The Widow by Georges Simenon Page B

yesterday on account of a slight indisposition which necessitated his remaining in bed.
    That year, Jean had made himself ill so as not to have to take his examinations. He had spent the whole month of July in the garden of the house, up on the hill, and in the end he was dragging himself around like a really sick person and moving with the caution of an invalid.
    The following year he had been kept back in the fourth form. He did no work. He knew that from now on it was useless. He had given up.
    He was taller and thinner than his schoolmates, more elegant, and since he always had pocketfuls of money, he used to stand them ice cream.
    When his wallet happened to be empty, he would take a few odd notes from the petty cash, and there was no one but the old bookkeeper to notice it.
    He had given up trying to do anything. Twice he had failed to get his degree, and he had only gotten it in the end by influence.
    That was how it had come about. He loved to stroll idly about the streets with friends, to eat ice cream, and, later on, to drink beer at sidewalk cafés.
    Sometimes anguish would seize him by the throat: what would become of him if? …
    Nothing! Nothing would become of him. He had given up. It was too late!
    He got up and remained standing barefoot in the middle of the loft, trying to cool off.
    â€œ Every person condemned to death shall …”
    It was throbbing, painful, unexpected. Living through the tragedy, the trial, and prison, he had scarcely realized that it was himself it was happening to. He listened to the presiding judge putting questions to the witnesses.
    â€œRaise your right hand. Swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. You are neither a relative of the prisoner nor …”
    The feeling that all this array was so utterly out of scale with himself! How could so much fuss be made over nothing at all?
    They argued over his case as if he had been a man, a man responsible for his actions, and on his bench, between his two gendarmes, he felt himself to be still at school!
    His father had not come. Nor his sister. True, at that time she was not yet twenty.
    â€œRaise your right hand. Swear…. ”
    At the adjournment, they went out to smoke cigarettes in the corridors or drink a glass of beer in the bar! In the evening, they went home!
    â€œ Every person condemned to death shall …”
    He bit his lip. He was aching all over. The agony took him at some undefined point and spread to his whole being, right down to the ends of his fingers, of his toes, which went rigid as if seized by cramp.
    Why had Tati looked at him like that? At times it was as though she understood, at others as though she were still trying to understand.
    No one had pitied the fate of the contractor from Le Mans, although he had two children. Jean had felt no pity either. He had never had any remorse. He scarcely remembered him: rather he remembered a mass, bulky because of a heavy woolen overcoat.
    â€œIt must not be forgotten, gentlemen of the jury, that when my client made his unfortunate gesture, he was in an advanced state of intoxication, and …”
    That was not true either. He had been drinking, but he was clearheaded. He was even more clearheaded than usual.
    Better still! Coming out of the Mandarin behind the contractor, he had made a distinct pause, and had said to himself, “You’re going to do something stupid.”
    He could have gone away. And, if he had not done so, was it not precisely because he wanted to be done with it all? Was it not because he was sick at heart, because he had had enough?
    He wanted something definite and final, something that offered no prospect of retreat.
    Indeed, in the very instant of striking out with the brass knuckles, it was the face of his English master he thought he saw before him.
    He had made off, very calm, almost relieved. He was on the far side of the bridge when he turned and saw the dark mass lying on the