Pedigree

by Georges Simenon

  ‘She hasn’t done anything wrong, I hope?’

  ‘Go on, please.’

  ‘That’s all. He stayed four days instead of two. He only went out in the evening and he came back in the middle of the night, because Mademoiselle Frida had given him her key. One night, he didn’t come back at all, and the next day my lodger moved back into her room. I pointed out to her that her cousin hadn’t said either good-bye or thank you to us …’

  ‘Would you mind terribly if I just had a look inside that room? Have no fear, Madame Mamelin. I’m used to this sort of thing and the young lady won’t even suspect that I’ve been there.’

  ‘What if she came back?’

  He shrugged his shoulders. It was as if he knew where she was, what she was doing, when she would be back.

  ‘Come now, Madame Mamelin, I don’t want to alarm you, but, seeing that you are an intelligent woman—yes, I’m sure you are—and that you can keep a secret, I ought to tell you that the devil, as you call him, is one of the nihilists who assassinated the Grand Duke, in St. Petersburg, with a bomb which killed over fifty people.’

  Élise smiled incredulously.

  ‘No, Monsieur Charles, that’s impossible. You’ll never persuade me that in my house …’

  In her house, indeed! In the Rue de la Loi!

  ‘Would you like me to give you some information about your other lodgers? Then you’ll realize that we don’t make mistakes. Do you know, for instance, where Monsieur Saft went on Monday morning?’

  She frowned. The previous Monday, she had in fact heard him go out before daybreak and, when he came back, she had noticed that he was carrying a long parcel under his overcoat.

  ‘Monsieur Saft went to Cointe to fight a duel with a fellow countryman of his. Show me the way, will you?’

  He left his hat in the dining-room, throwing a sympathetic glance into the kitchen, where the waiting brasses were being steamed up by the boiling water. For two pins he would have gone in there and sat down and asked for a cup of coffee.

  ‘Does Mademoiselle Frida get many letters?’

  ‘A letter from Russia every week and a money-order at the end of the month. Often the money-order is late.’

  ‘Have you got the key to this wardrobe?’

  ‘There isn’t any need for a key; the lock doesn’t work.’

  The man’s hands went through the linen and clothes with unexpected gentleness. He opened the drawers, and a sweet-box which contained strings of various colours and hairpins. From the landing, Élise kept an eye on the street door.

  ‘If you knew her as well as I know her …’

  ‘Has she told you that her father has been in prison in Siberia for twenty years?’

  ‘Yes.’

  With the same careful movements—she had found the comparison she was looking for: he had a dentist’s hands—he leafed through the medical books without finding anything.

  ‘Well, well. She’s a smart one.’

  He came downstairs again and stopped in front of the letter-box.

  ‘Who takes the post out of this box every morning?’

  ‘It depends. Usually each lodger collects his own post. We are having breakfast when the postman comes. As for us, we scarcely ever have anything but the paper.’

  ‘Tell me, Madame Mamelin, I’d very much like to ask you …’

  No. He decided to abandon the idea. It would be better to come back another day, to proceed gently.

  ‘I was nearly forgetting my hat. Above all, don’t say a word to anybody, will you, not even to your husband. I count on you. I’ll be back soon. And once again, forgive me for giving you all this trouble.’

  How could you describe what she felt as soon as she was alone again in the house? If she had obeyed her first impulse, she would have gone across the street to tell the whole story to Brother Médard and ask his advice. Who could tell whether that man really belonged to the Second Bureau? What if he were a thief?

  She went upstairs to make sure that Monsieur Charles had not taken anything. She had scarcely come down again and was dipping her rag in the metal-polish which smelled of acid when Mademoiselle Frida came back from the University.

  Whom and what could she trust now? Élise had the impression that her house had been soiled, that a vague menace had insinuated itself into it. Wouldn’t she have done better to keep quiet? Instead of that, she had talked and talked, she had told all she knew. The fact of the matter was, it had been fear which had impelled her. And also, she had to admit it, she had felt a desire to win the respect of that wonderfully polite man, even though she did not know him from Adam.

