~Chapter Two~
A Promising Start
Despite the forecast promise of a clear sky, Virginie's heart sunk as she looked out the window of her bedroom and saw the heavy clouds and people walking back and forth on the streets and sidewalks with umbrellas, in the early hours of the morning.
The same dreary weather continued into the afternoon, though the rain had settled to a light drizzle by the time Virginie went up to prepare for her outing with Hercule Poirot. She was still upstairs when Poirot arrived at the house; having brought a change of clothes and dressed for the evening at work, both impressing and puzzling his fellow officers. They inquired, but got precious little in the way of a reply, apart from "Evening out" and 'saving time' .
Not two minutes after ringing the bell, Poirot was greeted by a middle-aged woman who smiled, "Monsieur Poirot. Please come in!"
"Merci, Madame Hilde," Poirot removed his hat and light rain coat and handed them to her.
"Mademoiselle Mesnard should be down in the next...five minutes or so. She has been preparing most of the afternoon. Since after lunch in fact."
Poirot cringed, "Have I caused the inconven...?"
Hilde giggled, "No, no, Monsieur Poirot. I assure you, Virginie, Mademoiselle Mesnard has been anticipating your evening. It marks a decided change in the mood around here. Ever since the...passing of Madame Deroulard's son, the wearing of black, the house has been so somber. Then today, Madame wore something colorful, light. Music has played on the phonograph. The black wreathe came down from the door and the drapes have been opened. We can breathe again. For that, we owe you much!"
"To a minor degree, Hilde. The greater credit goes to Madame Deroulard for her ...courage and to Mademoiselle Virginie for her tenacity in insisting that the truth, it should be known. If not for them, Poirot, he might still be searching. And now, the sadness, it is past and it is time to move onto the future, hmm?" He pointed to the head housekeeper; playfully touching her on the tip of the nose.
"Hilde!" a familiar voice called from the parlor. "Did I hear the doorbell ring?"
"Yes, Madame. It's Monsieur Poirot."
"Well show him into the sitting room and check on Virginie."
Hilde did as instructed; escorting Poirot into the sitting room, where he was greeted a woman who, looked, in minor measure, younger than she did, only a day earlier. Madame Deroulard wore an eggshell white gown, with sleeves that covered her elbows. The light shade of the woman's clothes was matched by the brightness of her otherwise sight-dulled eyes.
"Monsieur Poirot!" Madame Deroulard attempted to stand, but Poirot politely insisted that she stay seated.
"Nonsense!" The matriarch rose slowly from her accustomed chair and extending a hand in greeting, which Poirot took and bowed to before taking a seat in a chair across from her.
"If I may be allowed to say, Madame, you look quite nice today. The change in the color of your attire, it suits you. And, you smile."
The woman nodded to the compliment. "Merci. Truth to tell, I felt...weighed down by that dress as the days went by. The mourning. The worry. It's a relief to have it all over, if you must know the truth." Madame Deroulard made a sweeping gesture with her hand. "Enough of that. Where are you and my niece going this evening, should she get down here in time."
Poirot began to speak when footsteps could be heard and he stood when he saw Virginie enter the room. Her dress was Aqua-marine and she wore her long, dark brown hair in a French Braid. On the wrist of her left hand was the strap of her purse; which was covered by the shawl.
"Mademoiselle Virginie", Poirot accepted the free hand Virginie extended, though he could not take his eyes from hers.
"At last, my girl. Had you taken much longer, Monsieur Poirot said he might take me to the concert."
Virginie glanced at Poirot, who only smiled. Turning her gaze to her aunt, she saw the elderly woman grinning . Virginie fought the impulse to giggle. "I didn't keep you waiting for too long, have I? It's just that I couldn't decide what to wear. I finally had to go with something to match the way Hilde fixed my hair. I hope this is all right for a concert."
"C'est PARFAIT!" Poirot nodded and smiled , taking out his pocket watch. "But now, we must be off, lest we not find a table at the restaurant at the opportune time and it makes us late to the concert."
