Pedigree

by Georges Simenon

  And suddenly, when Élise least expected it, she found herself in front of an open door. She did not realize this straight away, for the room was in total darkness and it was the light coming from the street which told her.

  ‘Come in quick. What do you want? What have you come to complain about now? It’s Désiré, isn’t it?’

  As if, when two Peters girls came together, it was necessarily to complain about something! Élise wanted to throw herself into her sister’s arms. She could just make her out, in the orange halo of light coming from the glass roof of the meat market. Marthe, her hair falling untidily on to her shoulders, like a woman who had just got out of bed, looked fat and flabby, she who, a few years before, had had the bearing of a queen.

  ‘Poor Marthe! If you only knew how unhappy I am …’

  She had been unable to think of anything else and, in any case, it was exactly the right thing to say. There they were, the two of them, crying in the same way, shedding the same warm tears without a single sob.

  ‘Poor dear! But I warned you. Men, you know … What has he been doing to you?’

  Désiré would be coming home any time now! Roger was with Madame Pain who was quite capable of letting him play with matches. Élise had promised:

  ‘Just half an hour, Madame Pain. The time it takes to run there and back.’

  Monsieur Pain would be coming home too, and he was a difficult man.

  ‘Dear God, Marthe! Why don’t you light the lamp? Why do you lock yourself in like this?’

  Already Marthe had scented the enemy.

  ‘I thought your tears were just crocodile tears! What have you come for, eh? Go on, admit that it was him that sent you! You are in league with him, with that filthy brute, that miser with a stone instead of a heart.’

  She went towards the bedside table on which Élise could see a revolver.

  ‘One day I’ll do it, you’ll see!’

  A cry.

  ‘Marthe!’

  ‘I mean what I say, you’ll see! He treats me like a servant! He treats everybody like servants! And all men are the same! All of them!’

  An unmade bed, some shapeless objects lying around, some food and a dirty glass which Élise could just make out in the reflected light from the glass cupola opposite.

  ‘There! I knew it! He’s listening at the keyhole.’

  ‘I tell you you’re wrong, Marthe.’

  ‘There’s only him that counts, him and his money. If it was in his interest to kill me, he’d do it. Do you hear? Your Désiré too! All men. They know what they want. It’s disgusting, and when they’ve finished their filthy business, they fill their pipes and think of nothing but making money.’

  She became suspicious once more.

  ‘Why did you come here today, when other days you went along the street without coming into the shop?’

  This time, Élise started sobbing, without knowing why, and with her nerves on edge implored her sister:

  ‘Light the gas.’

  She changed her mind straight away.

  ‘Wait! I’ll do it. Give me the matches.’

  It was too late. Marthe had already climbed on to a chair, and her sister saw that she was swaying, that she was probably going to fall and set the house on fire.

  ‘Mind out, Marthe.’

  ‘If you think I’m drunk…’

  A poof! A bright light engulfed them, a cold white light in which they scarcely recognized each other for a moment.

  Marthe whispered:

  ‘Oh, my poor girl … I wouldn’t hurt a fly …’

  This time Élise had heard Schroefs moving away from the door, and, reassured, returning to his leather armchair in the dining-room.

  The bed was in disorder, the table too, there was disorder everywhere in that comfortable room which had been turned upside down, and Marthe was tousle-haired like a fishwife, like those women you saw fighting and shouting filthy words in the back-streets. It was Élise who did the talking, in Flemish, blowing her nose, twisting her handkerchief, moaning and whispering, without taking her eyes off the revolver, even when the two sisters finally fell into each other’s arms.

  A quarter of an hour later, the door opened a little way and then shut again. Élise went into the dining-room after knocking. Hubert, who was at table with the children, did not invite her to join them. She motioned to him and slipped the weapon into his hand.

  ‘Désiré’s waiting for me. I have to get back. Whatever you do, don’t rush her. She’s quieter now. She’s going to sleep. Tomorrow, all you need do is behave as if nothing had happened.’