  ‘Not even to your husband!’ he had told her.

  Poor Désiré! She was going to have to conceal something more from him! Cheating! Always cheating! She could almost have cried at the thought! And then there was Monsieur Saft who went out on tip-toe early in the morning to fight a duel!

  Suddenly her blood froze, and she sprang to her feet, facing the glazed door. She had heard somebody running along overhead, the door of the annexe had opened and slammed to as if shut by a draught, and angry footsteps were coming downstairs. Mademoiselle Frida rushed towards the kitchen so clumsily that you would have thought that she was wearing heavy men’s boots. She stopped in the doorway and, under the stress of emotion, spoke in Russian first of all, then corrected herself and asked in a hissing voice:

  ‘Who has been in my room? I want to know. I want you to tell me straight away who has been.’

  A fixed smile appeared somehow or other on Élise’s pale lips.

  ‘What’s the matter with you, Mademoiselle Frida?’

  ‘I want to know, do you understand?’

  ‘But … I assure you that apart from myself …’

  The furious Russian woman looked as if she could have hit her landlady or seized her wrists to shake her.

  ‘You’re lying!’ she screamed.

  ‘I swear on Roger’s head …’

  She hadn’t said that on purpose, and she tried to take it back.

  ‘I swear on my head that …’

  ‘Then it’s you!’

  ‘What are you accusing me of doing?’

  ‘It’s you who have been touching my books.’

  ‘What should I be doing with your books?’

  Frida stamped on the floor.

  ‘I forbade you to touch my books.’

  ‘When I’m dusting them, I may move them a bit without meaning to.’

  ‘No.’

  She was quite definite. Élise could guess why and blushed even more. But why should she have to put up with a scene like this in her own kitchen?

  ‘You’ve gone through the pages of my books on purpose. You’ve looked through my lecture notes, opened the drawer of my table. I know!’

  She added, her teeth set in anger:

  ‘I make marks too.’

  Despite this allusion which put her out more than ever, Élise had the presence of mind to exclaim:

  ‘I see what it is! Dear God! Mademoiselle Frida, how can you work yourself up into such a state for such a little thing? Just now, when I took the coal up, Roger followed me into your room. A child touches everything when you’ve got your back turned. I’m always telling him not to go in the lodgers’ rooms.’

  With a sharp look which was not entirely disarmed, Frida turned her back, opened the street-door, and slammed it behind her with such violence that the house trembled with the shock. Perhaps she had gone for good?

  Élise hesitated no longer; she tore off her apron, did her hair again, and washed her hands at the pump. Brother Médard was there on the opposite pavement, watching the boys going out, and darting an occasional glance at the Mamelins’ house.

  Why had he never struck her as ridiculous? His body, underneath his cassock, looked like a big, lop-sided ball on which the other, disproportionate ball of the head was balanced. He made you think of a snowman in black, and yet it seemed to her that he was probably the only person from whom she would acc
ept any verdict.

  ‘Come with me, Roger. Wait while I get my key.’

  If she forgot to take it out of the letter-box, as had sometimes happened, she would find herself locked out and would have to wait for Désiré or one of the lodgers to return.

  ‘Excuse me, Brother Médard. But I don’t know what to do. I need advice. Something so unexpected has just happened to me …’

  Majestically—yes, he was truly majestic—he waved to the little door which was open in the middle of the gate, the yard with the uneven paving-stones, and his empty classroom where the newish desks and benches were a pale yellow colour.

  ‘Stay in the yard, Roger.’

  It was the first time that she had ever been in a classroom. It impressed her as much as when she had gone with Charles, Françoise’s husband, into the sacristy at Saint-Denis to admire the chasubles.

  ‘Sit down, Madame Mamelin.’

