The Widow

Read The Widow for Free Online Page A

Book: Read The Widow for Free Online
Authors: Georges Simenon
heavy breath of animal warmth came from that direction, and from time to time a hoof banged against the partition.
    â€œTry and remember the quantities. I’ve done all this by myself quite long enough! One pail of grits … one pail of bran … half a pail of fish meal … pour on the water now, slowly, just enough to make the bran curl.”
    There was a smell of bed and flannel about her. Over her pink slip, which she must have slept in, she was wearing an old light brown coat that had lost both buttons and lining, and her hair was tied up in a kerchief. Her legs were naked, with blue veins showing.
    â€œNow, fill the pails…. ”
    She kept glancing at him covertly.
    â€œI had a little girl from the orphanage to help me. I had to get rid of her, on account of that bastard of a Couderc. He used to take her into the shed to feel her, and it’s a miracle things went no further. There … come along.”
    And, while he carried the pails, she ladled the feed with a wooden scoop and filled the galvanized-iron troughs, onto which the chickens rushed.
    â€œNext come the pigs.”
    He found livestock everywhere, in every corner, in every one of the outlandish buildings surrounding the yard: sitting hens; other hens sheltered, with their chicks, by a sort of trelliswork tent. And hutches piled one on top of the other, faced with wire netting, rabbits stirring inside.
    When the three of them got back to the kitchen, Tati climbed on a chair and cut off three slices of ham, which she set on the frying pan. And so they ate, in silence, facing the window.
    â€œWill you be able to go and cut some grass for the rabbits?”
    â€œI think so.”
    She shrugged. That was no sort of an answer.
    â€œCome along and I’ll give you the sickle and a sack. You only have to cross the bridge. Between the canal and the Cher you’ll find all the grass you want.”
    She called him back as he was moving off, with his crescent-shaped sickle held at arm’s length.
    â€œTry not to cut yourself…. ”
    He still did not realize it was Sunday. It had not occurred to him. He was just a little surprised to see two barges moored above the lock, with hatches closed, as if the people inside were still asleep. Then he noticed a fisherman getting off his bicycle and settling down on the embankment.
    The lock was a hundred yards or so from the house, and so narrow he could have jumped across. The shutters were still closed at the lock-keeper’s cottage as well. The water of the canal seemed to be steaming gently, and now and again a bubble would rise to the surface.
    Once across the bridge, he got a better idea of the lay of the land. Where the canal turned, a village appeared, or rather the beginnings of a village which would be about three quarters of a mile away. In front of him a meadow sloped steeply away to the Cher, whose clear water leapt over the pebbles, and immediately on the other side of the river there were thick woods.
    The house where Félicie, the slut with the baby, lived was opposite the lock, between the canal and the Cher, and surrounded with heaps of pink bricks.
    He bent down to cut the grass still wet with dew. An occasional bicycle passed along the towpath. He saw the hatchway of one of the barges being opened, and a woman not yet fully dressed came out to hang up washing on wires stretching from one end of the boat to the other.
    A cow lowed. Old Couderc crossed the bridge behind his two beasts, their swollen udders heaving to the slow rhythm of their pace. As soon as they were on the grassy slope, they lowered their pink muzzles to the grass, while the old man, taking no notice, stood still, a stick in his hand.
    Jean finally realized it was Sunday when he saw a whole troop of girls and boys bicycling by in their Sunday best, then a woman—doubtless the lock-keeper’s wife—coming out of her cottage and making her way to the village, prayer book in

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