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Authors: Georges Simenon
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still resisted, trying to escape the attraction of the body that lay there, huddling up and stretching out, spasmodically, between the sobs.
Calming down, she said brokenly:
'He was only a friend, someone to go out with on Sundays . . .'
Mr. Hire was well aware of this, since he always followed them, to the football ground or the cycle-track on fine days, to the cinema in the Place d'Italie when it was wet. He used to see them meet at half-past one, always at the same bus-stop. Alice would cling to the young man's arm. Later, after dark, they would stop now and then in a doorway, and their faces formed a single pale patch.
'Now, I hate him!' she exclaimed.
Mr. Hire looked at his wash-stand, at the alarm-clock on the mantelpiece, at the little stove, all the things he handled by himself every day, as though appealing to them for help. He was melting. He could no longer hold back on the slope, and yet he still had a mental reservation, he could still look on at his own behaviour, and he was displeased with the Mr. Hire he was watching.
Alice, too, was peering slyly at him, her eyes suddenly cold and lucid, just for a second.
'You were there, weren't you? Own up!'
The window, with its sheets of brown paper, had a sullen air. The lamp was still burning in the room opposite, but only a faint glow could be seen through the paper.
'I often forget to bolt the door and put out the light before I go to sleep . . .'
Now he was no longer being asked to do so, Mr. Hire sat down on the very edge of the bed, while Alice still held his hand in hers. It was true: she had fallen asleep over her book that Saturday, and it had slipped to the floor. Mr. Hire had not been sleepy. The window-pane was cool against his forehead.
Then the man had come in, not well dressed as he was on Sundays, but wearing a dirty cap, a scarf round his neck instead of a collar. Alice had propped herself on her elbows. He had signed to her to keep quiet and begun to speak to her in a low voice, in short, dry phrases, while he first washed his hands in her basin and then looked himself slowly up and down, as though on the look-out for tell-tale marks.
He was feverish. His movements were jerky. When he came up to the bed he had pulled a woman's handbag from his pocket and pushed it under the mattress. The words he was saying could not be heard. Alice was frightened, but she had not called out or made a single gesture when, with a mocking grin, the man had suddenly twitched back the bedclothes, uncovering her warm, bare legs and thighs.
'It was frightful!' she said. 'And you were watching! You saw the whole thing!'
Yes, the whole thing! A savage attack by a man bent on relieving his nervous tension at all costs.
Mr. Hire stared at the flowers on the wallpaper. The little pink spots had reappeared on his cheeks. Alice felt his hand tremble in hers, and her own clutch had an unhealthy, equivocal languor.
'I thought of that at once,' she added. 'Yes, while it was going on! But I didn't dare move, I didn't dare say anything. I only looked round, and I could see you. He said he'd kill me if I told. He'd kill you, too. That's why I still go out with him.' Her voice was not so pathetic now.
I don't know why he did it. He works in a garage. He earns good money. Friends must have led him on. Now he daren't even touch the two thousand francs, because he's afraid the numbers of the notes may be known.'
Mr. Hire moved, as though to get up, but she held him back. 'Do you believe me when I swear it was the first time, and that I didn't even enjoy it?'
Her hip was pressed against him. She was shivering. Her whole body was shivering, every inch of her was warm and alive, and her face had more colour after the tears, her lips blood-red, her eyes moist. The baby overhead was crying. Someone was tapping a foot rhythmically on the floor-boards, to soothe it. For the first time, Mr. Hire had ceased to hear the hurried ticking of his alarm-clock. 'Do you hate me?'
She was
Calming down, she said brokenly:
'He was only a friend, someone to go out with on Sundays . . .'
Mr. Hire was well aware of this, since he always followed them, to the football ground or the cycle-track on fine days, to the cinema in the Place d'Italie when it was wet. He used to see them meet at half-past one, always at the same bus-stop. Alice would cling to the young man's arm. Later, after dark, they would stop now and then in a doorway, and their faces formed a single pale patch.
'Now, I hate him!' she exclaimed.
Mr. Hire looked at his wash-stand, at the alarm-clock on the mantelpiece, at the little stove, all the things he handled by himself every day, as though appealing to them for help. He was melting. He could no longer hold back on the slope, and yet he still had a mental reservation, he could still look on at his own behaviour, and he was displeased with the Mr. Hire he was watching.
Alice, too, was peering slyly at him, her eyes suddenly cold and lucid, just for a second.
'You were there, weren't you? Own up!'
The window, with its sheets of brown paper, had a sullen air. The lamp was still burning in the room opposite, but only a faint glow could be seen through the paper.
'I often forget to bolt the door and put out the light before I go to sleep . . .'
Now he was no longer being asked to do so, Mr. Hire sat down on the very edge of the bed, while Alice still held his hand in hers. It was true: she had fallen asleep over her book that Saturday, and it had slipped to the floor. Mr. Hire had not been sleepy. The window-pane was cool against his forehead.
Then the man had come in, not well dressed as he was on Sundays, but wearing a dirty cap, a scarf round his neck instead of a collar. Alice had propped herself on her elbows. He had signed to her to keep quiet and begun to speak to her in a low voice, in short, dry phrases, while he first washed his hands in her basin and then looked himself slowly up and down, as though on the look-out for tell-tale marks.
He was feverish. His movements were jerky. When he came up to the bed he had pulled a woman's handbag from his pocket and pushed it under the mattress. The words he was saying could not be heard. Alice was frightened, but she had not called out or made a single gesture when, with a mocking grin, the man had suddenly twitched back the bedclothes, uncovering her warm, bare legs and thighs.
'It was frightful!' she said. 'And you were watching! You saw the whole thing!'
Yes, the whole thing! A savage attack by a man bent on relieving his nervous tension at all costs.
Mr. Hire stared at the flowers on the wallpaper. The little pink spots had reappeared on his cheeks. Alice felt his hand tremble in hers, and her own clutch had an unhealthy, equivocal languor.
'I thought of that at once,' she added. 'Yes, while it was going on! But I didn't dare move, I didn't dare say anything. I only looked round, and I could see you. He said he'd kill me if I told. He'd kill you, too. That's why I still go out with him.' Her voice was not so pathetic now.
I don't know why he did it. He works in a garage. He earns good money. Friends must have led him on. Now he daren't even touch the two thousand francs, because he's afraid the numbers of the notes may be known.'
Mr. Hire moved, as though to get up, but she held him back. 'Do you believe me when I swear it was the first time, and that I didn't even enjoy it?'
Her hip was pressed against him. She was shivering. Her whole body was shivering, every inch of her was warm and alive, and her face had more colour after the tears, her lips blood-red, her eyes moist. The baby overhead was crying. Someone was tapping a foot rhythmically on the floor-boards, to soothe it. For the first time, Mr. Hire had ceased to hear the hurried ticking of his alarm-clock. 'Do you hate me?'
She was
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