On this particular night, M. Blondin had exercised his royal prerogative three times – once for a Duchess, once for a famous racing peer, and once for a little man of comical appearance with immense black moustaches and who, a casual onlooker would have thought, could bestow no favour on Chez Ma Tante by his presence there.
M. Blondin, however, was positively fulsome in his attentions. Though clients had been told for the last half hour that a table was not to be had, one now mysteriously appeared, placed in a most favourable 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 would honour 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 amiable, 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 will enjoy your dinner, Monsieur Poirot, I promise you that. Now as to wine-’
A technical conversation ensued, Jules, the maître d’hotel, assisting.
Before departing, M. Blondin lingered a moment, lowering his voice confidentially.
‘You have grave affairs on hand?’
Poirot shook his head.
‘I am, alas, a man of leisure,’ he said softly. ‘I have made the economies in my time and I have now 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.’ He sighed. ‘How true is the saying that man was forced to invent work in order to escape the strain of having to think.’
M. Blondin threw up his hands.
‘But there is so much! There is travel!’
‘Yes, there is travel. Already I have done not 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 the constantly falling rain.’
‘Ah! Egypt,’ breathed M. Blondin.
‘One can even voyage there now, I believe, by train, escaping all sea travel except the Channel.’
‘Ah, the sea, it does not agree with you?’
Hercule Poirot shook his head and shuddered slightly.
‘I, too,’ said M. Blondin with sympathy. ‘Curious the effect it has upon the stomach.’
