Act of Passion by Georges Simenon Page A

for the dining-room. She favoured red, a very bright red, which terrified Mama.
    'You must excuse me,' she said with that smile of hers. 'I am giving my opinion just as if I were at home.'
    And I heard myself reply without premeditation, without thinking, as though uttering a banal politeness:
    'It only depends on you for it to be so in reality.'
    That is how I proposed to her.
    'You're joking, Charles.'
    My poor Mama seconded me!
    'Charles never jokes.'
    'You really want me to become Mme Alavoine?'
    'In any case' (still my mother at the helm), 'the children will certainly be happy.'
    'Who knows? ... Aren't you afraid I'll upset your household too much?'
    If Mama had only known! Don't misunderstand me — Armande has always been very sweet to her. She has behaved exactly like a doctor's wife concerned about the comfort, the peace of mind, and the good name of her husband.
    Always, without exception and with an innate tact — you must have noticed it yourself in court — she does the right thing.
    Wasn't it her first duty to polish my rough edges, since she was more civilized than I and since, I, fresh from the country, was trying to make good in the city? Shouldn't she refine my tastes as much as possible, create for my daughters a more delicate atmosphere than the one my mother and I were used to?
    All of which she accomplished with a dexterity peculiar to her, and with exquisite tact.
    Oh! That word!
    'She is exquisite.' For ten years I have had it dinned into my ears in every key. 'You have an exquisite wife.'
    And I would come home with an uneasy feeling and such a sensation of my inferiority that I felt like going to eat in the kitchen with the maid.
    As for Mama, your Honour, she was made to dress in black or grey silk, made to dress in a dignified and becoming manner. She was made to arrange her hair differently - before that her bun was always straggling down the nape of her neck - and she was made to sit in the drawing-room in front of a charming little work-table with her sewing.
    She was forbidden, for the sake of her health, to come downstairs before nine o'clock, and her breakfast was brought to her in bed - Mama who at home used to feed the animals - the cows, the chickens and the pigs - before sitting down to eat herself!
    On her birthday and holidays she was presented with tasteful gifts, including old-lady jewellery.
    'Don't you think, Charles, that Mama seems a little tired this summer?'
    She was urged, but this time in vain, to go to Evian to take the cure for her liver, with which she had had some difficulties.
    And all that, your Honour, is perfect. Everything Armande has done, everything she does, everything she will ever do is perfect. Do you realize how discouraging that could be?
    On the witness-stand she appeared neither as a heartbroken nor as an irate wife. She did not wear black. She did not call upon society to punish me, nor did she make an appeal for pity. She was simple and calm. She was herself - serene.
    It was entirely her idea to engage the services of Maître Gabriel, the most famous leader of the Paris bar (also the most expensive advocate) - her idea also, since I belonged in a way to La Roche-sur-Yon, that it would be a dignified thing to have the Vendee represented by its best lawyer.
    She answered all the questions with a naturalness that caused general admiration and several times I really thought that the courtroom was going to burst into applause.
    Do you remember the way she said, when my crime was mentioned:
    'I have nothing to say concerning this woman ... I received her two or three times at the house, but I hardly knew her .. .'
    Without hate, as the newspapers were careful to emphasize. Almost without bitterness. And with what dignity!
    That's it, your Honour. I think I have just found the right word unwittingly. Armande has dignity. She is dignity itself. And now, try to imagine yourself for ten years in daily tête-à-têtes with Dignity, try to picture yourself in the