Virginie kissed her aunt on the cheek. "I should be home by ten, but no later than ten thirty." She asked quickly. "You're CERTAIN you'll be okay?"
"Enjoy the evening, kids. Hilde is here. Even blind, I can still beat her at a good game of Snap."
In the hall, Virgine allowed Hercule to drape the shawl over her shoulders. Funny, Poirot might have seen any number of women wearing that same style or color dress in the community in the space a month, but never did he notice it as he did, worn by this woman.
"There is still light rain out so it is best to take a cab to the restaurant. Then we can walk to the music hall." Poirot held up an umbrella. "Room for two."
Letting Virginie leave first, Poirot stepped behind her, by a few feet, and opened the umbrella; shielding her, though the rain, at that point, was reduced to a light trickle and by the time they got a hansom cab, it had stopped entirely.
As if in answer to silent prayer , the Italian restaurant wasn't too busy. Five tables were occupied and all but two had already been served. By the time Poirot pulled out a chair for Virginie and then sat himself down, a waiter had approached with a wine and dinner list. It was obvious to Virginie that her gentleman had made up his mind before he arrived at the restaurant for he honed in on what he wanted. "The Fettucine with le poulet and Iced Tea. On such a filling meal, I would fall asleep if I had so much as one sip of le vino."
"Very well, sir. And you, mademoiselle?"
"You know..." Virginie meandered over the menu. "I believe I will have what the gentleman is having. Only, may I have a half portion? With iced tea as well. That will be filling enough or I'll have to be carted to the concert hall in a lorry."
After the waiter left with the orders, Virginie's date pursed his lips in mock disappointment. "You fib," he teased.
"About what?"
"A full portion, it would not make you so heavy, as to have to be taken to the concert hall in a lorry. "
"Would, too." she replied, one elbow on the table where her aunt would have scolded her for such manners, or lack of the same. "I've eaten a few Italian meals and I always feel like I'll never move again. It's very rich food. That's why Madame will only permit it to be made when there isn't too much to do for a few days after. So I'm glad you didn't have wine with your meal."
Poirot smirked and then sighed before admitting, "If you are making with the confessions, then I, too must admit; I cannot drink wine with the food that is Italian. I would fall asleep, possibly on the way to the concert." They both chuckled.
By the time they left the restaurant, the rain had stopped completely and the clouds were breaking up. Arm in arm, Poirot escorted his lady to the concert hall. By the time they left the concert hall, it was nearly 10:00 pm. Nine-forty.
"Mademoiselle Virginie, if you trust me, I would not mind the walk home. It is lovely out. The stars, they are shining. The moon is out. No fear of another storm, I think. On the other hand, if you would rather...."
"A walk would be quite nice, Hercule. And of course I trust you."
En route home, they talked about the concert and the music, even while watching others walk, to and fro. Some, alone. Others as couples.
"I envy them, you know. The musicians. How they make their instruments 'sing' . Myself? I would make the violin sound like a cat on the attack, or, worse, the cat who was being attacked." Poirot grimaced at his own analogy and apologized for the unpleasant imagery conjured up.
"I do play some violin, but I'm better at the piano. Marginally, anyway. I can play SOME Chopin. His Raindrop Prelude. A thoughtful piece. It's called something else~Concerto in B minor or some such. I prefer actual names, though." Virginie explained as they sauntered. "And I pronounce and play Tchaikovsky better than I'll ever be able to SPELL the name!"
Hercule chuckled. "The first time I ever read the name, I couldn't pronounce it, so someone told me and, to this very day, cannot make sense out of why a name, sounding like it should be spelled C.H.I.C.O.U.G.H.S.K.I , it is spelled with a T. Makes no sense to me at all."
"Possibly because it's Russian, and some letters are pronounced and said differently. Like in German, 'Nine' means NONE or NO, whereas, to us, it's the spelling of the number nine."
"One of those things we shall learn as we go." Poirot said as they walked.
"Like a mystery?" Virginie asked.
"Like that." Poirot said with a smile before asking permission to hold the lady's hand.
Virginie extended her hand for him to hold. "You are such a gentleman."
