The Butterfly

Just about then an incident occurred which, though apparently insignificant, was to affect his mood throughout the whole inquiry. As he crept, as silently as his large frame allowed, along the corridor, he noticed a bright orange butterfly hovering near the ceiling. It had black spots like a leopard, a red band fritillary, which immediately took the inspector back to his childhood in the Auvergne. He imagined the wide, lush meadows and the placid longhorn cows grazing on the fat grass.

He forced himself back to the task in hand. She was along here behind one of these doors. She was waiting for him, and she was deadly. The heavy tapestries lifted in a breeze, billowed out. Irritated, he pushed them back; the butterfly fluttered over a scene of The Battle of Zama, still following him, it seemed. He was puzzled. He knew this tapestry. It was in the Louvre. So that's where he was.

He knocked on the first door. Silence. He eased it open. Through it he saw the kitchen, in it an affable man of a bulky build and age similar to his own. 'That looks just like my father,' he thought. 'I wonder what he's doing here.' The man looked up from his tray of brioches, gave no sign of acknowledgement, but indicated with his head that the other should proceed along the corridor.

It was now dark, with candles in crevices in the walls. He looked out of the window onto the Seine and the glittering riverboats. The flickering candlelight was sinister, but still the butterfly fluttered in the fitful glow. Did it signify something? It looked fragile, vulnerable. Maigret began to have doubts. He knocked tentatively on the next door. Again no answer. He hesitated, forgetting what he had come for. Oh yes, he had come for answers, but for answers to what he was no longer sure. 

He opened the door. A deserted playroom. A hand-made rocking horse in the corner, the butterfly perched on its wooden mane. He remembered his father, no mean carpenter, had made one just like this. He couldn't resist going over to it and setting himself astride it. His bulk dwarfed the horse, and he could feel its legs crack under his weight. Hastily he dismounted and backed out of the room, telling himself he was too old for this now, and to be sensible. The butterfly followed.

He heard a muffled sound from further along. Someone was sounding a stick on the floor. It must be her. He had only ever known her when she was confined to bed. His heart started pounding. He felt his revolver in his pocket, and hoped he would not have to use it.

'Come in,' a woman's voice commanded, and instantly he was six years old again. 'Where have you been? Look at that mud on your shoes. Come here!'

He stood near the door, paralysed with fear. Her bulbous eyes glared at him. 'And what's that you've got on your shoulder? Have you been chasing butterflies again instead of studying for your certificate?'

He stood dumb, felt the hot liquid trickle out from under his shorts and down his leg.

He struggled to stop himself, struggled to resist her. Somewhere in a corner of his mind a puzzle nagged him.

With surprising agility, she leant out of the bed and grabbed the butterfly. She held it quivering in her hand in front of her face, looking directly at him. And slowly, deliberately, she pulled the tiger-striped wings off the helpless insect.

He shook his head. He remembered now. The butterflies were native to the Auvergne. You never saw them in Paris. He remembered how he had missed them when he arrived. Therefore this was an impossible scene. Therefore –

He shouted, but no sound came out of his mouth.

Madame Maigret shook the writhing form under the duvet. 'Wake up, Maigret,' she commanded. Then, more softly, 'Wake up, Jules. Was it the same dream?' 

'I never wanted to be a policeman,' he moaned. 'She forced me. I was a country boy.'

Madame searched under the bedclothes, felt the moisture, and tutted. 'Again? We're going to have to get some incontinence pads.'

The thought that, after all his triumphs, he might be reduced to this filled him with rage and humiliation.

'Don't worry. Get into a shower. I'll put these out for the lavage.' 

At least we have a plastic undersheet, she thought. The new mattress was safe.

Twenty minutes later Maigret was dry and powdered, and dressed in his familiar coat and homburg. The two were ready for their weekly outing to the Brasserie Dauphine; he hoped rabbit was on the menu. As she closed the front door, Madame Maigret turned and said, 'Maigret, don't you think you ought to seek some help? You still qualify to see a police psychiatrist. And all this happened over seventy years ago.' 

Maigret said nothing, but crossed the road, to where Torrence, now white haired, beckoned them. A small white Citroen was parked on the other side of the street, and they both got in.