Pedigree by Georges Simenon

when he bought it.
    Two big latticed windows looking out on to the peaceful Rue Sohet. A door studded with iron nails.
    When Désiré pushed it open, at two minutes to nine, there was undoubtedly a dignity, a special satisfaction about him which made another man of him, a second Mamelin, just as real as the first and just as important, for life at the office occupied nine hours a day. It was no ordinary job, no mere means of earning a living, no unrewarding task.
    Désiré had entered this office with the latticed windows at the age of seventeen, on the very day he had left school.
    A partition shut off the section reserved for the public, a partition fitted with little windows as in a post office, and just crossing to the other side of this frontier gave him a feeling of satisfaction. Thick green-painted window-panes made it impossible to see the street and created an atmosphere of supernatural calm. Before even taking off his hat and coat, Désiré wound up the clock. He had a horror of clocks which had run down. He did his best to see that they never stopped.
    He performed every one of his tasks with equal pleasure. When he washed his hands, in a slow, leisurely manner, in the handbasin behind the door, it was a positive joy to him.
    It was another joy to take the cover off the typewriter with the double keyboard, and to change the position of rubber, pencils and papers.
    Now the others could arrive.
    First of all Daigne, the brother of Charles, the sacristan at Saint-Denis who had married one of Désiré’s sisters, Daigne who smelled so bad and did not take offence when people held their noses in front of him; then Ledent-the-Sad, Ledent who had three children and an ailing wife, looked after the whole family, never got enough sleep and was perpetually red-eyed; and finally Caresmel-the-Widower who had sent his two daughters to an Ursuline boarding-school and had a mistress.
    â€˜Good morning, Monsieur Mamelin.’
    â€˜Good morning, Monsieur Daigne … Good morning, Monsieur Ledent…’
    For everybody at the office called each other Monsieur. Except for Mamelin and Caresmel who called each other by their names because they had started work within three days of one another.
    This was the origin of the first reproaches Élise had addressed to her husband; it was to Caresmel that she referred when she spoke to Désiré about his lack of initiative.
    â€˜It’s like when you had the choice between fire-insurance and life-insurance…’
    Had Désiré really chosen the fire-insurance branch, as she asserted, because he was so attached to his little corner next to the window with the green panes?
    It was possible. Yet he always denied it.
    â€˜At that time, nobody could foresee the success of life-insurance.’
    When Monsieur Monnoyeur had bought the business, Mamelin had been earning 150 francs a month, Caresmel only 140.
    â€˜I’m not going to give you a rise, but I’ll give you a percentage on all the new business that passes through your hands. One of you will deal with the fire policies, the other with the life policies. As you are the senior of the two, Monsieur Mamelin, it’s for you to choose.’
    He had chosen fire-insurance, a quiet business involving only very rare calls on clients. It was at that moment that life-insurance had started forging ahead.
    To all appearances, nothing had changed. It was Désiré who, on the stroke of ten, went into Monsieur Monnoyeur’s office. It was he who had the key and the powers of attorney. It was he too who had the combination of the safe and locked it every evening.
    Caresmel was just a clerk, a loud-mouthed, vulgar clerk. There were often mistakes in his accounts. He was frequently obliged to ask for advice. Only he made up to two hundred francs a month in commission, while Mamelin made scarcely fifty.
    â€˜I can’t understand,’ Élise had protested, ‘why a man who is far