"Is that a good thing? I am not so sure anymore."
"It is. At least in my book." Virginie said. "But we were talking about mysteries. You love untangling mysteries, Hercule. I get impatient if my boot lace gets double tied and I have to sit down to untie it all. You love trying to solve human tangles and they're a lot trickier I would guess."
"Beaucoup. Very much so. The boot laces get only so tangled. The human mind, on the other hand, thinks it can get out of one tangle by creating another. But each additional tangle, it not only confuses the ones trying to untangle but the one doing the tangling, until, eventually, the tangler forgets their last deception and is, effectively, untangled by the police. Sometimes, you just have to wait it out. However, I am not always so patient with the waiting. I have to learn to watch."
"I predict, with some assurance, you will be good at whatever you set your sights on, Hercule." Virginie said as they approached the front steps of her home.
"I hope so. I have some of my hopes set already. But time, it will be the judge. And Le Bon Dieu."
"See? You're already on the right track!" Virginie declared. "Madame gave me permission to ask you to Sunday dinner after Mass, if you are agreeable and don't have to work."
Doing his best not to sound overly excited, Poirot replied, "That sounds like a very nice way to spend the day off. In good company with good food and with God's blessing. I believe my day is free, but I will double-check, to make sure."
"What if someone asks you to cover a shift?"
"I will fake a serious illness." He faux-couched into the crook of his elbow. "Convincing, is it not?"
Virginie laughed and shook her head, "No." Poirot loved her laugh. How her eyes smiled, as he imagined his did when he looked at her. Thought of her.
"Then I shall pray extra hard that no one asks for my assistance on Sunday, because duty has to be a priority, but other parts of life, they have to be a priority as well."
"As will I." Virginie said in all sincerity; extending a hand for Hercule to bow to. "If I do not hear anything before Sunday, I will see you in church Sunday morning."
"That day will take forever to arrive." He said. "As this one did."
Poirot waited for Virginie to be on the landing of the steps and have the front door open before he left for his own home.
~~~~~~
In the parlor, Virginie saw her aunt and Hilde playing cards and noted that Madame was holding nearly all the cards. "Are you cheating?""I am a good Catholic woman, Virginie. I never cheat." Madame Deroulard insisted, with feigned solemnity.
"She's playing with marked deck," Hilde guessed. "And with that said," the woman said, setting down her few remaining cards on the round playing table. "I am going to head off to bed before Madame sacks me again. How was your evening, though, my dear?"
"Very nice indeed. We went to a nice Italian restaurant near the concert hall and then walked to the hall. After the concert, Hercule walked me home."
"Did you invite him for dinner?" Virginie's aunt asked, placing the cards back in the box with amazing dexterity. Even the couple that fell from her hand landed on the table, and so she picked them up and added them to the box.
"I did. And he accepted. He did warn, though, that he MAY get a call to work, though he will pray, quite literally, that he doesn't get that call. I will add my prayers to his."
"As will I," Madame insisted.
"You like him?"
"Of course. I am not in the habit of wasting the household finances on meals for men I wouldn't trust with my change purse, let alone the virtue of my niece. Monsieur Poirot is a man of integrity, and if you genuinely care for him, enough to ask that he have dinner with us, then that, unto itself, is a good sign."
Hilde smiled, "Don't mention that you like his cologne. She'll have you married by tea time tomorrow, and I don't have the time to prepare a wedding feast on such short notice."
Virginie giggled and her aunt professed offence as the head house-keeper headed up to her room. "Oh, why do I keep that woman around?" Madame Deroulard snitted while her niece put the deck of cards in a desk drawer and then folded up the small card table and wheeled it behind the door of the parlor.
"Because you two would be miserable without each other. You get along like snippy little puppies."
Madame chuckled, "I'd argue with you, but that's hardly what I stayed up this late for. Now be honest. Do you like Monsieur Poirot?"
