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the city. Did you know Couchet? He
     wasn’t worried, oh no! He wasn’t ashamed! He wasn’t anxious! He
     said he was born to make lots of money and that’s what he would do. After
     bicycles, it was watch chains. No! You’ll never guess! Watch chains which he
     sold from a stall at funfairs, monsieur! And my sisters no longer dared go to the
     Neuilly fair for fear of coming across him selling his watch chains.’
    â€˜Were you the one who asked for a
     divorce?’
    She modestly bowed her head, but her
     features remained tense.
    â€˜Monsieur Martin lived in the same
     apartment block as us. He was younger then. He had a good job in the civil service.
     Couchet left me on my own all the time while he went off gallivanting. Oh! It was
     all very above-board! I gave my husband a piece of my mind. The divorce was
     requested by mutual consent for incompatibility of temperaments. All Couchet had to
     give me was maintenance
for the boy. And
     Martin and I waited a year before getting married.’
    Now she was fidgeting on her chair. Her
     fingers plucked at the silver clasp on her bag.
    â€˜You see, I’ve always been
     unlucky. At first, Couchet didn’t even pay the maintenance money regularly.
     And, for a sensitive woman, it’s painful to see her second husband paying for
     the upkeep of a child who’s not his.’
    No, Maigret was not asleep, even though
     his eyes were half-closed and his pipe had gone out.
    This was becoming more and more
     harrowing. The woman’s eyes started brimming. Her lips began to tremble in a
     disconcerting manner.
    â€˜No one else knows what I’ve
     suffered. I put Roger through school. I wanted to give him a good education. He
     wasn’t like his father. He was affectionate, caring … When he was
     seventeen, Martin found him a job in a bank, so he could learn the profession. But
     that’s when he met Couchet, I don’t know where.’
    â€˜And he got into the habit of
     asking his father for money?’
    â€˜Couchet had always refused to
     give me anything, mind you! For me, everything was too expensive! I made my own
     dresses and I wore the same hat for three years.’
    â€˜And he gave Roger everything he
     asked for?’
    â€˜He corrupted him! Roger left home
     to go and live on his own. He still comes to see me from time to time. But he also
     used to go and see his father.’
    â€˜How long have you lived at Place
     des Vosges?’
    â€˜About eight years. When we found
     the apartment, we didn’t even know that Couchet was in serums. Martin
wanted to move out. That was all I
     needed! If it was up to anyone to move, it should have been Couchet, shouldn’t
     it? Couchet grown rich somehow or other. I’d see him rolling up in a
     chauffeur-driven car! He had a chauffeur, you know. I saw his wife.’
    â€˜At her house?’
    â€˜I watched her from the street, to
     see what she looked like. I’d rather not say anything. She’s nothing
     special, in any case, despite her airs and graces and her astrakhan coat.’
    Maigret drew his hand across his
     forehead. This was becoming obsessive. He’d been staring at the same face for
     fifteen minutes and right now he felt that he would never be able to get it out of
     his mind.
    A thin face, drained of colour, with
     fine features, which seemed set in an expression of resigned suffering.
    And that too reminded him of certain
     family portraits, even of his own family. As a child, he had had an aunt, plumper
     than Madame Martin, but who also complained all the time. When she visited his
     family, he knew that the moment she sat down she’d pull a handkerchief out of
     her bag.
    â€˜My poor Hermance!’
     she’d begin. ‘What a life! You’ll never guess what Pierre’s
     done now.’
    And she had that same mobile mask, those
     too-thin lips and eyes that sometimes registered a flicker of