“Mademoiselle de Bellefort?” said Poirot. “You permit that I speak to you for a little moment?”
Jacqueline turned her head slightly. A faint smile played round her lips.
“Certainly,” she said. ‘,You are M. Hercule Poirot, I think? Shall I make a guess? You are acting for Mrs. Doyle who has promised you a large fee if you succeed in your mission.”
Poirot sat down on a bench near her.
“Your assumption is partially correct,” he said, smiling. “I have just come from Mrs. Doyle. But I am not accepting any fee from her and strictly speaking I am not acting for her.’
“Oh”
Jacqueline studied him attentively.
“Then why have you come?” she asked abruptly.
Hercule Poirot’s reply was in the form of another question.
“Have you ever seen me before, Mademoiselle?”
She shook her head.
“No, I do not think so.”
“Yet I have seen you. I sat next to you once at Chez Ma Tante. You were there with Mr. Simon Doyle.”
A strange masklike expression came over the girl’s face. She said:
“I remember that evening…”
“Since then,” said Poirot, “many things have occurred.”
“As you say, many things have occurred.”
Her voice was hard with an undertone of desperate bitterness.
“Mademoiselle, I speak as a friend. Bury your dead!”
She looked startled.
“What do you mean?”
“Give up the past! Turn to the future! What is done is done. Bitterness will not undo it.”
“I’m sure that that would suit dear Linnet admirably.”
Poirot made a gesture.
“I am not thinking of her at this moment! I am thinking of you. You have suffered–yes–but what you are doing now will only prolong that suffering.”
She shook her head.
“You’re wrong. There are times–when I almost enjoy myself.”
“And that, Mademoiselle, is the worst of all.” ‘
She looked up swiftly.
“You’re not stupid,” she said. She added slowly, “I believe you mean to be kind.”
“Go home, Mademoiselle. You are young, you have brains–the world is before you.”
Jacqueline shook her head slowly.
“You don’t understand—or you won’t. Simon is my world.”
“Love is not everything, Mademoiselle.” Poirot said gently, “It is only when we are young that we think it is.”
But the girl still shook her head.
“You don’t understand.” She shot him a quick look. “You know all about it, of course? You’ve talked to Linnet? And you were in the restaurant that night ….
Simon and I loved each other.”
“I know that you loved him.”
She was quick to perceive the inflection of his words. She repeated with emphasis:
“We loved each other. And I loved Linnet… I trusted her. She was my best friend. All her life Linnet has been able to buy everything she wanted. She’s never denied herself anything. When she saw Simon she wanted him–and she just took him.”
“And he allowed himself to be bought?”
Jacqueline shook her dark head slowly.
“No, it’s not quite like that. If it were I shouldn’t be here now You’re suggesting that Simon isn’t worth caring for… If he’d married Linnet for her money that would be true. But he didn’t marry her for her money. It’s more complicated than that. There’s such a thing as glamour, M. Poirot. And money helps that. Linnet had an ‘atmosphere,’ you see. She was the queen of a kingdom–the young princess–luxurious to her fingertips. It was like a stage’ setting. She had the world at her feet. One of the richest and most sought after peers in England wanting to marry her. And she stoops instead to the obscure Simon Doyle …. Do you wonder it went to his head?” She made a sudden gesture. “Look at the moon up there. You see her very plainly, don’t you? She’s very real. But if the sun were to shine you wouldn’t be able to see her at all. It was rather like that. I was the moon …. When the sun came out, Simon couldn’t see me any more …. He was dazzled. He couldn’t see anything but the sun–Linnet.” She paused and then went on: “So you see it was–glamour. She went to his head. And then there’s her complete assurance–her habit of command. She’s so sure of herself that she makes other people sure. Simon was–weak, perhaps, but then he’s a very simple person.