Pedigree by Georges Simenon Read Free Book Online

kiss.’
    Félicie put some parcels on the table, a bottle of port she had taken from the bar, a breakfast-set in floral porcelain, and a purse full of money.
    â€˜No, Félicie, no money! You know perfectly well that Désiré…’
    Already they were speaking Flemish, instinctively, as they did whenever they managed to meet. Félicie was only a few years older than Élise. She had been a shop-assistant like her sister. She had married Coustou, who kept the Café du Marché near the Pont des Arches; he was so jealous that he never let her go out and forbade her to entertain any of her relatives. The two women could see each other only in secret.
    Valérie came and went, without understanding anything of the two sisters’ effusions. Élise could at last weep freely.
    â€˜Aren’t you happy?’
    â€˜Of course, my poor little Félicie.’
    Félicie’s breath smelled of port. Yet before her marriage she had not been in the habit of drinking. During an attack of anaemia, the doctor had recommended stout and she had grown accustomed to it. In her café, on the Quai de la Goffe, she had too many opportunities, with bottles within easy reach from morning to night.
    Ã‰lise went on crying, for no particular reason, for all sorts of reasons, because the baby was hot, because she was afraid she would not be able to feed him, because the sky was gloomy and overcast.
    â€˜You haven’t seen Léopold lately?’
    â€˜No. Have you?’
    Ã‰lise lied. She said no.
    â€˜I must dash. If Coustou noticed I’d gone out …’
    For all that Désiré had crossed the bridges, on account of the flat they had found in the town, he had never missed Mass on Sunday at Saint-Nicholas. Even on civic guard Sundays, he left his companions just when, having finished the morning’s drill, they made for a little café nearby. He left his rifle with the sacristan who ran a little shop which sold candles and sweets. He arrived just in time for the eleven o’clock Mass, and, with his regular, elastic stride, and with a discreet nod to the people he knew—and he knew everybody—he went and took his place in his pew, the Mamelins’ pew, the last in the row and the best, the only one with a high back of solid wood which stopped the inevitable draught every time the padded door opened.
    His inner band-music merged with the voice of the organ. He remained standing, very erect, too tall to kneel down in such a narrow space. Without a word, he shook hands with his neighbours and, throughout the Mass, he gazed steadily at the high altar with the choir-boys gravitating round it.
    The Mamelins’ pew was the pew of the Brotherhood of St. Roch, whose statue could be seen on the first pillar, with the green mantle edged with gold, the bleeding knee and the faithful hound.
    â€˜For … ood … ain … och … ease …’
    For good St. Roch, please!
    At the early Masses, it was Chrétien Mamelin, with his long white moustache and his only very slightly bent shoulders, who went from pew to pew, shaking the wooden bowl attached to a long handle so as to jingle the money in it; and every time a coin dropped into it one could hear in a minor key:
    â€˜â€¦ ay … od … ayou …’
    May God repay you!
    After which, returning to his pew, old Mamelin slipped the coins one after another into the slot made specially for the purpose.
    The Elevation … The Communion … Désiré’s lips moved beneath his moustache and his steady gaze remained fixed on the tabernacle.
    â€˜ Ite missa est …’
    The organ … The sound of the crowd stamping across the great blue flagstones, and the rain outside, the pale daylight, the wind blowing from the Place de Bavière …
    Going along a poor little alley-way, an alley-way dating back to the days of the beggars, where the children played practically naked and the dirty