The Saint-Fiacre Affair by Georges Simenon; Translated by Shaun Whiteside

shyly:
    â€˜Will you take a little glass of
     brandy, sir?’
    â€˜You used to call me by my first
     name, Marie!’
    She laughed. No, she didn’t
     dare!
    â€˜But you haven’t had lunch
     yourself!’
    â€˜No, I have! I always eat in the
     kitchen, without stopping. A mouthful now … A mouthful later …’
    A motorbike passed along the road. They
     could just make out a more elegant young man than most of the inhabitants of
     Saint-Fiacre.
    â€˜Who was that?’
    â€˜Didn’t you see him this
     morning? Émile Gautier, the estate manager’s son.’
    â€˜Where’s he
     going?’
    â€˜Probably Moulins! He’s
     practically a city-dweller. He works in a bank.’
    People could be seen coming out of their
     houses, walking along the road or heading towards the cemetery.
    Strangely, Maigret was sleepy. He felt
     exhausted, as if he had been over-exerting himself. And it wasn’t because he
     had got up at half past five in the morning, or because he had caught a cold.
    It was the atmosphere that was
     oppressing him. He felt personally affected by events, and filled with disgust.
    Yes, disgust! That was the word! He had
     never imagined that he would find his village in this state. Even his father’s
     grave, the stone quite blackened, where he had been told he couldn’t
     smoke!
    Opposite him, Jean Métayer emanated
     self-confidence. He knew he was being watched. As he ate, he forced himself to
     remain calm and even affected a vaguely contemptuous smile.
    â€˜A little glass?’ Marie
     Tatin suggested to him as well.
    â€˜No, thank you! I never drink
     alcohol …’
    He was polite. He liked to display good
     manners on all occasions. At the inn he ate with the same precious gestures as he
     would have done at the chateau.
    Once his meal was finished, he asked:
     ‘Do you have a telephone?’
    â€˜No, but there’s one
     opposite, in the kiosk …’
    He crossed the road and went into the
     grocery shop run by the sacristan, where the kiosk was situated. He must have been
     asking for a long-distance call, because he was seen waiting in the shop for a long
     time, smoking cigarette after cigarette.
    When he came back, the villagers had
     left the inn. Marie Tatin washed the glasses in anticipation of Vespers, which would
     bring in new customers.
    â€˜Who were you calling? Remember
     that I can find out by going to the telephone …’
    â€˜My father, in Bourges.’
    His voice was brusque, aggressive.
    â€˜I asked him to send me a lawyer
     straight away.’
    He was like one of those yappy little
     dogs who show their teeth even before you go to touch them.
    â€˜Are you so sure that
     they’re going to bother you?’
    â€˜I will ask you not to speak to me
     before my lawyer arrives. Believe me, I’m sorry there’s only one inn
     around here.’
    Did he hear the words that the inspector
     muttered as he left?
    â€˜Idiot! … Stupid little idiot
      …’
    And Marie Tatin, although she
     didn’t know why, was afraid to be left on her own with him.
    The whole day would be marked by chaos,
     by indecision, probably because no one felt qualified to take control of events.
    Maigret, wrapped up in his heavy overcoat,
     was wandering about the village. He was seen now in the church square, now around
     the chateau, whose windows were lighting up one by one.
    For night was falling quickly. The
     church was illuminated and echoed with the sound of organ music. The bell-ringer
     closed the cemetery gate.
    And groups of people, barely visible in
     the darkness, had gathered to ask each other whether they should visit the bedside
     of the deceased. Two men set off first, and were received by the butler, who
     didn’t know what was supposed to happen either. No tray had been prepared for
     visiting cards. They tried to find Maurice de Saint-Fiacre