But Mrs. Renauld came on.
“Mother,” cried Jack, starting forward. But with a gesture she drove him back.
“I am no mother of yours! You are no son of mine! From this day and hour I renounce you.”
“Mother,” cried the lad, stupefied.
For a moment she seemed to waver, to falter before the anguish in his voice. Poirot made a mediating gesture, but instantly she regained command of herself.
“Your father’s blood is on your head. You are morally guilty of his death. You thwarted and defied him over this girl, and by your heartless treatment of another girl, you brought about his death. Go out from my house. Tomorrow I intend to take such steps as shall make it certain that you shall never touch a penny of his money. Make your way in the world as best you can with the help of the girl who is the daughter of your father’s bitterest enemy!”
And slowly, painfully, she retraced her way upstairs.
We were all dumbfounded—totally unprepared for such a demonstration. Jack Renauld, worn out with all he had already gone through, swayed and nearly fell. Poirot and I went quickly to his assistance.
“He is overdone,” murmured Poirot to Marthe. “Where can we take him?”
“But home! To the Villa Marguerite. We will nurse him, my mother and I. My poor Jack!”