The Widow by Georges Simenon

was that it wasn’t his contractor he was thinking of as his brow clouded, but of his ruined day, of Félicie’s spitting at him, of something that had existed and that he could not recapture.
    â€œDon’t drink any more…. ” murmured Tati, taking the bottle away from him.
    He ran his hand over his face and sighed. “I’m sleepy.”
    â€œGo and lie down.”
    â€œYes … I think…. ”
    He climbed the stairs heavily, slumped down on his paillasse with its smell of musty hay. Cool air was coming in through the open skylight over his head, and with it the cackling of the chickens and the scraping of a rake someone was wielding somewhere—Couderc at the bottom of the garden, or the road mender on the towpath.

5
    â€œ E VERY person condemned to death shall be decapitated .”
    He jumped up, as though, just when he thought himself alone, someone had laid a rough hand on his shoulder. The words had formed in his head, the syllables had written themselves in space, and he finished mechanically: “Article 12 of the Penal Code!”
    It had been a mistake to sleep in the afternoon. Then, when he had gone downstairs again, Tati had looked at him overintently, as if there were some change in him. That look pursued him, in the darkness of the loft, under the moon-blue skylight.
    â€œ Men condemned to forced labor shall be set to the hardest possible work; they shall wear an iron ball at their ankles and shall be joined in pairs by a chain …. ”
    This time, it seemed to him that it was a cheerful voice that finished with: “Article 15 of the Penal Code.”
    The voice of his counsel, Maître Fagonet, who was twenty-eight and looked younger than Jean. He used to come into the cell, air puffing the folds of his black gown, a faint aroma of apéritif on his lips, on which still lingered traces of the smile he had given to his girlfriend as he left her in the car a hundred yards from the prison.
    â€œWell, old boy? What story are we going to tell dear Oscar today?”
    The name of the examining magistrate was Oscar Darrieulat. Maître Fagonet found it more fun to call him Oscar.
    â€œHave you brushed up on your Article 305?”
    The recollection was so clear, the presence of Fagonet so real, that Jean had to sit up in his bed, his eyes wide open to the darkness, his chest heaving as it had when, as a child, he would throw himself out of the bedclothes, in the grip of a nightmare.
    The extraordinary thing was that it was years since any of this had come back to him. More so: at the time when these events were unfolding in reality, he had taken scarcely any heed of them.
    It had been too complicated. They harried him with questions. His counsel kept repeating articles of the Code incessantly.
    â€œâ€˜ Murder shall entail the death penalty when it precedes, accompanies or follows another crime …. ’ Do you understand, young man, why you must not at any price admit the story of the wallet?”
    It was not tragic, not at the time. Even his warder would toss him each morning a cheerful, “Slept well?”
    And the examining magistrate, the famous Oscar, was courteous, with an air of not wishing to press certain details.
    â€œSit down…. So you say that he struck you first, not hard enough, however, to leave any mark. For my own part, I’m willing to accept this. Only, it’s the others who’ve got to be convinced, isn’t it?”
    His wife would telephone him during the interview. He would answer:
    â€œYes, darling. Yes, darling. All right. I won’t forget. Yes, seven pounds …”
    Seven pounds of what?
    â€œ Every person condemned to death shall be decapitated .”
    He turned heavily on his bed, his nerves taut.
    â€œArticle 321, old man. But for Article 321 we’d be done. That’s what I’m going to plead…. But if you can’t help me…. ”
    â€œ Murder, as also