A girl who loves you very dearly—who has been willing to lay down her life for you.”
“How could I ask her?” muttered the boy. “After all that has happened, could I go to her and—oh, what sort of a lame story could I tell?”
“Les femmes—they have a wonderful genius for manufacturing crutches for stories like that.”
“Yes, but—I've been such a damned fool!”
“So have all of us, one time and another,” observed Poirot philosophically.
But Jack’s face had hardened.
“There’s something else. I'm my father’s son. Would anyone marry me, knowing that?"
“You are your father’s son, you say. Hastings here will tell you that I believe in heredity—"
“Well, then—"
“Wait. I know a woman, a woman of courage and endurance, capable of great love, of supreme self-sacrifice—"
The boy locked up. His eyes softened. "My mother!"
“Yes. You are your mother's son as well as your father's. Go then to Mademoiselle Bella. Tell her everything. Keep nothing back—and see what she will say!”
Jack looked irresolute.
“Go to her as a boy no longer, but a man—a man bowed by the fate of the past and the fate of today, but looking forward to a new and wonderful life. Ask her to share it with you. You may not realize it, but your love for each other has been tested in the fire and not found wanting. You have both been willing to lay down your lives for each other.”
And what of Captain Arthur Hastings, humble chronicler of these pages?
There is some talk of his joining the Renaulds on a ranch across the seas, but for the end of this story I prefer to go back to a morning in the garden of the Villa Geneviève.
“I can’t call you Bella,” I said, “since it isn’t your name. And Dulcie seems so unfamiliar. So it’s got to be Cinderella. Cinderella married the prince, you remember. I'm not a prince, but—"
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