Monsieur Monde Vanishes by Georges Simenon Read Free Book Online Page A

was invariably lighthearted when he rose in the morning; his son had always seen him go by whistling to himself, his eye sparkling with the pleasure he had just enjoyed or that which he anticipated.
    In this way he had squandered his wife’s dowry, and his wife had borne him no grudge. He had almost ruined the business inherited from his father and grandfather, and it was his son who’d had to labor year after year to set it on its feet again.
    In spite of it all, when this man had at last succumbed to illness, his family had rallied around him, and he’d enjoyed the devotion of a wife who had never uttered one word of reproach and had spent her life waiting for him.
    The whole thing was so overwhelming, incommensurate with words, on the scale of the sea, the sand, and the sun. Monsieur Monde felt like a great caryatid released, at long last, from its burden. He did not complain. He did not recriminate. He bore no resentment against anyone. Only, for the first time, now that it was over, he let his weariness flow out, like streams of rainwater blurring the windowpane, and he felt his body grow warmer and more peaceful.
    â€œWhy have you treated me so harshly?” he longed to whisper in the sea’s ear.
    He had tried so hard to do the right thing! He had married so as to have a home and children, he had wanted to be a fruitful, not a sterile, tree; and one morning his wife had left him; he had found himself with a baby in one cot, a small girl in the other, without understanding, without knowing; he had been in despair, and those whom he questioned had smiled at his innocence; and finally, in forgotten drawers, he had discovered horrible drawings, obscene photographs, unspeakable things that had revealed to him the true nature of the woman he had thought so guileless.
    In his heart of hearts he had borne her no resentment, he had pitied her for the demon she had inside her. And for the children’s sake he had married again.
    He stretched out his whole frame in deep relief, and the little shining waves came up to lick the sand by his side; perhaps one of them would soon reach him for a caress.
    He had borne his burden as long as his strength had lasted. How horrible it all was! His wife, his daughter, his son … And then money! … His money or their money, he no longer knew, he no longer wanted to know.… What was the good, since it was over and done with, and now at last …
    Somebody was walking about. Loud footsteps that seemed to go right through him, a floor reverberating cruelly, a door opening and shutting, an agonizing silence; he was aware of two people face to face, two people looking one another up and down, who were both on the very verge of tragedy.
    â€œNo!”
    He passed his hand over his face, and his face was dry; he passed it over the pillow, without encountering the damp patch under his chin. His eyelids were smarting, but it was from fatigue, and perhaps, too, from the soot of the train; and the train was responsible, too, for the ache in his limbs.
    Who had said “No”? He sat up, his eyes wide open, and saw a slender ray of light under a door, the door next to his in a Marseilles hotel whose name he had forgotten.
    The man who had said “No” was striding back and forth on the other side of the wall. The catch of a suitcase clicked open.
    â€œJean!”
    â€œI said no!”
    â€œPlease, Jean! Listen to me! Let me explain, at least.…”
    â€œNo!”
    The words came from outside, from out of the night. The man’s movements were quick and unhesitating. Probably he was taking his scattered belongings out of the wardrobe and cramming them into the suitcase.… Probably the woman was clinging to him, for there was a soft thud followed by a moan. He must have pushed her away, and she had collapsed somewhere or other.
    â€œJean, listen to me.…”
    She must have been frantic. For her, too, the petty considerations of