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…’
    â€˜What did you have for
lunch?’
    Every day, he had to give her a detailed
account of everything he had eaten.
    â€˜You haven’t been served any
more mussels, I hope?’
    Sister Marie des Anges came in.
    â€˜May I?’
    It was to introduce the young patient who
was collecting money for the wreath. Maigret held out his twenty francs, together with a
pencil.
    â€˜Do you want to write my wife’s
name, Sister?’
    Sister Marie des Anges took the pencil
without hesitation. Then there was a short pause. She looked up at Maigret’s face
and her cheeks turned a little pinker.
    She wrote the surname, while he scrutinized
the letters she traced on the sheet of paper. She didn’t take the trouble to
disguise her handwriting. Besides, her eyes had already confessed.
    Visibly shaken, she withdrew, saying thank
you and leading the young patient by the hand.
    â€˜Here, we really are like a
family,’ Madame Maigret was saying affectionately. ‘You can’t imagine
the closeness that develops between people who are sick.’
    He didn’t want to
contradict her, even though he was thinking of Mademoiselle Rinquet.
    â€˜I think they’ll allow me home
in eight or ten days … The day after tomorrow, they’ll let me sit in an
armchair for an hour.’
    It wasn’t very kind towards Madame
Maigret, but the half-hour seemed even longer than on the other days.
    â€˜Wouldn’t you like to move to a
different room?’
    She was horrified. How could he be so
tactless as to say something like that in front of Mademoiselle Rinquet?
    â€˜Why would you want me to
move?’
    â€˜I don’t know … There must
be a single room free now …’
    Madame Maigret’s alarm became more
personal and she stammered, unable to believe her ears:
    â€˜Number 15? … Don’t even
think of it, Maigret!’
    A room in which a girl had just died! He
didn’t press her. Mademoiselle Rinquet must take him for a monster. But he had
merely seen it as a way of getting to speak to Sister Marie des Anges on her own.
    Too bad! He’d find another way. In the
corridor, as she was showing him out, he said to her:
    â€˜May I speak to you for a moment in
the parlour?’
    She knew what it was about and she was just
as alarmed as Madame Maigret had been.
    â€˜The rules don’t permit
…’
    â€˜You mean the rules don’t permit
me to have a conversation with you?’
    â€˜Except in the presence of the mother
superior, to whom you must make a request …’
    â€˜And where can I find
the mother superior?’
    He had inadvertently raised his voice. He
was on the point of growing angry.
    â€˜Shhh …’
    Sister Aldegonde poked her head around a
half-open door and watched them from a distance.
    â€˜Can I at least talk to you
here?’
    â€˜Shhh …’
    â€˜Can you write to me?’
    â€˜The rules
don’t—’
    â€˜And I presume the rules don’t
permit you to go into town?’
    That was too much. He was verging on
blasphemy.
    â€˜Listen, Sister—’
    â€˜I beg you, Monsieur
6—’
    â€˜You know what I want
to—’
    â€˜Shhh … For goodness’
sake!’
    And she joined her hands, advancing and
forcing him to retreat. She said out loud, no doubt for the benefit of Sister Aldegonde,
who was still listening:
    â€˜I assure you that your dear patient
is lacking for nothing and that she’s in excellent spirits …’
    It was pointless insisting. He was already
on the stairs, on Sister Aurélie’s territory now. All that remained was for
him to go downstairs and leave.
    â€˜Good afternoon, Monsieur 6,’
said a mellow voice behind the window. ‘Will you be telephoning
tomorrow?’
    He felt like a great oafish boy surrounded
by a gaggle of little girls who were making fun of him. Little girls of all ages,
including Mademoiselle