flowerseller. The old woman counted out some coins, and the young woman chose
mimosas.
Meanwhile, Brown had taken up a position a
few metres from the hearse, limiting himself to a wave in the direction of Maigret and
Boutigues.
‘I’d better inform him of what
I have arranged for the service …’ the latter sighed.
The part of the market nearest to them
slowed its pace, and people watched the unfolding spectacle. But a mere twenty metres
away, it was business as normal: the din of shouts and laughter, all the flowers, fruits
and vegetables under the sun, and the smell of garlic and mimosa.
There were four pallbearers carrying the
coffin, which was enormous and weighed down by a profusion of bronze ornaments.
Boutigues came back.
‘He doesn’t seem to care. He
just shrugged his shoulders …’
The crowd parted. The horses started
walking. Harry
Brown advanced stiffly, hat in hand, looking at the tips
of his polished shoes.
The four women hesitated. They exchanged
glances. Then, as the crowd closed in behind them, they found themselves unintentionally
walking side by side, just behind Brown Junior and his secretary.
The doors of the church were wide open;
the interior was completely empty and delightfully cool.
Brown stood at the top of the steps until
they had removed the coffin from the hearse. He was used to ceremonial occasions. It
didn’t bother him one bit that he was the focus of everyone’s attention.
More than that, he quietly studied the
four women, without appearing overly curious.
The orders had come too late. They
realized at the last minute that they had failed to inform the organist. The priest
called Boutigues forwards and whispered to him; when the latter returned from the
sacristy, he was quite upset and announced to Maigret:
‘There won’t be any music
… We’d have to wait at least another quarter of an hour … At least!
The organist must be out fishing for mackerel …’
A few people wandered into the church,
glanced around and then left. And Brown continued to stand to attention and look around
him with the same light curiosity.
It was a swift service, without an organ,
without a eulogy. A sprinkling of holy water from the aspergillum. And then straight
afterwards the pallbearers carried the coffin out.
It was already hot
outside. They passed in front of a hairdresser’s window as a barber in a white
jacket was opening the shutters. A man was shaving before his open window. And the
people on their way to work turned round astonished at the sight of this tiny cortège,
where the derisory escort was so out of kilter with the pomp of the funeral
carriage.
The two women from Cannes and the two
women from Antibes were still walking in a row, though they kept a metre apart. They
were followed by an empty taxi. Boutigues, who had taken on the responsibility for this
ceremony, was nervous.
‘Do you think there will be a
scandal?’
There wasn’t. The cemetery, with all
its flowers, was as colourful as the market. At the open grave they found the priest and
an altar boy, whom they hadn’t noticed arrive.
Harry Brown was invited to cast the first
handful of earth. Then there was a moment of uncertainty. The old woman in mourning
dress pushed her daughter forwards and followed her.
Brown had already gone striding off to the
empty taxi that was waiting at the cemetery gate.
Another moment of uncertainty. Maigret
stood back, with Boutigues. Jaja and Sylvie didn’t dare leave without saying
goodbye to him. Only the women in mourning got there before them.
‘That was his son, wasn’t it?
… I suppose he’ll want to come to the villa?’
‘Perhaps. I don’t know
…’
But they had eyes only
for Jaja and Sylvie. They alone grabbed their attention.
‘Where are they from? … People
like that shouldn’t be allowed …’
There were birds singing in all the trees.
The
mimosas.
Meanwhile, Brown had taken up a position a
few metres from the hearse, limiting himself to a wave in the direction of Maigret and
Boutigues.
‘I’d better inform him of what
I have arranged for the service …’ the latter sighed.
The part of the market nearest to them
slowed its pace, and people watched the unfolding spectacle. But a mere twenty metres
away, it was business as normal: the din of shouts and laughter, all the flowers, fruits
and vegetables under the sun, and the smell of garlic and mimosa.
There were four pallbearers carrying the
coffin, which was enormous and weighed down by a profusion of bronze ornaments.
Boutigues came back.
‘He doesn’t seem to care. He
just shrugged his shoulders …’
The crowd parted. The horses started
walking. Harry
Brown advanced stiffly, hat in hand, looking at the tips
of his polished shoes.
The four women hesitated. They exchanged
glances. Then, as the crowd closed in behind them, they found themselves unintentionally
walking side by side, just behind Brown Junior and his secretary.
The doors of the church were wide open;
the interior was completely empty and delightfully cool.
Brown stood at the top of the steps until
they had removed the coffin from the hearse. He was used to ceremonial occasions. It
didn’t bother him one bit that he was the focus of everyone’s attention.
More than that, he quietly studied the
four women, without appearing overly curious.
The orders had come too late. They
realized at the last minute that they had failed to inform the organist. The priest
called Boutigues forwards and whispered to him; when the latter returned from the
sacristy, he was quite upset and announced to Maigret:
‘There won’t be any music
… We’d have to wait at least another quarter of an hour … At least!
The organist must be out fishing for mackerel …’
A few people wandered into the church,
glanced around and then left. And Brown continued to stand to attention and look around
him with the same light curiosity.
It was a swift service, without an organ,
without a eulogy. A sprinkling of holy water from the aspergillum. And then straight
afterwards the pallbearers carried the coffin out.
It was already hot
outside. They passed in front of a hairdresser’s window as a barber in a white
jacket was opening the shutters. A man was shaving before his open window. And the
people on their way to work turned round astonished at the sight of this tiny cortège,
where the derisory escort was so out of kilter with the pomp of the funeral
carriage.
The two women from Cannes and the two
women from Antibes were still walking in a row, though they kept a metre apart. They
were followed by an empty taxi. Boutigues, who had taken on the responsibility for this
ceremony, was nervous.
‘Do you think there will be a
scandal?’
There wasn’t. The cemetery, with all
its flowers, was as colourful as the market. At the open grave they found the priest and
an altar boy, whom they hadn’t noticed arrive.
Harry Brown was invited to cast the first
handful of earth. Then there was a moment of uncertainty. The old woman in mourning
dress pushed her daughter forwards and followed her.
Brown had already gone striding off to the
empty taxi that was waiting at the cemetery gate.
Another moment of uncertainty. Maigret
stood back, with Boutigues. Jaja and Sylvie didn’t dare leave without saying
goodbye to him. Only the women in mourning got there before them.
‘That was his son, wasn’t it?
… I suppose he’ll want to come to the villa?’
‘Perhaps. I don’t know
…’
But they had eyes only
for Jaja and Sylvie. They alone grabbed their attention.
‘Where are they from? … People
like that shouldn’t be allowed …’
There were birds singing in all the trees.
The