  ‘You wouldn’t care to come here with your husband after lunch, would you? We’ve some people coming. I think it might be a good idea.’

  ‘You think so, Hubert?’

  As if she didn’t know that, for her and Désiré to be invited, they had to have need of her!

  She started running again. The lights of the shop windows had disappeared. She explained over and over again, all by herself:

  ‘You mustn’t be cross with me … I assure you, Désiré …’

  There was a light in the flat in the Rue Pasteur. Just as she was putting the key in the lock, the door opened. Désiré was there, huge and icy.

  ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘Listen, Désiré, I …’

  ‘And the child?’

  ‘What? You haven’t…’

  He had not thought that the child would be at Madame Pain’s. When he had found the house empty, he had sat down at first, after putting some more coal on the stove, thinking that his wife and son would be back in a few minutes.

  ‘It’s half past seven.’

  ‘Dear God! Wait a minute, and I’ll go and fetch Roger. And there’s Monsieur Pain at home!’

  She had never seen Désiré looking so pale. It made her tremble as she was running to Madame Pain’s and, while she was banging on the letter-box, her legs nearly gave way. The empty house, already cold, and, when she had come home without the child, Désiré, white as a sheet, opening the door!

  She came back and found him sitting by the fire with his eyes shut, like a man who has had a severe shock and needs some time to recover.

  ‘Forgive me, Désiré. If you only knew! Just imagine, my sister Marthe …’

  Then he stood up and, for the first time, raised his voice.

  ‘I don’t care about Marthe, do you hear? I don’t care about her! I don’t care a damn about her!’

  And he went into the bedroom to conceal his emotion, the nervous collapse which had overtaken him after his fright.

  ‘What did you think had happened, Désiré?’

  He would not say. He had thought, dammit, of the slimy streets, of the narrow pavements of the Rue Puits-en-Sock, of Élise always running like a lunatic, of a tram knocking passers-by over like so many skittles.

  ‘Come and have your supper. And forgive me.’

  It was just then that Léopold, who had not drunk his fill, came limping home. Looking up, he saw a slit of light round the trapdoor leading to his flat. He was not surprised. He climbed up the ladder, lifted the trap-door with his shoulders, felt that the room was warm, and saw that everything was tidy, the fire lit, the table laid. He just had time to take off his shoes, which had taken in water like sponges, before the trap-door opened again. Eugénie appeared, a shawl over her shoulders, a packet of meat in her hand.

  ‘There you are, Léopold!’

  She said this as if the surprising thing was to see him there, him and not her.

  ‘You haven’t had your supper, I hope?’

  They did not kiss and scarcely looked at one another, merely darting furtive little glances at each other, glances full of trust and tenderness.

  Eugénie had cleaned the flat from top to bottom. It was always like that when she returned. People said that she had a cameo profile, because her features were unusually regular, and she had the most beautiful dark eyes in the world.

  ‘I wasn’t happy with those people any m
ore. They never entertained and they never knew what they were eating. I told them it was a waste of time taking a cook if you weren’t capable of telling the difference between one dish and another.’

  She had brought some tobacco for Léopold.

  ‘Your overcoat’s unstitched again at the collar. I wonder why it is that your overcoats always come unstitched at the collar?’

  She would sew it up again later, while he was falling asleep; she would stay there maybe a week, maybe a month, as long as her money lasted; and then she would look for a new post. She would not say anything to Léopold. But one day he would find the flat empty, with a cold supper on the table.

  Désiré had not scolded her. Thinking he would be cross, she had not dared to speak to him about Schroefs’ invitation. She had got up early to go to the first Mass. She had prayed for a long time, with tears in her eyes, for Félicie, for Marthe, for herself, for all who were unhappy on earth.

  She knew that Marthe was no more responsible than Félicie, perhaps less. Marthe was unhappy. It wasn’t her fault. She was short of nothing, and yet no woman with a spark of feeling in her could have been happy in her place.

  There were some Mamelins in church. She took the opportunity, outside, in the cold light of dawn, to wish them a happy New Year, kissing them three times.

