‘Quelle belle v/e!’ he murmured.
‘Yes, it’s a good old world,’ I agreed. ‘Here am I with a job, and a good job tool And here are you, famous – ‘
‘Oh, mon ami!’ protested Poirot.
‘But you are. And rightly sol When I think back on your long line of successes, I am positively amazed. I don’t believe you know what failure isl’
‘He would be a droll kind of original who could say thaw ‘No, but seriously, have you ever failed?’
‘Innumerable times, my friend. What would you? La bonne chance, it cannot always be on your side. I have been called in too late. Very often another, working towards the same goal, has arrived there first. Twice have I been stricken down with illness just as I was on the point of success. One must take the downs with the ups, my friend.’
‘I didn’t quite mean that,’ I said. ‘I meant, had you ever been completely down and out over a case through your own fault?’
‘Ah, I comprehend! You ask if I have ever made the complete prize ass of myself, as you say over here? Once, my friend – ‘ A slow, reflective smile hovered over his face. ‘Yes, once I made a fool of myself.’
He sat up suddenly in his chair.
‘See here, my friend, you have, I know, kept a record of my little successes. You shall add one more story to the collection, the story of a failure!’ He leaned forward and placed a log on the fire. Then, after carefully wiping his hands on a little duster that hung on a nail by the fireplace, he leaned back and commenced his story.
That of which I tell you (said M. Poirot) took place in Belgium many years ago. It was at the time of the terrible struggle in France between church and state. M. Paul Droulard was a French deputy of note. It was an open secret that the portfolio of a Minister awaited him. He was among the bitterest of the anti-Catholic party, and it was certain that on his accession to power, he would have to face violent enmity. He was in many ways a peculiar man.
Though he neither drank nor smoked, he was nevertheless not so scrupulous in other ways. You comprehend, Hastings, cYtait des femrnes – toujours des femmesl He had married some years earlier a young lady from Brussels who had brought him a substantial dot. Undoubtedly the money was useful to him in his career, as his family was not rich, though on the other hand he was entitled to call himself M. le Baron if he chose. There were no children of the marriage, and his wife died after two years – the result of a fall downstairs. Among the property which she bequeathed to him was a house on the Avenue Louise in Brussels.
It was in this house that his sudden death took place, the event coinciding with the resignation of the Minister whose portfolio he was to inherit. All the papers printed long notices of his career.
His death, which had taken place quite suddenly in the evening after dinner, was attributed to heart-failure.
At that time, rnon ami, I was, as you know, a member of the Belgian detective force. The death of M. Paul Droulard was not particularly interesting to me. I am, as you also know, bon catholique, and his demise seemed to me fortunate.
It was some three days afterwards, when my vacation had just begun, that I received a visitor at my own apartments – a lady, heavily veiled, but evidently quite young; and I perceived at once that she was a jeune fille tout d fait cornme il faut.
‘You are Monsieur Hercule Poirot?’ she asked in a low sweet voice.
I bowed.
‘Of the detective service?’
Again I bowed. ‘Be seated, I pray of you, mademoiselle,’ I said.
She accepted a chair and drew aside her veil. Her face was charming, though marred with tears, and haunted as though with some poignant anxiety.
‘Monsieur,’ she said, ‘I understand that you are now taking a vacation. Therefore you will be free to take up a private case.