A good match

Cinderella threw her arms around my neck and embraced me happily. I slid my arms around her waist and let out a contented sigh. With Cinderella, the coming back made the going away almost worth it. After a moment she leaned back and smiled up into my face.
“I’m glad you’re back,” she said a little impishly.
“So am I,” I smiled as I leaned down and kissed her forehead.
Cinderella grabbed me round the waist and we walked down the path to our ranch house. We talked little, and once or twice we stopped, but we made the long walk worthwhile. When at last we reached the house we went round the back and sat down on our special bench beneath the apple tree and stayed there for some time.
It must have been twenty minutes later when we were startled by the sound of a cleared throat only a few feet away from us. I looked up hurriedly with a slightly blushed face. One of my hired men stood looking rather sheepishly at us with a few letters in his hand.
“No? Qué es lo que quieres?” I asked.1
“El correo ha llegado, señor,” he held out the letters a little shyly.2
“Gracias,” I smiled.
My hired man nodded, and walked away.
Cinders burst out laughing. “Darling!” she smiled. “You look so funny when you’re embarrassed.”
I smiled a little, and tossed the letters onto the ground.
When evening came I remembered the letters. Several were bills, one was for Cinderella, and one, to my great joy, was from my dear friend M. Hercule Poirot. I opened it immediately and read it with great interest. I must have ejaculated something rather loudly, for my wife came running to me from the other room with a worried expression on her face.
“Arthur, what is it?”
“A letter from Poirot,” I said a little dazed. “My word, Cinders, he’s getting married – to the Countess Vera Rossakoff!”
Cinderella let out a loud laugh. “I thought it was going to be something terrible.”
“But that is terrible!” I protested.
“Why? You got married, why can’t he?”
“But – but to the Countess! She’s a jewel thief and a criminal and she has a son in America!”
“And you thought I had murdered a man and were still willing to love me.”
I let out a sigh of resignation. She had beaten me there.
“Arthur,” smiled my wife, taking my hands in hers. “If it wasn’t for Mr. Poirot, we probably wouldn’t have gotten married.”
I nodded. “Yes, I know.” After a moment’s silence a small smile crept across my mouth. “Good heavens,” I sighed. “What a ridiculous match they will make.” At the thought of this I threw back my head and laughed. “The dear old man,” I smiled. “I suppose I really am glad he’s finally found love. He’ll make a fine husband, I think.”
“I think so too,” laughed Cinders. “And from what you have told me of the Countess, they will make a fine pair. They seem so alike.”
“It is rather true. They are alike. Poirot himself suggested once that they were made for each other, though at the time I thought he meant she was a perfect adversary.”
“What’s the difference?” remarked Cinders, nudging me with her hip.
I laughed and Cinderella laughed with me, then she kissed me on the nose and went back into the kitchen.
Poirot had made no mention of the exact date of the wedding, so I planned to travel to see him as soon as possible. When I got off the train I saw Poirot waiting for me at the station. It had been far too long since I had seen him, and he was looking older, though I can’t say I looked all too young by this time, myself. I called out to Poirot, and he came almost running towards me.
“Mon ami, Hastings! It is you!” he exclaimed, taking me in his arms and kissing my cheeks warmly.
I flushed a little, and shook his hand cordially. “Poirot! How are you, old chap?” I asked. “You look quite well.”
“And I feel well, Hastings,” he smiled. “You got my letter then?”
I felt a little confused. “Of course I did. And I wrote back to you, too. Why else would you be here at the station to meet me?”
“But I am not here to meet you, mon cher Hastings. I am here to meet the Countess. She has been in London.”
“My word, Poirot, engaged to the lady and still calling her ‘the Countess?’”
Poirot smiled. “It is only in the private that I call her by her first name.”
“I see,” I smiled a little uneasily.
Poirot looked at me with knowing eyes. “You, Hastings, you do not approve of my marriage to the Countess?”
I bit my lip and shrugged my shoulders. “I don’t suppose it really matters whether I approve or not, Poirot.”
“Ah, but it does, mon ami,” he smiled. “I matters to Poirot very much! But I see you have the apprehension. Why is that, Hastings?”
“I’d feel awful saying it, Poirot, you seem so happy.”
“What is it, mon ami?” asked Poirot, smiling softly.
I let out a little sigh. “Well, she’s a criminal, Poirot, and she has a son in America.”
“And you were willing to do anything to save the woman you loved, even though you thought she had murdered a man,” said Poirot, looking deep into my eyes.
I hug my head. Poirot took my hands in his, and I looked up. “We all make errors in our life, mon ami, some graver than the others. The Countess has repented of her crimes, and I, yes, taking the law into the hands of Hercule Poirot, have decided to take the role of le bon Dieu, and forgive her of them.”
I opened my mouth to speak, when Poirot’s face lit, and he turned with a joyful exclamation to a flashily dressed woman who was careening down towards him from the platform. She had changed even from when I had chanced to meet her for a brief moment in the Argentine, but it was certainly for the better. The Countess Vera Rossakoff stood, ridiculous as ever, but somehow radiantly beautiful before Poirot, who, I have to admit, looked more handsome than I had ever seen him look before. Poirot was saying something softly to her in Belgian, and she must have liked it, for she let out a laugh and kissed him on the head. I could not help smiling.
“Captain Hastings!” she said, turning to me at last and kissing both my cheeks. “I am so glad you have come! But did you not bring your wife? You must send for her before the wedding!”
I nodded and said I would.
The Countess slipped one arm through mine, and her other through Poirot’s, and she lead us, talking merrily all the way, to a nearby cab. We got in together and Poirot edged himself closely beside the Countess. He looked at her admiringly, rather more like a teacher looks at his prodigy, but I could see deep within his green eyes an infinite love which I myself had not ever seen in them before. I smiled. Perhaps this was a good match after all.