  The rain had stopped. You could feel that it was going to freeze. Already, in patches, the pavements were turning a hard grey.

  ‘A happy New Year to you, Lucien, and lots of luck, and may all your wishes come true. Tell Catherine, in case I don’t see her, that I wish her a happy New Year.’

  She went home, lit the fire, and sprinkled some paraffin on it to make it burn faster. Then she ground some coffee and heard Désiré moving.

  ‘A happy New Year, Désiré. I beg your pardon again for yesterday. I swear that I couldn’t help it. Happy New Year, little Roger.’

  It was too bright to light the lamp, too dark to see properly. She washed the child and dressed him, watching the breakfast at the same time, while Désiré shaved by the window.

  ‘Listen, Désiré. Don’t get cross before I’ve finished. I simply must go this afternoon to Schroefs’ house. I’ve promised. Hubert insisted on you coming too.’

  What she was saying was so bold that she did not dare to look at her husband. Until now, the New Year’s Day ritual had been immutably fixed and it was in the Rue Puits-en-Sock that they had always spent the afternoon. Mother Mamelin had been dead only a few months. Élise went on with a lump in her throat:

  ‘I’m afraid that something might happen. When Marthe is like that, she’s capable of anything.’

  Did Désiré understand the importance of the game which was being played, possibly the most decisive of their life together? His face, over which he was carefully passing the razor, was reflected, motionless, in the wardrobe mirror which looked dirty in the half-light.

  ‘You could drop in at your home this morning, I’ll go with the boy to kiss your father, about ten o’clock.’

  He said nothing, which meant yes. She was afraid that he might be sad, or vexed, or cross, and while she was eating her eggs and bacon she talked about Marthe, hurriedly, to avoid having a silence.

  ‘It’s partly Hubert’s fault. He does nothing to make life pleasant for her. He gives her everything she wants, of course. She just has to dip into the shop. But on the other hand she never gets a compliment, a sign of affection, a delicate gesture. When he goes upstairs in the evening he slumps in his armchair with a groan and starts reading his paper …’

  Désiré had left to go to Mass. He sat down in the pew of the Brotherhood of St. Roch. His father took the collection. Everybody knew them and shook hands with them outside.

  ‘Happy New Year.’

  ‘All the best.’

  They embraced, very simply, scarcely touching one another, as generals kiss officers they are decorating.

  ‘Happy New Year, Papa.’

  ‘Happy New Year, son.’

  He accompanied his father to the Rue Puits-en-Sock, kissed Cécile, Marcel, who was still wearing his moustache-fixer, then Arthur, who arrived soon afterwards.

  The day remained bitterly cold. Old Kreutz came and sat down for a quarter of an hour by the fire, and Arthur, joking all the time, shaved Old Papa in the kitchen, as he was in the habit of doing five or six times a year. Mourning hung behind the window-panes, on which the geometric patterns of the coloured paper stood out more clearly than on other days. On the brown oilcloth covering the table there was the bottle of Kempenaar, glasses for everybody, and a plate of cakes which Cécile had made using her mother’s recipe.

  About ten o’clock, Élise came in with the child, and saw Désiré sitting in a corner, with his chair tilted back slightly and his long legs stretched out. Seeing him here, she had the impression that he looked bigger than usual, and she scarcely dared to speak to him.

  ‘Happy New Year, Papa. Happy New Year, Arthur. Happy New Year, Cécile.’

  She wondered if Désiré had already told them that they would not be coming in the afternoon. She waited a little while. The child started walking around.

  ‘Mind the fire, Roger. And what about you, Cécile? When is it due?’

  For Cécile was expecting a baby.

  ‘I have to go to watch my dinner. Don’t come home too late, Désiré.’

  And Désiré, at a quarter to twelve, announced as he stood up:

  ‘We shan’t be able to come this afternoon. We have to go to see one of my wife’s sisters.’

  It was done. Never, during his mother’s lifetime, as long as her grey, somewhat monastic silhouette had inhabited the kitchen in the Rue Puits-en-Sock, would he have dared to say anything like that.

