Monsieur Monde Vanishes by Georges Simenon

that she was crawling on the floor, on the grubby red carpet of the hotel bedroom; one could imagine her clinging to the man’s trouser leg, and being kicked away.
    â€œI swear … I swear … I swear …”
    She was gasping, and only blurred syllables rose to her lips.
    â€œâ€¦ that I’ve taken poison.…”
    The door opened and slammed shut. Footsteps sounded along the corridor and then moved away down the stairs. From below there could be heard the faint sound of a conversation between the departing guest and the black-clad clerk at the reception desk.
    Monsieur Monde was standing in the middle of his room, in the dark. He groped along the unfamiliar walls to find the switch, and was surprised to see himself in his shirt, barefooted. He moved close to the communicating door to listen, and heard nothing, not a sob, not a breath.
    Then, resignedly, he picked up his trousers from the foot of the bed, trousers that did not seem to be his own. Having no bedroom slippers, he put on his shoes, leaving them unlaced.
    He went out of his room noiselessly, hesitated in front of the neighboring door, and then knocked timidly. No voice answered. His hand turned the doorknob, but he still dared not push it open.
    At last he heard a barely perceptible sound, as though someone were choking and trying to inhale a little air.
    He went in. The room was just like his own, just a little larger. The wardrobe was wide open, as was the bathroom door, and a woman was sitting on the floor, curiously hunched up, somewhat like a Chinese mandarin. Her bleached hair hung over her face. Her eyes were red, but dry. She was clasping both hands over her breast and staring blankly in front of her.
    She did not seem surprised to see him. Yet she watched him come close without making a single movement or saying a word.
    â€œWhat have you done?” he asked.
    He didn’t know what he must look like, with his trousers unfastened, his sparse hair ruffled on his head, as it was when he got up in the mornings, and his gaping shoes.
    She gasped: “Close the door.”
    Then: “He’s gone, hasn’t he?”
    And after a silence: “I know him; he won’t come back.… How stupid it all is!”
    She screamed out these last words with the frenzy she had shown earlier, raising her arms to heaven as though reproaching it for the idiocy of men.
    â€œHow stupid it all is!”
    And she got up, leaning on her hands so that at one point he saw her on all fours on the carpet. She was wearing a very short, tight-fitting dress of black silk from which emerged long legs clad in flesh-colored stockings. Her lipstick and mascara had run a little, making her look like a washed-out doll.
    â€œWhat are you doing here?”
    She could scarcely stand upright. She was weary. She was about to lie down on the bed, the coverlet of which had been turned down, but before doing so she looked suspiciously at the man who had come into her room.
    â€œI heard …”he stammered. “I was afraid … Have you …”
    She made a grimace, as a spasm of nausea seized her. And she whispered to herself: “I must try to be sick.”
    â€œYou’ve taken something, haven’t you?”
    â€œBarbiturates …” She was walking to and fro, concerned with what was happening inside her, an anxious frown on her forehead. “I always kept some in my bag, because he slept badly.… Oh God!”
    She clasped her hands, as though to wring them in renewed frenzy.
    â€œI never can be sick! … Perhaps it’s better so.… I thought when he knew I’d …”
    She was frightened. Panic was visibly overwhelming her. And her terrified eyes eventually settled on the stranger, while she implored him:
    â€œWhat am I to do? Tell me what I must do!”
    â€œI’ll send for a doctor.…”
    â€œNo, not that! … You don’t know … That would be the worst