Pedigree by Georges Simenon Page A

whole fortnight, every morning at six o’clock—the street had to be empty—he had levelled his camera at the General Post Office, near the Passerelle, and he had obtained some unique cloud-effects, greys of wonderful delicacy.
    â€˜Next Sunday, if the weather’s fine …’
    For months he had been promising to take a photograph of the whole family. They would have to be able to leave the children naked on a sheepskin.
    Nine o’clock.
    â€˜Heavens, Françoise! … As late as that! … And we’re keeping you up … I’ll help you with the washing-up …’
    â€˜But no …’
    The baby, in his pram, was warm and sleepy. They covered him up and raised the hood, for fear of the cool night air.
    â€˜See you next Sunday! Come early.’
    â€˜I’ll bring a Savoy cake from Bonmersonne’s.’
    â€˜Careful … Hush …’
    The porch.
    â€˜Really, Désiré!’
    He had pulled the door shut too sharply. Élise trotted along. She had never managed to keep in step with her giant of a husband who was pushing the pram along with the satisfaction of duty done. Other families were making their way home along the pavements in the same way, and sleepy children were perched on their fathers’ shoulders.
    â€˜You’ve got the key?’
    It would be best to wait a little longer. Élise trembled.
    â€˜Listen, Désiré … There’s something I have to tell you … You won’t be too cross with me? …’
    She wept as she walked backwards up the stairs, holding one end of the pram. The gas was alight on the entresol. The jet was sputtering.
    She took advantage of the fact that they were jammed in the narrow staircase with the unwieldy pram.
    â€˜ I’ve taken another flat .’
    Désiré had not said anything. Hadn’t he heard? Now they were home again. He struck a match, raised the glass of the lamp, and went over to the stove where there were a few warm, pink embers left.
    â€˜You aren’t cross with me? If you only knew how unbearable Madame Cession is …’
    Désiré took off his jacket, put on his priestly slippers, adjusted the wick of the lamp. Obviously upset, he looked around him at the kitchen, at the bedroom, at the night-watchman’s window which was already lighted, at all this which was his, which formed part of him.
    â€˜Are you terribly cross? Remember there isn’t a single place in this district where I can take the baby.’
    He did not dare yet to ask to what part of the town, to what unfamiliar setting she was taking them.
    She sniffed and blew her nose, taking heart from his silence.
    â€˜First of all, it isn’t any dearer: twenty-five francs a month. There isn’t any water on that floor, but there is on the landing just below, and the landlady will let us leave the pram in the passage.’
    So for weeks on end, while he had thought that she was busy wheeling the child round the church of Saint-Denis, she had been pushing the pram all over the town, looking for ‘to let’ notices!
    That was why, every evening, she had complained about Madame Cession, or about the noise of the trams which woke Roger up, or about the stairs which were so hard to climb!
    Hadn’t he felt anything? Was he pretending not to understand?
    â€˜If only you knew, Valérie, how he clings to his habits! Just the idea of moving …’
    It was true. He was a Mamelin, and the Mamelins had never moved house. On his arrival at Liége, even before getting married, Chrétien Mamelin had settled in the Rue Puits-en-Sock and he had never budged since. All his children, except for Guillaume, who had installed himself in Brussels, had stayed in the same district.
    â€˜Why should we be any better off somewhere else?’
    Those were Désiré’s words. What could one say in reply?
    â€˜What are we short of here?’
    Ã‰lise had trotted all