Pedigree Read Free Page B

kettle which had been dented near the spout; the alarm-clock, on the black mantelpiece, resumed its gentle tick-tock.
    Only then did Élise feel a vague movement in her belly, and come to, and realize that she had fallen asleep, balanced unsteadily on a chair, still holding the dishcloth in her hand. She knew where she was, on the second floor of Cession’s, right in the middle of a thriving town, not far from the Pont des Arches which separated the town from the suburbs; and she was frightened. She stood up, trembling, holding her breath, and then, to reassure herself with an everyday gesture, she put some coal on the fire.
    â€˜Dear God,’ she muttered.
    Désiré was far away, on the other side of the town, in his office in the Rue des Guillemins, and now perhaps she was going to give birth, all by herself, while hundreds and thousands of passers-by went by, bumping their umbrellas against one another in the glistening streets.
    Her hand went out to pick up the matchbox next to the alarm-clock, but she had not the patience to remove the milky globe of the oil-lamp and the glass, and then to raise the wick; she was too frightened. She lacked the courage to put away in the cupboard the odd plates that were lying around, and without looking in the mirror she put on her black crape hat, the one she had worn in mourning for her mother. Then she put on her black cheviot coat which was also a mourning coat and no longer buttoned up, so that she had to hold it folded across her swollen belly.
    She was thirsty. She was hungry. There was something missing within her, an empty feeling, but she did not know what to do about it and rushed out of the room, putting the key in her handbag.
    It was 12 February 1903. A bat’s-wing burner hissed and spat out its incandescent gas on the staircase, for there was gas laid on in the house, though not on the second floor.
    On the first floor, Élise saw some light under a door; she did not dare to knock; the idea did not even occur to her. Some people of independent means lived there, the Delobels, people who speculated on the Stock Exchange, a selfish couple who coddled themselves and spent several months every year at Ostend or Nice.
    There was a draught in the narrow corridor, which passed between two shops. In the windows of Cession’s, there were dozens of dark hats, and inside, people looking hesitantly at themselves in mirrors and not daring to say whether they were pleased with their reflections, and Madame Cession, Élise’s landlady, in black silk, with a black tucker, a cameo, and a watch on a chain round her neck.
    Trams went by every minute or so, green ones going to Trooz, Chênée and Fléron, red and yellow ones going unendingly round the town.
    Hawkers were calling out the winning numbers of the latest lottery, and others were shouting:
    â€˜The Baronne de Vaughan, ten centimes! Ask for the picture of the Baronne de Vaughan!’
    She was Léopold II’s mistress. There was supposed to be an underground passage connecting her house with the Château de Laeken.
    â€˜Ask for the Baronne de Vaughan …’
    All her life, as far back as she could remember, Élise had had the same feeling of smallness; yes, she was terribly small, weak and defenceless, in a big, indifferent world, and all she could do was mutter:
    â€˜Dear God …’
    She had forgotten her umbrella. She had not the heart to go back for it, and tiny drops of rain settled on her round little Nordic face, on her fair, curly Flemish hair.
    Everybody struck her as impressive, even the man in a frock-coat, stiff as a ramrod, with waxed moustaches and a collar as broad as a cuff, who was tramping up and down under the lamp outside a dress-shop. He was dying of cold in the feet, cold in the nose, cold in the fingers. In the crowd moving along the pavement, he was on the look-out for mothers dragging children along by the hand. His pockets were full of little