Jacqueline turned and walked gropingly, blinded by tears towards her cabin.
A hand below her elbow steadied and guided her. She looked up through the tears to find Poirot by her side. She leaned on him a little and he guided her through the cabin door.
She sank down on the bed and the tears came more’freely punctuated by great shuddering sobs.
“He’ll die. He’ll die. I know he’ll die …. And I shall have killed him. Yes, I shall have killed him …. ” Poirot shrugged his shoulders. He shook his head a little, sadly.
“Mademoiselle, what is done, is done. One cannot take back the accomplished action. It is too late to regret.” She cried out more vehemently: “I shall have killed him! And I love him so I love him so.” Poirot sighed.
“Too much . . .’ It had been his thought long ago in the restaurant of M. Blondin. It was his thought again now.
He said, hesitating a little.
“Do not, at all events, go by what Miss Bowers says. Hospital nurses, me, I find them always gloomy! The night nurse, always, she is astonished to find her patient alive in the evening–the day nurse, always, she is surprised to find him alive in the morning! They know too much, you see, of the possibilities that may arise. When one is motoring one might easily say to oneself if a car came out from that cross-roadr if that lorry backed suddenly–or if the wheel came off the car that is approaching me or if a dog jumped off the hedge on to my driving arm, eh bien–I should probably be killed! But one assumes–and usually rightly–that none of these things will happen and that one will get to one’s journey’s end. But fi, of course, one has been in an accident, or seen one or more accidents, then one is inclined to take the opposite point of view.” ‘ ‘ Jacqueline said, half-smiling through her tears:
“Are you trying to console me, M. Poirot?” “The bon Dieu knows what I am trying to do! You should not have come on this journey.” “No–I wish I hadn’t. It’s been–so awful. But–it will be soon over now.” “Mais ouiis oui.” “And Simon will go to the hospital and they’ll give the proper treatment and everything will be all right.” “You speak like the child] And they lived happily ever afterwards. That is it, is it not?” She flushed suddenly scarlet.
“M. Poirot. I never meant–never–” “It is too soon to think of such a thing! That is the proper hypocritical thing to say, is it not? But you aro partly a Latin, Mademoiselle Jacqueline. You should be able to admit facts even if they do not sound very decorous. Le roi est mort–vive le roi.t The sun has gone and the moon rises. That is so, is it not?” “You don’t understand. He’s just sorry for me–awfully sorry for me because he knows how terrible it is for me to know I’ve hurt him so badly.” “Ah, well,” said Poirot. “The pure pity, it is a very lofty sentiment.” He looked at her half-mockingly, half with some other emotion. He murmured softly under his breath words in French:
La vie est vaine Un peu d’amour Un peu de haine Et puis bonjour.
La vie est brve On peu d’espoir Un peu de I’ve Et puis bonsoir
He went out again on to the deck. Colonel Race was striding along the deck and hailed him at once.
“Poirot. Good man. I want you. I’ve got an idea.” Thrusting his arm through Poirot’s he walked him up the deck.
“Just a chance remark Of Doyle’s. I hardly noticed it at the time. Something about a telegram.” “Tiens—c’est vrai.” “Nothing in it, perhaps, but one can’t leave any avenue unexplored. Damn it all, man, two murders and we’re still in the dark.” Poirot shook his head.
“No, not in the dark. In the light.” Race looked at him curiously.
“You have an idea?” “It is more than an idea now. I am sure.” “Since—when?”
“Since the death of the maid–Louise Bourget.”
“Damned if I see it!”
“My friend, it is so clear–so clear. Only–there are difficulties! Embarrass ments–impediments!