Monsieur Monde Vanishes by Georges Simenon

recognized the place, he had experienced the satisfaction that one feels on returning to a familiar spot.
    But this was clearly impossible in the case of this train journey with Julie. He was clearheaded, rational. This must be a scene that he had so often seen performed by other people, a scene that he had probably longed so violently to enact himself, that now …
    That glance back into the compartment, that air of satisfaction that must have come over his face when he looked at his sleeping companion … And the woman’s questioning gesture, that tilt of her chin when the train drew up noisily in a more important station and was invaded by a rush of new travelers; it meant: Where are we?
    As the glazed door was closed, he mouthed the name so that she could read it on his lips, separating the syllables: “Toulon!” He repeated: “Tou-lon … Toulon …”
    Failing to understand, she beckoned him to come in, showed him the vacant seat beside her, and he went and sat in it; his own voice had an unfamiliar ring.
    â€œToulon …”
    She took a cigarette out of her bag. “Give me a light.…”
    She called him “ tu ” for the first time, naturally, because for her, too, this was probably a moment that she had lived through before.
    â€œThanks … I think we’d better go on to Nice.…”
    She was whispering. In the opposite corner an elderly man with white hair was asleep, and his wife, who was elderly too, was watching over him like a child. He must have been ill, for once before she had made him swallow a small greenish pill. She was watching Julie and Monsieur Monde. And he felt ashamed, because he guessed what she must be thinking about them. Moreover, although she dared not mention it, she probably resented Julie’s smoking, which must upset the old man.
    The train started off again.
    â€œD’you know Nice?”
    This time the “ tu ” came less naturally. Julie had had time to premeditate it. He felt convinced she was using it for the benefit of the lady opposite, and because it seemed more logical, conforming to a familiar situation.
    â€œA little … Not very well …”
    He had been there several times, three winters running in fact, with his first wife after the birth of their daughter, who as a baby had suffered from bronchitis every year; in those days doctors still recommended the Riviera. They had stayed in a big middle-class hotel on the Promenade des Anglais.
    â€œI don’t know it myself.…”
    They fell silent. She finished her cigarette, which she had difficulty in crushing in the narrow brass ash tray, then she crossed and uncrossed her legs, which gleamed palely in the bluish shadows; she tried out various positions, sank back against the padded upholstery, and finally rested her head on her companion’s shoulder.
    This, too, was a memory that … No, surely! It was an attitude in which he’d seen other people a dozen times, a hundred times. He had tried to imagine their feelings and now he was acting in the scene himself, it was he whom the young man standing in the corridor— he must have got on at Toulon—was watching, with his face glued to the window.
    Then came the procession along the station platform, over the tracks, the slow monotonous scuffle toward the exit, the search through his pockets for the tickets.…
    â€œI tell you you put them in the left-hand pocket of your waistcoat.…”
    She had reverted to “ vous .” All around them, touts were calling out the names of hotels, but she did not listen to them. It was she who led the way. She walked straight ahead, threading her way much more swiftly than he could, and once they were through the gateway she remarked: “We’d better leave our things in the baggage room.”
    They had only one suitcase each, but Julie’s was heavy and particularly cumbersome.
    Thus, once outside the