Monsieur Monde Vanishes by Georges Simenon Page A

Julie had noticed, that she had seen the bundle and was once more observing him with a suspicious eye.
    They rose at the same time, visited the cloakrooms, and then met again outside, in the sunshine, not knowing what to do, not knowing how to stay together or how to part company.
    They walked automatically to the quayside and mingled with the people watching small boys or old men angling.
    In another hour Madame Monde would step out of her car before the police station on Rue La Rochefoucauld. He was not thinking of Madame Monde; he was not thinking of anything. He was conscious of moving restlessly in the midst of an outsize universe. His skin smelled springlike, because of the sunshine. His shoes were covered with fine dust. He was intensely aware of his companion’s scent.
    They had gone two hundred yards or so and were wandering aimlessly when she stopped.
    â€œI don’t feel like walking,” she decided.
    Then they retraced their steps, past the three-story restaurant with its wide windows where, now, only the bustling black-and-white figures of waiters could be seen. It seemed quite natural to walk up La Canebière, and in front of a brasserie whose striped awning was down, despite the time of year, Monsieur Monde suggested: “Would you like to sit down?”
    And then they were sitting beside the window, on either side of a small marble-top table; in front of him there was a glass of beer on a cardboard mat, and in front of her a cup of coffee which she was not drinking.
    She was waiting. She said: “I’m stopping you from going about your business.”
    â€œI have no business.”
    â€œThat’s true. You told me you had private means. Where d’you live?”
    â€œI did live in Paris, but I’ve left.”
    â€œWithout your wife?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œOn account of a chick?”
    â€œNo!”
    Her eyes revealed bewilderment and, once again, suspicion.
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œI don’t know.… For no reason.”
    â€œHaven’t you any children?”
    â€œYes …”
    â€œAnd you didn’t mind leaving them?”
    â€œThey’re grown up.… My daughter’s married.…”
    Not far from them, people were playing bridge, important citizens and aware of their own importance, and two youths of Alain’s age were playing billiards and looking at themselves in the glass.
    â€œI don’t want to sleep in that hotel again.”
    He realized that she wanted to avoid unpleasant memories. He made no reply. And a long silence fell. They sat there, still and heavy, in the gathering darkness. Soon the lights would go on. The window, close beside them, shed a kind of frozen halo on their cheeks.
    Julie was scanning the crowd that streamed by along the sidewalk, perhaps because she had nothing else to do, or to keep herself in countenance, or else perhaps in hope—or in fear—of recognizing Jean.
    â€œI don’t think I’ll stay in Marseilles,” she said.
    â€œWhere will you go?”
    â€œI don’t know.… Farther on … Maybe to Nice? … Maybe to some small place by the sea where there won’t be anybody. I’m sick of men.…”
    At any moment they were free to get up and say good-by to one another, to go their different ways and never meet again. It seemed almost as if they did not know how to set about it, and that was why they stayed there.
    Monsieur Monde felt embarrassed at sitting so long over a single drink, and summoned the waiter to order another half-pint. She called him back to ask: “When is there a train to Nice?”
    â€œI’ll bring you the timetable.”
    She handed it to Monsieur Monde, who looked up two trains, a fast one that left Marseilles at seven and another, at nine, that stopped all along the coast.
    â€œDon’t you find it gloomy here?”
    The quietness was oppressive, the room seemed empty, there was too much unstirring air