The Widow by Georges Simenon Read Free Book Online Page A

seventeen, their faces scrubbed shiny, shouted as they tried to amuse themselves.
    On the way back, Jean met old Couderc, who had put on his Sunday clothes at last and, in his black suit and broad white tie, looked as if he were going to a wedding or a funeral. He was walking along the canal, his pace slack. He did not see, or pretended not to see, his new lodger.
    â€œYou didn’t stay too long. That’s good. That’s good! Sit down. Take a chair with a back.”
    He brought a chair from the kitchen, one with a straw seat, and settled himself astride it. Then, without speaking, he puffed out the blue smoke of his cigarette, and watched a little boy who was fishing with a stick he had cut in the woods.
    Tati knitted on. Her needles made a clicking sound and now and then, when she counted her stitches, her lips could be seen moving. Whenever she turned her head, he knew it was to peer at him.
    When, after a very long time, she finally made up her mind to speak, it was to say, “There’s not a man living that can frighten me.”
    Then, as if in anger, “You’re all alike! You show off. You look as if you wanted to smash everything, when really …”
    He did not answer. Perhaps he had become a little more grave? A shadow had passed. He could no longer see the little boy fishing.
    â€œThe gendarmes said to me: ‘From now on, it’s up to you! You can’t say you haven’t been warned…. ’ ”
    Another silence, another row of knitting.
    â€œAnd I said to them: ‘Don’t you worry! He won’t try to put anything over on me …. ”
    â€œDid they tell you my name?”
    â€œPasserat-Monnoyeur. An easy name to remember, seeing it’s on all the bottles. Funny, your having the same name as the distiller at Montluçon.”
    â€œIt isn’t funny.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œIt isn’t funny, he’s my father.”
    He shot it out lightly, as though for his own amusement, and in the same key she replied, “That’s enough!”
    â€œWhat’s enough?”
    â€œLook, son … I know Monsieur Passerat-Monnoyeur. And well I should know him, seeing my sister was in service there for years. He’s far too proud a man to let his son go to prison. Besides, he’s so rich that his son would have no need to…. ”
    She stopped, looked him in the eye, asked, “Perhaps you don’t like talking about it?”
    â€œWell …”
    â€œAll right! Not that I care to. The gendarmes told me the whole story. They warned me I was keeping you at my own risk. So, now, it’s my turn to warn you. Do you understand, my boy? … I’m not afraid of you, or anybody. Today is Sunday, and we can rest a bit…. ”
    She noticed that her tone was less familiar, perhaps because they had been talking of the Passerat-Monnoyeurs.
    â€œBut you’d better toe the line, understand? And you’ll have to get up earlier in the morning, because livestock won’t wait to be fed until the sun’s halfway up the sky. Go and get my glasses. On the mantelpiece, on the right …”
    Toward three o’clock there were quite a few people strolling along the canal. Some came from the village, walking leisurely, in family groups, the children walking in front and kicking at the stones. Most of all, there were people on bicycles and a few tourists with packs on their backs. The grass was a dark green, the water almost black. In contrast, the newborn foliage of the chestnuts was tender and the sunshine splashed it with large daubs of gold.
    â€œHow long have you been out?”
    â€œFive days.”
    â€œRené only did six months and I used to go and see him every week. Poor kid! And what for? A few lighters they couldn’t have sold without getting themselves pinched, some receipt stamps and some pipes …”
    â€œThey broke into a tobacco shop?”
    â€œThere