  He could not offer her his chair, for it was a high chair, made to go with the desk planted on the edge of the platform. He gestured towards the front bench and stood there, his paunch sticking out, solemn, self-assured, his eyes so calm that you felt that the world could be turned upside down without his being in the least flurried.

  She told him everything. In front of him, she felt no shame at all. An arithmetic problem had been left on the blackboard. The air smelled of chalk and the dirty water in the bucket with a towel over it in which the boys washed their hands. A painted plaster Virgin looked down at Élise who went on talking, interrupted now and then by a question from Brother Médard.

  ‘I know that it’s a lie and that people haven’t any right to tell lies …’

  He smiled. He was a man who understood.

  ‘What comes hardest is making a child tell a lie in his turn. But what else is there to do?’

  He thought. He was the very statue of thought, his wooden leg raised slightly, his eyes fixed on the empty yard where Roger, left on his own, did not know what to do.

  Finally he limped over to the door and called out:

  ‘Roger.’

  This was all quite extraordinary, for none of the friars ever called a pupil by his Christian name. Surprised, Roger came running up and looked inquiringly at his mother.

  ‘Come here, young man.’

  Brother Médard sat down on the edge of a bench, moved the lever underneath his cassock which enabled him to bend his wooden leg, took the child by his shoulders and, breathing into his face, said:

  ‘You’re a big boy, aren’t you? And you love your mother. Now because you love your mother and you wouldn’t want anything nasty to happen to her, you’re going to do what I’m going to tell you. Just now, while your mother was taking up coal to Mademoiselle Frida’s room, you went in and played with the books.’

  ‘No, dear Brother.’

  His ears had turned red, he couldn’t tell why. He did not dare to turn his head away, and Brother Médard’s thick breath was making him choke.

  ‘Listen to what I’m telling you. If anybody questions you, if anybody asks you what you did in Mademoiselle Frida’s room, you must answer that you looked through her books and opened the drawer in the table.’

  He had understood. Brother Médard released him and turned with satisfaction and a touch of pride to face Élise.

  ‘There, Madame Mamelin. As for that Monsieur Charles, if he comes again, I would advise you to …’

  He gave her her instructions.

  ‘You did well to tell me all about it. Don’t hesitate to come to see me whenever you have a problem or some question is bothering you.’

  ‘Thank you, Brother.’

  She did not dare to say dear Brother, like Roger. It was extraordinary, but going out of the classroom and crossing the yard, she felt lighter. It had all been so easy! Everything had become familiar and reassuring once more.

  ‘You couldn’t act in any other way, your confessor will tell you the same as I.’

  Out on the pavement, he made her a deep bow which made her blush with embarrassment.

  ‘Come along, Roger.’

  She took her son by the hand to cross the street. It seemed to her that everybody was looking at her, that all of a sudden she had become very important.

  ‘Mother, why does Brother Médard want me to …’

  She called him to order:

  ‘Don’t ask questions. You know perfectly well that Brother Médard forbade you to. Later on, when you’re grown up, you’ll understand.’

  She finished her brasses. Now and then a somewhat sad smile, more distinguished than her usual smile, the smile she had given Brother Médard, came back to her lips without her realizing it.

  And what was most surprising was that things happened after that just as she had been told they would. Mademoiselle Frida came home as usual, came downstairs and when the others were already at table, took her tin from the shelf, cut her bread and buttered it. Anybody would have thought that nothing had happened, and only Élise could see that her lodger was slightly embarrassed.

  As for Roger, his gaze kept going from his mother to Mademoiselle Frida and, when supper was over, he was rather annoyed that nobody had asked him a single question, and wondered why Brother Médard had delivered such a solemn sermon to him.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ‘PICK your feet up, Roger.’

  Roger wondered in silence. When they had turned into the Rue Neuvice instead of the Rue Léopold, he had thought they were going to the Vierge Noire. It was April, the air was pure, warm and caressing on the sunny side of the street, cool and bluish in the shade, some men had already discarded their overcoats, and the windows of the flats were open above the shops whose wares were overflowing again on to the pavements.

