The boy made no answer. His hands fiddled nervously with the things on the table in front of him.
‘I must request an answer, please, Monsieur Renauld,’ said Giraud sharply.
With an angry exclamation, the boy swept a heavy paperknife to the floor.
‘What does it matter? You might as well know. Yes, I did quarrel with my father. I dare say I said all those things—I was so angry I cannot even remember what I said! I was furious—I could almost have killed him at that moment there, make the most of that!’ He leant back in his chair, flushed and defiant.
Giraud smiled, then, moving his chair hack a little, said: ‘That is all. You would, without doubt, prefer to continue the interrogatory, Monsieur Hautet.’
‘Ah, yes, exactly,’ said M. Hautet. ‘And what was the subject of your quarrel?’
‘That I decline to state.’
M. Hautet sat up in his chair. ‘Monsieur Renauld, it is not permitted to trifle with the law,’ he thundered. ‘What was the subject of the quarrel?’
Young Renauld remained silent, his boyish face sullen and overcast. But another voice spoke, imperturbable and calm, the voice of Hercule Poirot: ‘I will inform you, if you like, monsieur.’
‘You know?’
‘Certainly I know. The subject of the quarrel was Mademoiselle Marthe Daubreuil.’
Renauld sprang round, startled. The magistrate leaned forward.
‘Is that so, monsieur?’
Jack Renauld bowed his head. ‘Yes,’ he admitted. ‘I love Mademoiselle Daubreuil, and I wish to marry her. When I informed my father of the fact he flew at once into a violent rage. Naturally, I could not stand hearing the girl I loved insulted, and I, too, lost my temper.’
M. Hautet looked across at Mrs. Renauld. ‘You were aware of this—attachment, madame?’
‘I feared it,’ she replied simply.
‘Mother,’ cried the boy. ‘You too! Marthe is as good as she is beautiful. What can you have against her?’
‘I have nothing against Mademoiselle Daubreuil in any way. But I should prefer you to marry an Englishwoman, or if a Frenchwoman, not one who has a mother of doubtful antecedents!’
Her rancour against the older woman showed plainly in her voice, and I could well understand that it must have been a bitter blow to her when her only son showed signs of falling in love with the daughter of her rival.
Mrs. Renauld continued, addressing the magistrate: ‘I ought, perhaps, to have spoken to my husband on the subject, but I hoped that it was only a boy and girl flirtation which would blow over all the quicker if no notice was taken of it. I blame myself now for my silence, but my husband, as I told you, had seemed so anxious and careworn, different altogether from his normal self, that I was chiefly concerned not to give him any additional worry.’
M. Hautet nodded.
‘When you informed your father of your intentions towards Mademoiselle Daubreuil,’ he resumed, ‘he was surprised?’
‘He seemed completely taken aback. Then he ordered me peremptorily to dismiss any such idea from my mind. He would never give his consent to such a marriage. Nettled, I demanded what he had against Mademoiselle Daubreuil. To that he could give no satisfactory reply, but spoke in slighting terms of the mystery surrounding the lives of the mother and daughter. I answered that I was marrying Marthe and not her antecedents, but he shouted me down with a peremptory refusal to discuss the matter in any way. The whole thing must be given up. The injustice and highhandedness of it all maddened me—especially since he himself always seemed to go out of his way to be attentive to the Daubreuils and was always suggesting that they should be asked to the house. I lost my head, and we quarrelled in earnest. My father reminded me that I was entirely dependent on him, and it must have been in answer to that that I made the remark about doing as I pleased after his death—’
Poirot interrupted with a quick question: ‘You were aware, then, of the terms of your father’s will?’
‘I knew that he had left half his fortune to me, the other half in trust for my mother, to come to me at her death,’ replied the lad.