Monsieur Monde Vanishes by Georges Simenon

along the unfamiliar city streets, questioned policemen, climbed flights of stairs, and kept pulling scraps of paper with new addresses out of her bag.
    â€œI know the place we must go to for an apéritif.…”
    This was the Cintra, the fashionable bar. She renewed her make-up before going in. She put on a jaunty air. He understood that she was wishing he were better dressed. She was even wondering whether he would know how to behave in a place like this, and it was she who gave the order with an air of authority, as she climbed onto a high stool and crossed her legs:
    â€œTwo pink gins, barman …”
    She nibbled some olives, ostentatiously. She stared boldly at men and women. It infuriated her to know nobody, to be merely a newcomer rating only a supercilious glance because of her cheap little dress and her shabby coat.
    â€œLet’s go and have dinner.…”
    She knew where to go for dinner too. Afterward, with a certain embarrassment, she began: “Would you mind going back by yourself? … Oh, it’s not what you might think.… After what I’ve been through, I can tell you I’ve had enough of men and you won’t catch me at that again. But I don’t want to be a burden on you. You’ve got your own life to lead, haven’t you? You’ve been very kind.… I’m sure that backstage I shall meet people I know.… At Lille I used to meet all the artistes on tour.…”
    He did not go to bed, but walked about the streets alone. Then, at one point, because he was tired of walking, he went into a movie house. And this was another familiar image, drawn from the remote mysterious depths of his memory: an aging man, all by himself, being guided by an attendant with a flashlight into a darkened room where a film has already begun, where voices boom and men larger than life gesticulate on the screen.
    When he got back to Gerly’s—that was the name of his hotel and of the brasserie—he caught sight of Julie sitting at a table in the café with the group of acrobats. She saw him go past. He realized that she was talking about him. He went upstairs, and she came to join him a quarter of an hour later, and this time she undressed in front of him.
    â€œHe’s promised to put in a word for me.… He’s a decent sort. His father, who was Italian, was a bricklayer by trade, and he himself started off in the same way.…”
    Another day passed, and then another, and Monsieur Monde was getting used to things; he had even stopped thinking about them. After lunch, that third day, Julie decided: “I’m going to have an hour’s sleep.… I got back late last night.… Aren’t you going to have a nap?”
    He felt sleepy too, as a matter of fact. They went up one behind the other, and meanwhile he had a vision of other couples, hundreds of couples, going up flights of stairs in the same way. And a slight flush rose to his cheeks.
    The room had not been done. The two beds, unmade, revealed the livid whiteness of sheets, and there were traces of lipstick on Julie’s pillow.
    â€œAren’t you going to undress?”
    Usually, when he took a siesta—and in Paris, in the course of his former life, he had done so from time to time—he would lie down fully dressed, with a newspaper spread out under his feet. He took off his jacket, then his waistcoat. Julie, with that snakelike movement which he was beginning to recognize, drew her dress up along her body and slipped it over her head.
    She showed no surprise when he came up to her, with a rather shamefaced look. She was obviously expecting it.
    â€œDraw the curtains.”
    And she lay down, making room for him beside her. She was thinking about something else. Every time he looked at her he saw that now familiar frown on her forehead.
    On the whole, she was not sorry about it; things seemed more natural this way. But fresh problems occurred to her,