Sunday by Georges Simenon Page B

were, decidedly, the best moments of his days.
    Sometimes a desire would sweep over him, especially if he happened to recall Nancy and the Flat Stone, and he had caught himself stretching out his hand into space as if expecting to find a woman's body lying beside him.
    It was a pity, that was all. It would have been agreeable. More precise images would come into his mind, and he generally ended with the consolation of promising himself to pay a visit next day to one of the girls in Cannes.
    He had never thought about Ada. He scarcely noticed that she was a woman. Until the day when, during the afternoon, Berthe had taken the van into town to make some purchases, some sheets and pillowcases ; he could recall it quite clearly.
    His siesta ended, he had gone back to the house and had found Madame Lavaud dozing in her chair, her chin on her chest. Intrigued at not seeing Ada, he had started up the stairs, calling for her softly. Receiving no answer, he had continued up the stairs and opened the attic door.
    The shutters were closed. In the semi-darkness Ada was asleep, naked on her bed, from which she had not drawn back the counterpane.
    He had hesitated, not because of Berthe, but because of Pascali, who frightened him a little.
    He did not want the man's daughter to maintain afterwards that he had taken her by force, or thanks to her being asleep, and, going over to the bed, he had said several times:
    'Ada . . . Ada . . .'
    He was sure she had heard him, but she did not stir, kept her eyes closed, her legs slightly parted.
    Then he had touched her, at first with the tips of his fingers, and he had seen a tremor run through her.
    'Ada . . .'
    Her lips parted, she had sighed without speaking, but he would have sworn she had scarcely been able to repress a smile.
    Anyhow! He had possessed her, suppressing all further reflexion, and he had been startled at the radiant expression which had spread over the wild creature's face.
    Never had he seen such ecstasy in another human being, and suddenly, clasping him frantically in her thin arms, pressing him to her breast with unexpected strength, she had stammered something which could only have meant:
    'At last. . .'
    Then, when, in his confusion, he would have liked to hold back his pleasure, she had begun to sob with happiness, with an interior joy, deep, welling up from within her, a painful joy, at once pure and troubled, the existence of which he had never suspected.
    He just glimpsed her eyes. There were tears, big, childish tears, which had pressed apart the eyelids, and she had quickly closed them again, become motionless once more; then, when he stumbled to his feet, abashed and awkward, she had pulled a length of the counterpane over herself.
    She was feigning sleep once again. Her small bosom rose in a regular rhythm, her hand remained clutching the rough cloth of the bed-cover. One might have thought that nothing had happened, and he had left on tiptoe, closed her door without a sound before going downstairs and standing on the doorstep while Madame Lavaud began to stir in the kitchen.

V
    I F it was still not the true beginning, that fortuitous event, which, in all sincerity, he had not expected, and which had lasted so short a time in comparison with the rest, was nonetheless to constitute a turning-point.
    Standing on the doorstep, he was invaded by a strange panic, largely of a physical nature, causing an unpleasant trembling of all his nerves. It reminded him, in a confused way, of the Bible, though he did not try to know exactly what: Adam and Eve realizing they were naked, or perhaps God the Father asking Cain what he had done with his brother, or perhaps, again, Lot's wife?
    What had just taken place was no more serious than what took place every week between himself and other girls in Cannes or Grasse. His action had not been premeditated. Any man, in his place, would probably have behaved in the same way, and he was convinced that Ada had been waiting for him to act