The Widow by Georges Simenon

by now.
    The old man was busy with his cows. The kitchen garden was damp. Tati did not want to waste anything, and, there being a gardenful of red currants, she was taking them off to market.
    She snatched a bite, without sitting down, for she was always afraid of missing her bus.
    â€œHurry up, Jean! Mind the eggs!”
    She frowned. Perhaps she found him too lively? He was still whistling as he loaded himself with the biggest baskets, and he strode out along the sunken path where the ground, after the rain, was a richer brown and the bushes gave off a heavy scent.
    â€œIf she comes to the house, don’t be afraid to throw her out. Oh! I nearly forgot … the insurance man might call. He always picks a Saturday. The money’s in the tureen in the dining room. It’s the right amount.”
    For the first time, he saw again the small blue-fenced house beside the main road, and this time its door was half open.
    â€œGood-bye, Clémence!” Tati called, though she could see nobody.
    Someone moved inside. A woman who was cleaning herself up stuck her head out of the window and called in the same fashion, “Good-bye, Tati.”
    Then they waited, looking in the direction of Montluçon. The bus arrived ten minutes later. Tati got in. He handed her her baskets. The door banged.
    Then, hands in pockets, he went back unhurriedly, remembering to stop and see whether there would be a big crop of nuts that year.
    He did not know that this was the beginning of no ordinary day, or that he was living his last carefree moments. Not merely carefree! It was something more miraculous than that and the miracle had lasted a week and more. Hours, whole days, of innocence!
    He was no longer any particular age! He was no longer this or that! He was not even a Passerat-Monnoyeur anymore!
    He was Jean, like any child playing by the roadside, heedless of the future as of the past! Like a child, he cut a stick! Like a child gleefully anticipating a promised game, he kept saying to himself: “Let her be there.”
    In truth, ever since a heavy door, down there at Fontevrault, had shut behind him, ever since a man in uniform had called out: “Good luck” to him, ever since he had started walking straight ahead, aimlessly, he had had no more ties, everything had been a free gift, the days no longer counted, nothing counted except the magnificent present humming with sunshine.
    He went through the kitchen to go and wash in the yard, which he did with care. The water was cool. He let it run over the back of his neck as he whetted his wiry hair; the soap stung his eyes and he sluiced himself down, soaping his chest, his back, his thighs.
    From time to time he heard a touching trumpet call: on the toy canal a toy barge announcing that it was nearing the lock, and the wooden-legged man would stump along to open the gates.
    He knew how to set about making his approach. He had a plan. And if the insurance man did come, it would be just too bad!
    He crossed the bridge over the canal, then the one over the Cher. He penetrated into the brush of the sloping embankment and, clutching at the brambles, followed the bed of the river. When he caught sight of the pink daub of color made by the brickyard he forded the river on stepping-stones, his only fear being that he might make a sound.
    After which he lay down in the long grass and began to crawl.
    He was annoyed with himself for being late, for Félicie was already there. He could hear her voice. He was longing to see her and crawled more quickly, a blade of grass between his lips.
    â€œThe wolf … the wolf … the great big wolf! … Hooooo! …”
    This was perhaps twenty yards from the low house, above which a trickle of smoke rose straight into the air, for there was not a breath of wind.
    â€œLook out! … I’m the great big wolf…. Hoooooo!”
    Still wearing her blue smock, with next to nothing beneath it except perhaps a slip, she