"Would I have invited him for dinner and Mass if I didn't? Polite conversation is one thing, as well as a concert, but I don't think I could have endured a walk home after a rain, with a man who was going to bore me to tears. If I didn't care for the man, I would have feigned a bad ankle, offered to pay for half the cab and got away as quick as I could. Instead, we talked over dinner. He told me about his home and siblings. Hercule speaks of his mother and father with great fondness. I like that. "
"Perhaps we will meet.."
Virginie cut in, "They passed on a while back. Within a short time of each other. Sad, but in a way, good, as they had a good relationship, raised a good family. I'll want that one day."
"If you marry a man you LOVE rather than one who will give you status in the community, my dear, you will have that and more."
Virginie thought to ask but noted the sadness and far away expression in her aunt and hesitated. "So many people talk about status. Class. Women, mainly," she finally worked up the courage to admit.
"Fools! And they know it. They think because I cannot see their faces clearly that I cannot hear, in their voices, how they are lying through their teeth? These women who marry doctors and dentists and lawyers. That's all well and good for parading as accomplishments at the bridge games and charity events that they chair because being at home has become a purgatory of loneliness and obligation. But you have to go home sometime. WANT to come home, my girl. If you want to marry this man, do so for YOUR reasons. No one else's."
"Not even yours?" The young woman positioned a chair opposite to where her elderly relative customarily sat.
"Especially not mine. My dear, I come from a time where women had to marry because it was expected. I had a child with a man I learned to live with and tolerate. And, when I had to, I convinced myself that I did love him, and, in some way, it's possible that I did love Paul Deroulard's father. I just didn't want to have to keep telling myself, simply because certain things were expected of wives. I don't want that for you. I'd sooner you got a job as a librarian and raised cats rather than giving yourself, in marriage, to a man you can JUST tolerate."
Virginie reached out to take a hand of the Matriarch's. "I don't want that for myself, either. And I will let my home become a cat sanctuary before I share my life with a man for anything other than love. Tonight convinced me of that. I know what it's like to feel happy with a man. To feel comfortable in his company. To laugh because I think something is funny, and not because the joke is told by an important person.
I remember those social functions with Paul and his wife. Oh Lord, how I remember them! where Paul would be trying to marry me off to some 'gentleman' with ten titles in front of his name, from the Senate or parliament or whatever such. Then he'd be talking about this troubled country or that situation, and it's all I could do not to fall asleep standing up! Then!" she declared. " he'd go on about 'religion' was the ruin of Belgium and God has His day and we should leave it at that. Then I'd say something and the man with the ten titles would take off in a huff and Paul would just about scald my ears with the language he'd use! I don't know how his wife put up with it."
Madame sighed even as she nodded in empathy. "Likely because she married, as too many women are told, for station. Too many widows on the Titanic married men for station. Those women got off the ship all right, but their husbands didn't. Title comes with money and a sense of importance. Money DOES have its place, Virginie, but that should NOT be FIRST place in your life. Whomever you marry; Monsieur Poirot or anyone else, let your house be your home."
The woman stopped talking. "There! I've had my say! I honestly don't know WHY I said all of that, but I felt like I had to. I trust you understand what I tried to make clear, dear girl." Virginie's aunt asked.
"I understand perfectly, Madame, and I promise I will heed your counsel." And the young woman meant every word she uttered.
After making sure the parlor was tidied, Virginie walked her aunt to her room and settled in before she got herself ready for bed. She considered drawing a bath and then remembered she'd had a bath first thing that morning, for her evening out. Going to her desk, Virginie unlocked the side drawer, taking out her journal, with its Burgandy leather cover. On the front center, in gold etching, was the word JOURNAL, and her name on the left hand side. Opening her ink bottle, Virginie dipped the nib of the pen and began to write.
In her heart of hearts Virginie knew she wasn't a wanton. After all, she'd seen many men. Dated a few on sporadic occasions, when there weren't busy with this big deal or that. And if they were, they simply assumed that she would be all right with their priorities. Hercule Poirot was the first man she'd dated who made HER a part of his priorities. For that alone, she felt no ...or at least few moral qualms; imagining them, together . Wrapped in a quilt; comfortable in the meditative serenity that would follow a very blessed union.
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