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Authors: Georges Simenon
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becoming impatient. She was afraid of breaking the spell by some word or gesture.
'Come closer . . . closer . ..'
She drew him towards her. Mr. Hire's elbow weighed on her breast.
'I'm all alone!' she managed to sob.
And he stared at her, from close to, frowning. He could feel her breath on his face. He was almost lying on her, and she was moving all the time, as though trying to force him into physical awareness. 'I know Émile will do what he said!'
She was growing dispirited, finding it hard to conceal her impatience, which was turning to anger. 'Won't you help me?'
She grasped him by the shoulders. This was the only thing left to try. She slipped one arm round his neck and pressed her burning cheek against his.
'Say yes . . . say yes . . .'
She was really shuddering, but from strain. And all at once he whispered in her ear:
'I've been very unhappy!'
He took no advantage of their physical contact, he did not seem to notice her stomach was crushed under him, one of her legs twined round his. He closed his eyes. He was breathing her in.
'Don't move!' he implored.
This gave her a chance to relax, and for an instant her face showed boredom and fatigue. When he half opened his eyes, she murmured, smiling:
'This is a nice room.'
It was harsh, probably because the lamp was unshaded. The lines were sharp. The colours clashed with one another. The oilcloth made the rectangle of the table look as cold and hard as a tombstone. 'Are you always alone?'
He tried to get up, but she held him back, pressed close against him. 'No. Stay here. I'm so comfortable! I feel as though . . .' And suddenly she asked, saucily: 'Will you let me come and tidy up for you, sometimes?' She meant more than that. She tried hard to set up another bond between them, but he seemed not to understand, and she was afraid of frightening him by making things too clear. 'You will save me, won't you?'
She was changing her attitude according to the inspiration of the moment, and this last phrase, for example, was a pretext for holding up her moist lips to him. He only brushed them with his. He was stroking her hair, while he gazed into space. 'Are you a bachelor? Or a widower?'
'Yes.'
She didn't know whether the 'Yes' applied to bachelor or to widower. And she felt a need to talk. If silence were allowed to fall, their situation would become absurd, lying there in this uninviting room, near a window covered with brown paper. 'Do you work in an office?'
'Yes.'
She was so afraid he would get up and resume his distant manner, that she nestled still closer to him, with a movement whose precision might pass as accidental.
He said nothing. That encouraged her. Her whole body vibrated, as though trying to take possession of the man, while she pressed her mouth against his, under the wiry moustache.
Mr. Hire's eyelids fluttered. Gently, he freed himself. Gently, too, he laid his cheek against Alice's cheek, so that they both lay with faces turned towards the ceiling.
'Don't move.'
He begged her in a whisper, squeezing her hand and panting slightly. His lips parted, and suddenly he got up, just as his eyes were filming over.
'I won't say anything,' he stuttered.
His jacket was rumpled up on his fat thighs. He walked over to the stove, while Alice, regardless of her disordered dress, sat up on the edge of the bed.
'After all, they can't do anything to you! And it means gaining time.'
She spoke calmly, her elbows on her knees and her chin in her hands.
'I don't suppose you care if they suspect you.'
Mr. Hire was winding the alarm-clock.
'When it's all blown over he'll leave the district and we shall have nothing to worry about.'
Mr. Hire heard no more than the hum of her voice. He was tired, with a mixture of physical and moral weariness. She did not realize this at first and went on talking, standing up now, walking about the room. When she noticed that he looked like a wax image again, she held out her hand with a smile.
'Good night. I must go
'Come closer . . . closer . ..'
She drew him towards her. Mr. Hire's elbow weighed on her breast.
'I'm all alone!' she managed to sob.
And he stared at her, from close to, frowning. He could feel her breath on his face. He was almost lying on her, and she was moving all the time, as though trying to force him into physical awareness. 'I know Émile will do what he said!'
She was growing dispirited, finding it hard to conceal her impatience, which was turning to anger. 'Won't you help me?'
She grasped him by the shoulders. This was the only thing left to try. She slipped one arm round his neck and pressed her burning cheek against his.
'Say yes . . . say yes . . .'
She was really shuddering, but from strain. And all at once he whispered in her ear:
'I've been very unhappy!'
He took no advantage of their physical contact, he did not seem to notice her stomach was crushed under him, one of her legs twined round his. He closed his eyes. He was breathing her in.
'Don't move!' he implored.
This gave her a chance to relax, and for an instant her face showed boredom and fatigue. When he half opened his eyes, she murmured, smiling:
'This is a nice room.'
It was harsh, probably because the lamp was unshaded. The lines were sharp. The colours clashed with one another. The oilcloth made the rectangle of the table look as cold and hard as a tombstone. 'Are you always alone?'
He tried to get up, but she held him back, pressed close against him. 'No. Stay here. I'm so comfortable! I feel as though . . .' And suddenly she asked, saucily: 'Will you let me come and tidy up for you, sometimes?' She meant more than that. She tried hard to set up another bond between them, but he seemed not to understand, and she was afraid of frightening him by making things too clear. 'You will save me, won't you?'
She was changing her attitude according to the inspiration of the moment, and this last phrase, for example, was a pretext for holding up her moist lips to him. He only brushed them with his. He was stroking her hair, while he gazed into space. 'Are you a bachelor? Or a widower?'
'Yes.'
She didn't know whether the 'Yes' applied to bachelor or to widower. And she felt a need to talk. If silence were allowed to fall, their situation would become absurd, lying there in this uninviting room, near a window covered with brown paper. 'Do you work in an office?'
'Yes.'
She was so afraid he would get up and resume his distant manner, that she nestled still closer to him, with a movement whose precision might pass as accidental.
He said nothing. That encouraged her. Her whole body vibrated, as though trying to take possession of the man, while she pressed her mouth against his, under the wiry moustache.
Mr. Hire's eyelids fluttered. Gently, he freed himself. Gently, too, he laid his cheek against Alice's cheek, so that they both lay with faces turned towards the ceiling.
'Don't move.'
He begged her in a whisper, squeezing her hand and panting slightly. His lips parted, and suddenly he got up, just as his eyes were filming over.
'I won't say anything,' he stuttered.
His jacket was rumpled up on his fat thighs. He walked over to the stove, while Alice, regardless of her disordered dress, sat up on the edge of the bed.
'After all, they can't do anything to you! And it means gaining time.'
She spoke calmly, her elbows on her knees and her chin in her hands.
'I don't suppose you care if they suspect you.'
Mr. Hire was winding the alarm-clock.
'When it's all blown over he'll leave the district and we shall have nothing to worry about.'
Mr. Hire heard no more than the hum of her voice. He was tired, with a mixture of physical and moral weariness. She did not realize this at first and went on talking, standing up now, walking about the room. When she noticed that he looked like a wax image again, she held out her hand with a smile.
'Good night. I must go
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