Read Online The Widow by Georges Simenon - Free Book Online

hanging around her grandfather and showing him her baby. She’s a different breed, she is, and I’d be curious to know who fathered her. Not Françoise’s husband, for sure. One look at her is enough to prove that.”
    Jean saw her often from afar. Perhaps it was this very remoteness that impressed him so much?
    Because of the canal embankment, all that could be seen of the house was the pink-tiled roof and the upper part of the white wall. It was Félicie’s custom, as day began to decline and the sun was setting behind her, to take up position near the lock, her baby on her arm.
    She was thin. She bent under the weight like the stalk of a too heavy flower. She would have seemed a mere child if the movement she made to support the baby had not thrown out her stomach, which gave her a mature and womanly look.
    The blue of her smock and the red of her hair stood out from a long way off.
    Jean would amble along the towpath and come nearer. He knew she watched his approach. He knew that under her greenish eyes there were golden freckles, and also that the watching made her screw up her nose.
    So as not to startle her, he would exaggerate his nonchalance, stopping to watch an angler’s cork or to pick a yellow flower from the bank.
    The wooden-legged lock-keeper turned his cranks. His children were sitting on the doorstep and an armless doll lay on the gravel.
    Jean would move a few yards nearer, and invariably Félicie would suddenly turn her back and hurry to her house, shutting the door behind her.
    He was the enemy, no doubt of that. Once, as he moved nearer still, the door opened again, but it was not Félicie who appeared. It was her mother, Françoise, stupid and surly, who took up her stand in the doorway in defense of her lair.
    â€œHow’s things?” he would ask the lock-keeper mechanically.
    And the lock-keeper would dart a suspicious look at him, and turn his back too.
    Jean was unconcerned. In his eyes, there remained the same lightness of expression. Was he thinking? Did he still need to think?
    He was living uncovenanted hours, hours he had not reckoned on, and his head was full of light, his nostrils drunk with summer scents, his limbs heavy with peace.
    â€œJean! … Jean! …” called Tati’s shrill voice.
    She was there in front of her house, fists on hips, short of leg, short of neck, strong of flesh.
    â€œProwling around Félicie again, eh? Hurry up and clean out the rabbit hutches. I’ve been telling you that for three days now. If I’ve got to do everything myself, it’s not worth my…. ”
    Twice, three times a day the two of them would lean over the incubator, which for Tati was truly a magic box. She did not yet dare believe that sixty chickens would hatch out at once.
    â€œRead out again what it says. I haven’t got my glasses. You’re sure we don’t have to put more water in? At night I’m always frightened the lamp will go out and I don’t know what stops me from taking a look. On Saturday I’ll bring you back a razor and everything you need. By then I hope I’ll get a letter from René.”
    She had visitors first. On Thursday. The after-dinner slack was just over and she had begun the dishes.
    â€œI want you to clear the weeds along the side of the house,” she had said to Jean.
    For all along the white wall nettles had grown. He had brought a hoe from the shed. Hatless, his shirt open, a cigarette between his lips, he was beginning to hoe the ground when he heard noises at the end of the hollow path.
    A hundred yards away, shaded by the hazels which let through only a few roundels of sun, a family group was approaching—a man in dark clothes with a little beard and a straw hat, a rather stout woman who probably perspired from walking, and a little boy in a sailor suit whom she was dragging along by the hand and who was whipping the air with a switch he had cut.
    In peasant