Sunday by Georges Simenon

freedom. It was a convenient arrangement. She was always available, day and night, winter and summer alike, and only at distant intervals would she go off to pay a short visit to the house Pascali had built on the outskirts of Mouans-Sartoux.
    It was Pascali who appeared on the terrace every two weeks or so and went into the kitchen, taking off his cap as he did so. He would sit down, always in the same corner, accept the traditional glass of wine, one only, never two, and remain there for half to three-quarters of an hour without anybody having to bother with him.
    He asked no questions, did not kiss his daughter, did not speak to her except to say, each time:
    'Good-bye.'
    As for her, there were some guests who, the first few days, thought she was dumb. If she was not thorough and if she often forgot her orders, she nonetheless tried to do her job, and when she had nothing to do she even looked about for some way of making herself useful.
    They had grown accustomed to her being there, more as one does to the presence of a domestic animal than to that of a human being. She made little noise. On busy days she did not sit down to eat, making do with scraps which she scavenged from plates and dishes returning to the kitchen.
    Berthe had never insisted that Emile should go and see Guerini or any other doctor on the subject of her mother's insinuations. She had been to consult Guerini herself, one day when she had a sore throat. Had she mentioned the other matter?
    It was possible. Emile did not bother his head about it. Since he had been living at La Bastide, he had never needed a doctor, and when he had had influenza, the fourth or fifth winter, he had cured himself with the help of grogs and aspirin.
    Guerini and his wife came every now and then to eat at La Bastide, on evenings when their maid had time off. They were a pleasant young couple. People from Mousans-Sartoux were afraid they might lose their doctor, for they said he was far too intelligent to spend his life in a village, and that he would end up by taking a practice in Cannes or Nice, perhaps by going to Marseilles.
    Orderly, conscientious, he had organized his life wisely. Whereas during the week he was on call at every hour of the day and night, to rich and poor alike, every Sunday, unless there was a storm, he reserved for himself a day of solitude at sea aboard his boat.
    His wife, who understood this need of relaxation, did not accompany him, and stayed at home with their two children. The younger was only a few months old.
    Was a man like that ever a prey to his own thoughts?
    Truth to tell, throughout all this period, Emile had not felt unhappy.
    He had ended by adapting himself to reality. He no longer tried to decide who was master of the house, nor whether his wife treated him as a man should be treated.
    Appearances were good enough for him and he, too, had his boat to which he escaped whenever possible. Apart from this, in the off-season, he had his games of bowls, and, on winter evenings, people from Mouans-Sartoux would come up to play cards with him.
    He did not wonder whether the others were different, nor whether he would have preferred another destiny. Life at La Bastide had gradually fallen into a routine fixed to the hour, almost to the minute. He always went downstairs at the same time, after hearing Ada go down first and get the coffee, and in the kitchen he would find Madame Lavaud, who had just arrived, knotting her apron.
    Every room in the house was done out in turn, and this indicated the rhythm of the days. There were, besides, the summer and the winter rites, which were quite distinct.
    In summer, in July and August only, when they served as many as fifty people at each meal, Maubi's wife lent a hand in the morning and they engaged a waiter to help Ada serve at table, nearly always a young one, a beginner, so as to pay him less.
    Sometimes they were obliged to change waiters twice or three times during the course of the season, as there