Félicie by Georges Simenon Page A

and you still didn’t call the sergeant.’
    â€˜I knew you’d come.’
    Oddly enough – it’s childish and he
hates himself for it – he feels somewhat flattered that she waited for him to come instead
of turning to Lucas. He is even secretly grateful for that ‘I knew you’d
come’!
    He leaves the room, locking the door behind him.
It is also clear that this unusual burglar didn’t look anywhereother
than on the top of the wardrobe. He did not open drawers or search in dark corners. So he must
have known …
    In the kitchen, Félicie glances at her
reflection in the mirror.
    â€˜You said just now that you were with
Jacques last night …’
    He takes a good, long look at her. She is shaken,
of that there is no question. She waits, visibly distressed. Then, in a lighter tone, he
says:
    â€˜You told me yesterday that he wasn’t
your lover, that he was just a boy …’
    She does not respond.
    â€˜He had an accident last night. Someone
took a shot at him in the middle of a street …’
    She exclaims:
    â€˜Is he dead? Tell me! Is Jacques
dead?’
    He is tempted. Does she ever think twice about
lying? Aren’t the police entitled to use any means available to track down criminals? He
is sorely tempted to say yes. Who knows how she would react? Who knows if …
    But he can’t bring himself to do it. He
sees her there, far too distressed, and instead he looks away and mutters:
    â€˜No, you can set your mind at rest.
He’s not dead. Just wounded.’
    She sobs. Holding her head in both hands,
wild-eyed, she cries desperately:
    â€˜Jacques! Jacques! My own
Jacques!’
    Then an explosion of fury. She turns to the
placid man who avoids her eye:
    â€˜And you were there,
weren’t you? And you let it happen! I hate you, do you hear, I hate you! It’s your
fault, it’s all your fault that …’
    She collapses on to a chair and continues crying,
bent double, with her head on the kitchen table next to the coffee-grinder.
    From time to time the same words are
repeated:
    â€˜â€¦ Jacques! … My own Jacques!
…’
    Is it because he has a hard heart that Maigret,
standing in the doorway, not knowing where to look, steps out into the deserted garden,
hesitates, stares at his shadow on the ground and eventually opens the door to the wine store,
goes in and draws himself a glass of rosé?

5. Customer 13
    That morning, Maigret was possessed of a rich
fund of patience. But there were limits … He had not been able to prevent Félicie
putting on her full mourning outfit, with that absurd pancake hat and the crepe veil which she
wore as though it were some ancient drapery. And what had she plastered over her face? Was it to
hide the bruises? It made you wonder, given that she had such a distinct sense of the occasion.
Whatever the reason, she was whey-faced, as palely made up as a clown with cold cream and flour.
In the train taking them to Paris, she sat completely still, priestess-like, her eyes painfully
distant, giving out the impression that she wanted all around her to think:
    â€˜Poor thing! How she must be suffering! And
what self-control! She is the very image of grief, the living embodiment of the
mater
dolorosa
.’
    Not once does Maigret smile. When, in Rue
Saint-Honoré, she was about to go into a shop selling early-season fruit and vegetables, he
muttered quietly in her ear:
    â€˜Félicie, I don’t think
he’s in a fit state to eat anything!’
    Didn’t he understand? Of course he
understood, and when she persisted he let her get on with it. She wanted to buy the finest
Spanish grapes, oranges, a bottle of champagne. She insisted on loading herself up with flowers,
animmense bouquet of white lilacs, and she carried it all herself, without
losing a shred of her tragic, aloof manner.
    Maigret resigned himself and followed her like a
kindly, indulgent father. He was