The Widow by Georges Simenon Page B

without lying. He was not curious to know what there was in the packages. His day had been spoiled, and perhaps far more than his day; his sky had been smirched; he did not feel like whistling any more; he was not hungry; he did not sniff, as on other days, at the already familiar smell of the kitchen.
    â€œI’ve ordered a second incubator!” Tati announced as she took off her hat.
    In her, too, there was something different, and he had the feeling that suddenly there was between them a certain distance which she hesitated to span.
    â€œAren’t you going to ask me what I bought for you? Come, Jean! Let me see your face in the light. You remember what you told me the other day and what I answered?”
    â€œWhat did I say?”
    Instead of answering, she announced, “Just a while ago, a little before the end of market, a car stopped opposite the Hôtel de France. You do know the Hôtel de France, don’t you?”
    â€œYes, I know it.”
    â€œIt was a big open car, the sort there aren’t many of in these parts. Inside there was a man and a woman. The woman was very pretty and very young and wearing an almost white suit. As the man got out, he murmured, ‘I’ve only got five minutes, darling.’
    â€œYou know who it was?”
    He frowned. He had a vague inkling, but he wasn’t paying attention to the conversation.
    â€œLet me look at you. His hair grew low on the forehead, like yours, but his hair was silvery. And his eyebrows met over the bridge of his nose, like yours. Why did you let it go when I said you weren’t the son of Monsieur Passerat-Monnoyeur?”
    â€œI said I was his son.”
    â€œAnd I told you it wasn’t true.”
    â€œIt doesn’t matter.”
    She thought it better to open the parcels.
    â€œLook! I’ve brought you back a razor, a shaving brush and some shaving soap. You take a sixteen collar, don’t you? Here are three shirts. You’d better try one on, because I can take them back if they don’t fit.”
    Some canvas shoes. Two packages of cigarettes. A belt with a metal buckle and a pair of blue denim trousers.
    â€œPleased?”
    A kind of void was growing between them, now that she had mentioned the distiller.
    â€œWhere’s Couderc?”
    â€œHe must be with the cows.”
    â€œHelp me lay the table. I’ll take my things off later.”
    And then, as she moved her saucepans about: “I know now who it is they call their lawyer. It’s Bocquillon: a one-time law clerk who married a hunchback and set up a real-estate business. I’ve been to see him. I told him I’d pay him better than they would and he told me the whole story. If they can find a doctor to certify the old man is insane…. ”
    She looked at him in surprise. “What’s the matter with you?
    You’re not the same as usual. I noticed it as I got off the bus. It’s not because of your father?”
    He did his best to laugh.
    â€œAnyone would say you were depressed, or coming down with something. What did you do this morning?”
    â€œNothing.”
    â€œDid you stake the peas?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œDid you feed the rabbits?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œThe insurance man didn’t come?”
    â€œNo.”
    That was that! She put off till later the trouble of trying to understand. Old Couderc had come in noiselessly and sat down in his place. She unpacked some sausage, which she brought back from town every Saturday.
    â€œThe women all think the incubator won’t work, or the chickens will die as soon as they’re hatched. I got some hints from someone who rears chickens wholesale. All we’ve got to do is set up a brooder in the laundry. I’ve ordered one, the kind that burns charcoal…. ”
    She could tell that he was not listening, that he was eating perfunctorily. She must go on waiting. After the meal the old man would go off. She would