  They were not going to the Vierge Noire. Roger gave up. Although they often went along the Rue Neuvice, they had never climbed this particular flight of steps where the stone was so old and worn that in certain places the steps merged together; they had never gone through this reddish double-door of which only one half was open, then this second, padded door which closed automatically like a trap. Taken aback by the contrast with the busy life outside, Roger was struck by the silence and emptiness of this little, unfamiliar church with three pencils of sunlight cutting diagonally across it.

  His mother genuflected, held out to him two fingers moistened with holy water, pulled him along by the hand, like somebody who had been here already, towards a side-aisle of the chapel, and knelt down in front of a confessional.

  They were in the Redemptorists’ church. The confessional which Élise had picked was empty and had a name over it: Father Meeus. Next to the wooden grating which concealed the part reserved for the priest there was a bell-push.

  Further on, in front of other confessionals, some women in black were waiting; a little old woman lifted the green curtain which partly hid the penitents and came out, to have her place taken straight away by another. The silence was so profound that you could hear the whispering of a woman who was probably hard of hearing and was confessing her sins in a kind of frenzy, stopping now and then to draw breath with a long hissing noise.

  Élise remained motionless, her face buried in her hands, her body bent forward. You could tell that it was not the first time she had been here and that she had not picked Father Meeus’ confessional at random. An oblong patch of sunlight was trembling beside the bell-push; Roger tried to find out where it was coming from, gave up, and amused himself by obliterating with his hand another patch of sunlight on the top of his prayer-stool, whose coarse plaited straw was cutting into his knees.

  For the past fortnight, Élise had been a prey to a fever of cleaning. One after another, all the rooms in the house had been emptied of their contents, which had been piled up in the yard, or on the platform on top of Mademoiselle Frida’s room. The mattresses and bolsters had been unstitched and the wool inside spread out in the sun.

  Was it Monsieur Chechelowski’s departure which had started this mania for absolute cleanliness? No
doubt that event had contributed to it, but it would have come in any case some day or other for Élise Mamelin felt as if she had reached a dead-end and her nerves were at fever-pitch.

  Nearly every Sunday she complained of headaches. Just as they were on the point of setting out, when everything was ready, when Roger was already waiting on the pavement, the ritual scene occurred and an attack of hysterics threatened the projected visit to the Rue des Carmes or the Ursuline convent.

  ‘You’re tiring yourself out. I knew the time would come when you wouldn’t be able to stand it any more.’

  Here Désiré was obviously saying something he shouldn’t. What is more, he was wrong. Élise would have put up with her tiredness as she had the previous year if everything, this winter, had not conspired against her. Her sister Félicie’s death, to begin with, and the ambiguous atmosphere in which the drama had come to its miserable end. Then Françoise’s pleurisy, even though she was only her sister-in-law. Désiré had shown scarcely any concern about Françoise, but Élise knew that she was suffering from tuberculosis, with two lovely little children on her hands. She had talked it over with Doctor Matray, who had said that only mountain air could save her and that in any case she ought to be separated from her children. Charles Daigne knew this, but did nothing. He shuttled sheepishly backwards and forwards between the sacristy and the house at the back of the courtyard, and when Élise had tried to have a serious talk with him he had just sighed:

  ‘What more can I do? I’m praying for her. And Monsieur le Curé says a Mass every week for her intention.’

  Françoise suspected nothing, and thought that she was getting better because two red spots had lit up on her cheekbones. Her voice was already soft and distant, and when Élise saw her kissing her son who was only eighteen months old, her blood froze.

  ‘If you want my advice, don’t interfere!’ Désiré kept telling her.

  Mademoiselle Pauline had not changed. Élise could not stand her and yet she did not dare to throw her out; perhaps, indeed, she would have missed her, she was so used to having this enemy installed in her house, giving her material, with her daily vexations, for morose reflections or silent feelings of revolt.