Monsieur Monde Vanishes by Georges Simenon Page B

a hoop came to rest between his legs, or a ball was thrown toward him. He seemed to be asleep. His face looked thicker and flabbier and his lips hung half open. Several times he gave a start, thinking he heard the voice of Monsieur Lorisse, his cashier. Not for one moment did he think of his wife or children, but it was the meticulous old clerk who appeared in his dream.
    He remained heedless of time, and it was Julie who eventually came to look for him and remarked: “I was sure I’d find you flopping on a bench.”
    Why? This question bothered him for some little while.
    â€œLet’s go and buy you some clothes before the shops shut.… You see, I think of you and not of myself.…”
    â€œI must go and get some money from the hotel.…”
    â€œD’you leave your money in the bedroom? That’s a mistake. Especially if there’s a lot of it.…”
    She waited for him below. He took a bundle of ten thousand francs, so as not to unfasten the pin. The maid was cleaning the hallway, but she could not see him, for he had closed the door. Julie’s words had made him anxious. He climbed onto a chair and pushed the parcel on top of the wardrobe.
    She took him to an English firm where they sold smart ready-made clothes. She chose his outfit for him: gray flannel trousers and a navy blue double-breasted jacket.
    â€œWith a cap, you’d pass for a yachtsman!”
    She insisted on his buying summer shoes of brown and white leather.
    â€œYou look quite different.… I sometimes wonder …”
    She said no more, but merely cast a furtive glance at him.
    She must already have been to the Cintra on her own, for when they went in the barman made some imperceptible sign to her and a young man winked at her.
    â€œYou don’t look exactly cheerful.…”
    They drank. They ate. They went to the Casino, where Julie stayed for a couple of hours and after winning two or three thousand francs ended by losing all that was left in her purse.
    Vexed, she motioned to him: “Let’s go back.”
    They had already formed the habit of walking side by side; when she was tired she clung to his arm. They slowed down automatically a few yards before their hotel, like people who are going home.
    She did not want to go through the brasserie.
    They closed their door. She bolted it, for it was always she who took this precaution.
    â€œWhere d’you hide your money?”
    He pointed to the wardrobe.
    â€œI’d take care if I were you.…”
    He climbed onto the same chair as that afternoon, passed his hand across the top of the wardrobe, but felt nothing but a thick layer of dust.
    â€œWell, what’s up?”
    He stood there, aghast. She grew impatient.
    â€œHave you turned into a statue?”
    â€œThe parcel’s gone.”
    â€œThe money?”
    Suspicious by nature, she refused to believe him.
    â€œLet’s see.…”
    She was not tall enough, even when she stood on the chair. She cleared the table and climbed up on that.
    â€œHow much was there?”
    â€œAbout three hundred thousand francs, or a little less …”
    â€œWhat did you say?”
    He felt ashamed, now, of the vastness of the sum. “Three hundred thousand …”
    â€œWe must tell the proprietor at once and send for the police. Wait.…”
    He held her back. “No. It’s not possible.”
    â€œWhy not? Are you crazy?”
    â€œWe mustn’t. I’ll explain why.… And in any case it doesn’t matter, I’ll manage somehow.… I’ll send for some more money.…”
    â€œAre you as rich as all that?”
    She seemed resentful now, as though she were annoyed with him for having deceived her, and she lay down without a word, turning her back on him, and answered his good night with a mere grunt.

6
    It was bitter and yet sweet, like the sort of pain that one cherishes and tends solicitously for fear of