The Saint-Fiacre Affair by Georges Simenon; Translated by Shaun Whiteside Page B
Book: The Saint-Fiacre Affair by Georges Simenon; Translated by Shaun Whiteside
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ripped out rather than betray the secret of the confessional.
He found it preserved intact on his
retina, after thirty-five years.
âYou know the murderer â¦â he
murmured none the less.
âGod knows him â¦Â Excuse me â¦Â I
have to attend to a sick person â¦â
They left via the presbytery garden. A
little fence separated it from the road, where people leaving the chateau stayed in
groups a short distance away to talk about what had happened.
âDo you think, Father, that it
might not be your place â¦â
But they bumped into the doctor, who was
muttering into his beard:
âListen, Father! Do you not think
that this is starting to turn into a fairground? â¦Â Perhaps someone should go down
there and restore some order, if only to calm the villagers down! â¦Â Oh! Youâre
here, inspector! â¦Â Well, youâre making a fine mess of things â¦Â As we speak,
half the village is accusing the young count of â¦Â Especially since that woman got
here! â¦Â The estate manager is going to see the farmers to get together the forty
thousand francs which, it seems, are necessary for â¦â
âDammit!â
Maigret walked away. He was too upset.
And wasnât he being accused of being the cause of the chaos? What blunder had
he committed? What had he done? He would have given anything to see events play out
in a dignified atmosphere!
He strode towards the inn, which was half
full. He heard only the scrap of a sentence:
âApparently if they canât be
found he will go to prison â¦â
Marie Tatin was the very image of
distress. She was pacing back and forth, alert, trotting like an old woman even
though she wasnât more than forty.
âIs the lemonade for you? â¦Â Who
ordered two beers? â¦â
In his corner, Jean Métayer was writing,
sometimes raising his head to listen in on the conversations.
Maigret walked over to him and
couldnât read his scribbles, but saw that the lines were clearly divided, with
only a few crossings-out, each one preceded by a number:
1 â¦
2 â¦
3 â¦
The secretary was preparing his defence
as he waited for his lawyer!
A woman a few metres away said,
âThere werenât even any clean sheets, and they had to go to the estate
managerâs wife to ask for them â¦â
Pale, with drawn features but a
determined expression, Jean Métayer wrote:
4 â¦
5. The Second Day
Maigret slept the sleep, at once troubled
and sensual, that one only ever has in a cold country room that smells of stables,
winter apples and hay. Draughts circulated all around him. And his sheets were
frozen, except in the exact spot, the soft, intimate hollow that he had warmed with
his body. Consequently, rolled up in a ball, he avoided making the slightest
movement.
Several times he had heard the dry cough
of Jean Métayer in the neighbouring attic room. Then came the furtive footsteps of
Marie Tatin getting up.
He stayed in bed for another few
minutes. When he had lit the candle, he couldnât face washing with the icy
water from the jug and, deferring the task till later, went downstairs in his
slippers, without putting on a detachable collar.
Down below, Marie Tatin was pouring
paraffin on a fire that wouldnât light. Her hair was rolled up in hairpins,
and she blushed as she saw the inspector appear.
âIt isnât yet seven
oâclock â¦Â The coffee isnât ready â¦â
Maigret had one slight worry. In his
half-sleep, half an hour before, he had thought he heard a car passing. And yet
Saint-Fiacre isnât on the main road, and there was hardly any traffic apart
from the bus that passed through once a day.
âHas the bus left, Marie?â
âNever before half past eight!
He found it preserved intact on his
retina, after thirty-five years.
âYou know the murderer â¦â he
murmured none the less.
âGod knows him â¦Â Excuse me â¦Â I
have to attend to a sick person â¦â
They left via the presbytery garden. A
little fence separated it from the road, where people leaving the chateau stayed in
groups a short distance away to talk about what had happened.
âDo you think, Father, that it
might not be your place â¦â
But they bumped into the doctor, who was
muttering into his beard:
âListen, Father! Do you not think
that this is starting to turn into a fairground? â¦Â Perhaps someone should go down
there and restore some order, if only to calm the villagers down! â¦Â Oh! Youâre
here, inspector! â¦Â Well, youâre making a fine mess of things â¦Â As we speak,
half the village is accusing the young count of â¦Â Especially since that woman got
here! â¦Â The estate manager is going to see the farmers to get together the forty
thousand francs which, it seems, are necessary for â¦â
âDammit!â
Maigret walked away. He was too upset.
And wasnât he being accused of being the cause of the chaos? What blunder had
he committed? What had he done? He would have given anything to see events play out
in a dignified atmosphere!
He strode towards the inn, which was half
full. He heard only the scrap of a sentence:
âApparently if they canât be
found he will go to prison â¦â
Marie Tatin was the very image of
distress. She was pacing back and forth, alert, trotting like an old woman even
though she wasnât more than forty.
âIs the lemonade for you? â¦Â Who
ordered two beers? â¦â
In his corner, Jean Métayer was writing,
sometimes raising his head to listen in on the conversations.
Maigret walked over to him and
couldnât read his scribbles, but saw that the lines were clearly divided, with
only a few crossings-out, each one preceded by a number:
1 â¦
2 â¦
3 â¦
The secretary was preparing his defence
as he waited for his lawyer!
A woman a few metres away said,
âThere werenât even any clean sheets, and they had to go to the estate
managerâs wife to ask for them â¦â
Pale, with drawn features but a
determined expression, Jean Métayer wrote:
4 â¦
5. The Second Day
Maigret slept the sleep, at once troubled
and sensual, that one only ever has in a cold country room that smells of stables,
winter apples and hay. Draughts circulated all around him. And his sheets were
frozen, except in the exact spot, the soft, intimate hollow that he had warmed with
his body. Consequently, rolled up in a ball, he avoided making the slightest
movement.
Several times he had heard the dry cough
of Jean Métayer in the neighbouring attic room. Then came the furtive footsteps of
Marie Tatin getting up.
He stayed in bed for another few
minutes. When he had lit the candle, he couldnât face washing with the icy
water from the jug and, deferring the task till later, went downstairs in his
slippers, without putting on a detachable collar.
Down below, Marie Tatin was pouring
paraffin on a fire that wouldnât light. Her hair was rolled up in hairpins,
and she blushed as she saw the inspector appear.
âIt isnât yet seven
oâclock â¦Â The coffee isnât ready â¦â
Maigret had one slight worry. In his
half-sleep, half an hour before, he had thought he heard a car passing. And yet
Saint-Fiacre isnât on the main road, and there was hardly any traffic apart
from the bus that passed through once a day.
âHas the bus left, Marie?â
âNever before half past eight!
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