The Widow by Georges Simenon Read Free Book Online

because of the stew to be watched. His pipe was rather strong. Before, he used to smoke nothing but cigarettes. He turned around as he heard the bells of two bicycles. Two gendarmes were riding slowly along and looked closely at him.
    The gendarmes rode on for another quarter of a mile or so. Then they got off and came back to him.
    â€œHave you got your papers?”
    Unlike the women in the bus, these two had made no mistake. Their thick eyebrows bristled with suspicion. They looked at each other with all the cunning of men you can’t fool.
    From his hip pocket Jean fetched out some folded papers which they inspected. From their pouches they took other papers, compared the two sets, moved away for a brief whispered discussion.
    â€œYou know you’re not allowed to leave the Département?”
    â€œI know.”
    â€œAnd that you must register as soon as you have a place to live?”
    â€œI have one. I was meaning to come and report tomorrow.”
    There was a tinge of respect in the attitude of the two officers. If Jean had been an ordinary tramp, they would have spoken to him much more familiarly. But here was a man about whom special instructions had been sent, a man who had just done five years at Fontevrault.
    â€œWhere are you living?”
    â€œAt Madame Couderc’s.”
    â€œShe hired you?”
    â€œAs a farmhand.”
    â€œWe’re taking your papers along. You’ll get them back when the inspector’s seen them.”
    They mounted. Jean, hands in his pockets, jumped over the lock and prowled near the brickyard in the hope of seeing Félicie. He even glanced into the house. No doubt the little slut was at church, for all he could see, in the half darkness of the kitchen, where a bed had been set up, was the baby standing in a wicker frame which enabled it to walk. A woman noticed his presence and came to take a closer look. She looked crabby, had an evil eye. Finding nothing to say to him, she banged the door in his face, even if that left her in almost total darkness.
    So, at loose ends, he went and sat down beside the fisherman, who made no effort to engage in conversation and kept on placidly throwing into the water the little pellets smelling of cheese that he used as bait.
    Sitting there, he saw Tati come back from church. A little later he noted the two gendarmes, who were riding just as slowly as before along the towpath. They got off their bicycles outside the house and went into the kitchen.
    They came out again a good quarter of an hour later, wiping their mustaches, which showed they had been given a drink.
    Tati had not changed her dress. The cameo on her bosom produced almost the same effect as the downy mole on her left cheek. She had stacked the dirty dishes in a pail, wiped the table, and then suggested, “We might go and sit outside. Put the armchair and another chair in front of the door…. ”
    He realized that this was part of the traditional Sunday ritual. The armchair was made of wickerwork, with a red seat cushion and a triangular cushion as a headrest. For all her Sunday best, Tati went and took off her shoes, which probably pinched, and came back in a brand-new pair of blue slippers.
    â€œIn a little while, we’ll put the eggs in the incubator. This morning it was a hundred and one. If we turn up the wick a little more…. ”
    But it was Sunday. She was in no hurry. The gendarmes had had their drop of brandy, as two unwashed little glasses bore witness.
    â€œYou took one of Couderc’s pipes?”
    By the way, where was the old man? He had disappeared immediately after the meal.
    â€œI haven’t any cigarettes left,” Jean admitted.
    â€œI’ll give you three francs to go and buy some. But don’t you go and spend all afternoon in the village!”
    And, as she watched him go, she spread some knitting on her lap and picked up her needles.
    The village was almost empty. Two boys of sixteen or