“But you must have known,” I expostulated. “You were taken up to see her this afternoon.”
Poirot deigned to attend to me for a brief moment.
“She had been wheeled on a sofa into the middle room—her boudoir,” he explained.
“But, monsieur,” cried Françoise, “Madame changed her room almost immediately after the crime! The associations—they were too distressing!”
“Then why was I not told,” vociferated Poirot, striking the table, and working himself into a first-class passion. “I demand you—why—was—I—not—told? You are an old woman completely imbecile! And Léonie and Denise are no better. All of you are triple idiots! Your stupidity has nearly caused the death of your mistress. But for this courageous child—”
He broke off, and, darting across the room to where the girl was bending over ministering to Mrs. Renauld, he embraced her with Gallic fervour—slightly to my annoyance.
I was aroused from my condition of mental fog by a sharp command from Poirot to fetch the doctor immediately on Mrs. Renauld’s behalf. After that, I might summon the police. And he added, to complete my dudgeon:
“It will hardly be worth your while to return here. I shall be too busy to attend to you, and of Mademoiselle here I make a garde-malad.”
I retired with what dignity I could command. Having done my errands, I returned to the hotel. I understood next to nothing of what had occurred. The events of the night seemed fantastic and impossible. Nobody would answer my questions. Nobody had seemed to hear them. Angrily, I flung myself into bed, and slept the sleep of the bewildered and utterly exhausted.
I awoke to find the sun pouring in through the open windows and Poirot, neat and smiling, sitting beside the bed.