Read Online Mr Hire's Engagement by Georges Simenon - Free Book Online
Authors: Georges Simenon
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stiff with fright, pinned up the third sheet of paper with two drawing-pins, ran to his washstand, emptied the basin, shut the cupboard, rushed across the bed and smoothed the counterpane. There was still no sound on the stairs. He paused in front of his looking-glass, ran the comb through his hair, fingered his cut and straightened his moustache. He was about to put on his collar and tie when footsteps came to a halt on the landing.
He was breathing so hard that the wiry hairs of his moustache were visibly shivering. His eyes were blank. He had found it immeasurably difficult to say:
'Come in!'
And he could sniff close at hand the same smell that had been carried to him faintly on the north wind as he sat in the stand at Bois-Colombes.
It was a warm smell, in which he could distinguish the sickly sweetness of face-powder, the sharper note of some scent or other, but most of all the girl's own smell, the smell of her flesh, her hair, her sweat.
She, too, was breathing hard. She sniffed, glanced round the room, and finally discovered Mr. Hire, standing just inside the door he had now closed again.
She could no longer think of anything to say. First she tried to smile, even thought of holding out her hand, but it was impossible to stretch out one's hand to a man so motionless, so distant. 'It's hot in here.'
And she looked at the window, now covered by the sheets of brown paper. She walked over to it, lifted up one piece of paper, saw her own room, and more especially her bed, which looked almost near enough to touch. When she turned round again she at last caught Mr. Hire's eye, and she blushed scarlet, while he turned his head away.
A little earlier she had been pretending to cry, but now her eyelids were really pricking, her pupils misted over. He did nothing to help her, left her to fight it back alone in the emptiness of the room, where the slightest noise seemed to echo more loudly than anywhere else. He even went across to the stove and bent down to pick up the poker.
It was no use waiting any longer. Alice began to cry and, as the bed was close at hand, she first sat down on it, then slid down sideways and propped herself on the pillow.
'I'm so ashamed!' she stammered. 'If you only knew!' Bending forward, still grasping the poker, he looked at her, and the last traces of colour faded from his cheeks. She was still crying. Her face was hidden. She murmured between her sobs:
'You saw, didn't you? It's horrible! I didn't know. I was fast asleep.' Peeping between her fingers, she saw him put down the poker and straighten up, still hesitant. She was wet with perspiration. Sweat was soaking the silk of her blouse, under the arms.
'Everything can be seen from here! And there have I been every day, undressing and . . .'
She sobbed harder than ever, giving him a glimpse of her tear-stained face, her mouth distorted in the effort to bring out the words.
'I wouldn't care! I don't mind you looking at me. But it's that dreadful thing . . .'
Slowly, so slowly that the change was imperceptible, Mr. Hire's waxen features were beginning to come alive, his expression becoming human, anxious, pitiful. 'Do come nearer to me! I feel as though that would make it easier...' But he was standing bolt upright beside the bed, like a tailor's dummy. He couldn't pull his hand away in time. She caught hold of it.
'What can you have thought? You know better than anybody that it was the first time he'd come, don't you?'
She had no handkerchief, and wiped her tears on the counter-pane. Heat radiated from her plump, heavy body, and there it lay sprawling, in the room, on Mr. Hire's bed, a source of exuberant life. Mr. Hire stared up at the ceiling. It seemed to him that the whole house must be able to hear the echoes, feel the palpitations of so much life. Someone was walking to and fro, overhead, with regular, persistent steps, probably carrying the baby, to hush it to sleep.
'Come and sit down by me.'
It was too soon. He
He was breathing so hard that the wiry hairs of his moustache were visibly shivering. His eyes were blank. He had found it immeasurably difficult to say:
'Come in!'
And he could sniff close at hand the same smell that had been carried to him faintly on the north wind as he sat in the stand at Bois-Colombes.
It was a warm smell, in which he could distinguish the sickly sweetness of face-powder, the sharper note of some scent or other, but most of all the girl's own smell, the smell of her flesh, her hair, her sweat.
She, too, was breathing hard. She sniffed, glanced round the room, and finally discovered Mr. Hire, standing just inside the door he had now closed again.
She could no longer think of anything to say. First she tried to smile, even thought of holding out her hand, but it was impossible to stretch out one's hand to a man so motionless, so distant. 'It's hot in here.'
And she looked at the window, now covered by the sheets of brown paper. She walked over to it, lifted up one piece of paper, saw her own room, and more especially her bed, which looked almost near enough to touch. When she turned round again she at last caught Mr. Hire's eye, and she blushed scarlet, while he turned his head away.
A little earlier she had been pretending to cry, but now her eyelids were really pricking, her pupils misted over. He did nothing to help her, left her to fight it back alone in the emptiness of the room, where the slightest noise seemed to echo more loudly than anywhere else. He even went across to the stove and bent down to pick up the poker.
It was no use waiting any longer. Alice began to cry and, as the bed was close at hand, she first sat down on it, then slid down sideways and propped herself on the pillow.
'I'm so ashamed!' she stammered. 'If you only knew!' Bending forward, still grasping the poker, he looked at her, and the last traces of colour faded from his cheeks. She was still crying. Her face was hidden. She murmured between her sobs:
'You saw, didn't you? It's horrible! I didn't know. I was fast asleep.' Peeping between her fingers, she saw him put down the poker and straighten up, still hesitant. She was wet with perspiration. Sweat was soaking the silk of her blouse, under the arms.
'Everything can be seen from here! And there have I been every day, undressing and . . .'
She sobbed harder than ever, giving him a glimpse of her tear-stained face, her mouth distorted in the effort to bring out the words.
'I wouldn't care! I don't mind you looking at me. But it's that dreadful thing . . .'
Slowly, so slowly that the change was imperceptible, Mr. Hire's waxen features were beginning to come alive, his expression becoming human, anxious, pitiful. 'Do come nearer to me! I feel as though that would make it easier...' But he was standing bolt upright beside the bed, like a tailor's dummy. He couldn't pull his hand away in time. She caught hold of it.
'What can you have thought? You know better than anybody that it was the first time he'd come, don't you?'
She had no handkerchief, and wiped her tears on the counter-pane. Heat radiated from her plump, heavy body, and there it lay sprawling, in the room, on Mr. Hire's bed, a source of exuberant life. Mr. Hire stared up at the ceiling. It seemed to him that the whole house must be able to hear the echoes, feel the palpitations of so much life. Someone was walking to and fro, overhead, with regular, persistent steps, probably carrying the baby, to hush it to sleep.
'Come and sit down by me.'
It was too soon. He
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