The Dancer at the Gai-Moulin by Georges Simenon Page B

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     window, looked through the net curtain and asked:
    â€˜Are you waiting for the Brussels
     train?’
    It was a small café behind the
     Guillemins railway station. The large room was clean, the light-coloured floor tiles
     had been newly washed and the tables carefully polished.
    â€˜Come back and sit down,’
     muttered the man sitting in front of a glass of beer.
    â€˜Promise you’ll behave
     yourself, then?’
    And the woman sat down, lifted the
     man’s hand from the banquette where it was trailing, and placed it on the
     table.
    â€˜You’re a salesman, are
     you?’
    â€˜What makes you think
     that?’
    â€˜Oh, nothing. I don’t know.
     No! Stop it! If you don’t keep your hands to yourself, I’m going to
     stand at the door. Tell me what you want to drink instead. Same again? One for me,
     too?’
    What made this café seem somehow
     difficult to place was perhaps its very cleanliness, the perfect order, and a
     feeling that it was more like a domestic interior than a public establishment. The
     counter was very small, without a beer pump, and there were scarcely as many as
twenty glasses on the shelves. On a
     table by the window lay some sewing, and elsewhere a basket of string beans, which
     someone had started to prepare for cooking.
    It was tidy. It smelled of soup, not
     alcohol. Anyone going in would feel they were disturbing a domestic scene.
    The woman, who was about thirty-five,
     was buxom, with something both respectable and maternal about her. She kept pushing
     away the hand that the timid customer was trying to put on her knee.
    â€˜What line are you in?
     Foodstuffs?’
    Suddenly she listened. A staircase led
     from the café straight to the first floor. A sound could be heard as of someone
     getting out of bed.
    â€˜Excuse me a moment.’
    She went to listen, then into the
     passageway, calling:
    â€˜Monsieur Henry!’
    When she returned to the customer, he
     was looking nervous, the more so when a man, bare-necked and in shirt-sleeves, came
     in from the back room, and tiptoed up the stairs. They could see his legs, then
     nothing.
    â€˜What is it?’
    â€˜Nothing. Just this young man who
     got drunk last night – we put him to bed.’
    â€˜And Monsieur Henry
     is … your husband?’
    She laughed, which made her large soft
     breasts quiver.
    â€˜He’s the boss. I’m
     just the waitress. Careful, I’m sure someone can see you.’
    â€˜But I would
     like …’
    â€˜What?’
    The man was red in the face. He was
     unsure now what
was and was not
     permitted. He gazed at his companion’s plump tempting flesh with shining
     eyes.
    â€˜Can’t we be alone for a few
     minutes?’ he whispered.
    â€˜Are you crazy? What for? This is
     a respectable house.’
    She stopped short and listened once
     more. An argument was taking place upstairs. Monsieur Henry was replying in a calm,
     controlled voice to someone who was complaining loudly.
    â€˜He’s just a kid,’ the
     big woman explained. ‘Makes you feel sorry for him. Not twenty years old, but
     he drank himself silly. And he was paying for everyone’s drinks, showing off,
     and a lot of people took advantage.’
    The door was opening upstairs. The
     voices became clearer.
    â€˜I tell you I had hundreds of
     francs in my pockets!’ The young man was wailing. ‘I’ve been
     robbed! I want my money!’
    â€˜Calm down. There are no thieves
     here. If you hadn’t been as tight as a tick—’
    â€˜But you served me the
     drinks—’
    â€˜If I serve drinks, it’s
     because I expect people to have the sense to keep an eye on their wallets. And even
     so, I had to stop you. You went and pulled in some girl off the street, because you
     said the waitress wasn’t being nice to you. Then you wanted a room for the
     night. And I don’t know what