have a sweetheart?’
    He already felt awkward saying that, but he didn’t yet know where it would lead him.
    His nephew, blushing, proud to be treated as a man, admitted:
    â€˜Yes, there is someone, in Poitiers. But please don’t tell my aunt.’
    â€˜Of course not. And?’
    He didn’t put the question any more clearly, but Alfred understood, blushed even deeper and stammered:
    â€˜Well, yes, of course …’
    Next morning, Elisabeth was doing the washing outside the building.
    â€˜Pretty girl, eh?’
    No. Alfred didn’t think her pretty. To him, she still looked like a little girl, but he dared not contradict his uncle.
    â€˜She’s the daughter of Frans, the one who was in the Legion.’
    â€˜Oh.’
    â€˜I wonder …’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜I wonder if she has any lovers.’
    How stupid, how odiously stupid. There he was, an enormous figure with the sun burning his skin, next to
another imbecile painting a watercolour in dull, drab shades, and he was getting aroused all by
himself at the sight of a red dress with a skinny body inside it, or rather he was trying to arouse his companion.
    Because that was where all this was leading. In an underhand way. He couldn’t remember ever having acted underhandedly in his life, but this time, he certainly was.
    â€˜She keeps looking at you.’
    He moved away, that would be better. He wandered off to the harbour, went into Maurice’s bar, drank a glass of rosé at the counter. That evening, he asked:
    â€˜Did you speak to her?’
    â€˜Didn’t get a chance.’
    And the next day, with an innocent air:
    â€˜Going back up there today?’
    â€˜I think so.’
    That was the crude truth of it. He was thirty-five, married with a family and he had been amusing himself getting this youngster interested in a girl to whom he had never addressed a single word.
    Amusing himself? Not even! Never had he been in such a black mood. Luckily, there was this looming thunderstorm, perpetually threatening, which gave him an excuse. His wife didn’t suspect that he was going more and more often to
Maurice’s, where there was already a place reserved for his elbow at the counter.
    â€˜Glass of white, please, Jojo.’
    The waitress, an eighteen-year-old, was probably just as desirable as Frans’s daughter, but he didn’t notice that. And anyway, he didn’t desire Elisabeth.
    So?
    â€˜You know, uncle, I talked to her …’
    â€˜I’ve already told you not to call me uncle. It’s ridiculous. Call me François.’
    â€˜I’d feel uncomfortable …’
    â€˜What did she say?’
    â€˜I asked her to come and have a look at what I’d painted, so she came over …’
    â€˜Did she like it?’
    â€˜She said there were prettier scenes on the island to paint. So I said …’
    Idiot. Oh God, what an idiot! Of course, the boy had replied that he hadn’t seen anything prettier than her. And the stupid little chicken would have been flattered, puffed up with pride.
    â€˜And what you said to me … You know …’
    No, he couldn’t remember. What had he said?
    â€˜Whether she had any lovers … Well, I don’t think so.’
    â€˜You’re just saying that because of her big innocent blue eyes.’
    â€˜No, no, uncle. I tell you, I’m pretty sure.’
    What if