  He avoided looking at his father who no longer felt really at home now that he was living with Cécile and a son-in-law.

  ‘Good-bye, all!’

  The roast, the chips and the sugared peas were waiting for him. Roger was dressed in feverish haste.

  ‘Aren’t we taking the pram?’

  People, today, were not in their usual places, and they noticed inexplicable exoduses in certain streets, empty spaces in others.

  ‘I’ll carry him, Désiré.’

  She knew that he would not let her. She wanted to be nice to him, to make him forget what had happened the day before, to thank him for coming to Schroefs’.

  She trotted along, a little behind him as usual. At the corner of the Rue des Carmes, which was empty, she felt a quiver of excitement. The house with the closed shutters impressed her, and she looked up at the loggia before ringing the bell.

  ‘Good afternoon, Léontine. Happy New Year. Is my sister better?’

  ‘Madame is very well, Madame Élise.’

  Had they to go upstairs all the same? After all, they had only been invited because of Marthe’s novena.

  Hubert was standing on the stairs. He shook hands with Désiré then with the child, whom he did not kiss.

  ‘Come upstairs. Nobody’s arrived yet.’

  The table had been cleared in the dining-room. The children, in their playroom, were waiting for some little friends who were due to have coffee with them.

  ‘Where’s Marthe?’ Élise asked timidly.

  ‘She’s in her room. She’s getting dressed.’

  ‘May I go and see her?’

  Désiré was offered a chair by the gas fire which Hubert bent down to regulate.

  ‘A cigar?’

  They did not know how to start the conversation. They did not even know if they ought to use the familiar tu with each other. It was Hubert who made the first effort, with a certain awkwardness, sitting up in his armchair and relighting his cigar-stub:

  ‘Did Élise tell you? It’s always the same! This morning, she was better.’

  Élise had knocked on the door.

  ‘Is that you? Come in! How’s the boy? You’ve brought him along, I hope.’

  There was not the slightest trace left of what had happened the day b
efore. The maid had cleaned the room and polished the furniture and the floor, and you would never have thought that for three nights Hubert had had to sleep on a camp-bed installed in the dining-room. The house was warm and comfortable. Marthe was putting the final touches to her appearance. Her dark hair was carefully arranged, she was wearing a black silk dress, trimmed with lace, which emphasized her proud bosom, and you could only just sense that she was a little absent-minded, a little vague, talking in an affected way with a hint of weariness.

  ‘Why don’t you come and do your shopping here, like Poldine? We let her have everything at cost price. She drops in once a month and gets all her groceries.’

  ‘That’s sweet of you. Thank you, Marthe!’

  ‘When Hubert isn’t there, I shove masses of things into her bag. It’s nothing really. You must come too. With what Désiré earns …’

  ‘Thank you, Marthe.’

  It was just the same as it was with Félicie, entirely good or entirely bad, according to the day. Marthe too, if her sister were to come to the shop the next day with her bag, would be quite capable of calling her a beggar.

  ‘When I think that I haven’t seen your son yet. Go and fetch him, Élise.’

  She kissed him, looked all around her, rushed into the kitchen, and returned with a huge bar of chocolate.

  ‘Not now, Marthe. He’s just had his dinner.’

  ‘What does that matter? Eat it, darling. Don’t bother about what your mother says, or her disapproving looks. It’s good chocolate!’

  They were all daughters of the same mother and father. You could recognize them by a particular way they had of bending their heads and smiling, that humble, resigned smile which was peculiar to the Peters girls.

  Élise felt overwhelmed by the huge bedroom with its impressive furniture, and by her sister’s dress.

  ‘Look, Marthe, you’re expecting some people and we’ll only be in the way. Don’t you think it would be better if we left you?’

  She felt ill at ease, and would really have preferred to go down into the street, under the loggia, and off towards the duck-pond.

  ‘Are you mad? If you only knew how often we’ve talked about you! I kept wondering what was the matter with you, your husband and you. I hope Désiré’s keeping well?’