VI

M. Gaston Blondin, the proprietor¹ of that modish² little restaurant Chez Ma Tante, was not a manwho delighted to honour many of his clientèle. The rich, the beautiful, the notorious, and the well-born might wait in vain to be singled out and paid special attention. Only in the rarest cases did M.

Blondin, with gracious condescension³, greet a guest, accompany him to a privileged table, andexchange with him suitable and apposite remarks.

On this particular night, M. Blondin had exercised his royal prerogative⁴ three times—once for aDuchess, once for a famous racing⁵ peer, and once for a little man of comical appearance withimmense black moustaches, who, a casual onlooker⁶ would have thought, could bestow⁷ no favouron Chez Ma Tante by his presence there.

M. Blondin, however, was positively⁸ fulsome⁹ in his attentions. Though clients had been told forthe last half hour that a table was not to be had, one now mysteriously appeared, placed in a mostfavourable position. M. Blondin conducted the client to it with every appearance of empressement.

“But naturally, for you there is always a table, Monsieur Poirot! How I wish that you wouldhonour us oftener!”

Hercule Poirot smiled, remembering that past incident wherein a dead body, a waiter, M.

Blondin, and a very lovely lady had played a part.

“You are too amiable¹⁰, Monsieur Blondin,” he said.

“And you are alone, Monsieur Poirot?”

“Yes, I am alone.”

“Oh, well, Jules here will compose for you a little meal that will be a poem—positively a poem!

Women, however charming, have this disadvantage: They distract the mind from food! You willenjoy your dinner, Monsieur Poirot; I promise you that. Now as to wine—”

A technical conversation ensued, Jules, the ma?tre d’hotel, assisting.

Before departing, M. Blondin lingered a moment, lowering his voice confidentially¹¹.

“You have grave affairs on hand?”

Poirot shook his head.

“I am, alas¹², a man of leisure,” he said softly. “I have made the economies in my time and I havenow the means to enjoy the life of idleness.”

“I envy you.”

“No, no, you would be unwise to do so. I can assure you, it is not so gay as it sounds.” Hesighed. “How true is the saying that man was forced to invent work in order to escape the strain ofhaving to think.”

M. Blondin threw up his hands.

“But there is so much! There is travel!”

“Yes, there is travel. Already I have not done so badly. This winter I shall visit Egypt, I think.

The climate, they say, is superb! One will escape from the fogs, the greyness, the monotony of theconstantly falling rain.”

“Ah! Egypt,” breathed M. Blondin.

“One can even voyage there now, I believe, by train, escaping all sea travel except theChannel.”

“Ah, the sea, it does not agree with you?”

Hercule Poirot shook his head and shuddered¹³ slightly.

“I, too,” said M. Blondin with sympathy. “Curious the effect it has upon the stomach.”

“But only upon certain stomachs! There are people on whom the motion makes no impressionwhatever. They actually enjoy it!”

“An unfairness of the good God,” said M. Blondin.

He shook his head sadly, and, brooding on the impious thought, withdrew.

Smooth-footed, deft-handed waiters ministered to the table. Toast Melba, butter, an ice pail, allthe adjuncts to a meal of quality.

The Negro orchestra broke into an ecstasy¹⁴ of strange discordant¹⁵ noises. London danced.

Hercule Poirot looked on, registered impressions in his neat orderly mind.

How bored and weary most of the faces were! Some of those stout¹⁶ men, however, wereenjoying themselves…whereas a patient endurance seemed to be the sentiment exhibited on theirpartners’ faces. The fat woman in purple was looking radiant…Undoubtedly the fat had certaincompensations in life…a zest—a gusto—denied to those of more fashionable contours.

A good sprinkling of young people—some vacant-looking—some bored—some definitelyunhappy. How absurd to call youth the time of happiness — youth, the time of greatestvulnerability!

His glance softened¹⁷ as it rested on one particular couple. A well-matched pair—tall broad-shouldered man, slender delicate girl. Two bodies that moved in perfect rhythm of happiness.

Happiness in the place, the hour, and in each other.

The dance stopped abruptly¹⁸. Hands clapped and it started again. After a second encore thecouple returned to their table close by Poirot. The girl was flushed, laughing. As she sat, he couldstudy her face, lifted laughing to her companion.

There was something else beside laughter in her eyes. Hercule Poirot shook his head doubtfully.

“She cares too much, that little one,” he said to himself. It is not safe. No, it is not safe.”

And then a word caught his ear, “Egypt.”

Their voices came to him clearly—the girl’s young, fresh, arrogant¹⁹, with just a trace of soft-sounding foreign R’s, and the man’s pleasant, low-toned, well-bred English.

“I’m not counting my chickens before they’re hatched, Simon. I tell you Linnet won’t let usdown!”

“I might let her down.”

“Nonsense—it’s just the right job for you.”

“As a matter of fact I think it is…I haven’t really any doubts as to my capability²⁰. And I mean tomake good—for your sake!”

The girl laughed softly, a laugh of pure happiness.

“We’ll wait three months—to make sure you don’t get the sack—and then—”

“And then I’ll endow thee with my worldly goods—that’s the hang of it, isn’t it?”

“And, as I say, we’ll go to Egypt for our honeymoon²¹. Damn the expense! I’ve always wanted togo to Egypt all my life. The Nile and the Pyramids and the sand….”

He said, his voice slightly indistinct: “We’ll see it together, Jackie… together. Won’t it bemarvellous?”

“I wonder. Will it be as marvellous to you as it is to me? Do you really care—as much as I do?”

Her voice was suddenly sharp—her eyes dilated—almost with fear.

The man’s answer came quickly crisp: “Don’t be absurd, Jackie.”

But the girl repeated: “I wonder….”

Then she shrugged²² her shoulders. “Let’s dance.”

Hercule Poirot murmured to himself:

“Une qui aime et un qui se laisse aimer. Yes, I wonder too.”

 

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