Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 621 Romance is Justice!
"My God!"

The young man who grabbed the first book couldn't wait to start flipping through it on the roadside; after a while, he looked up, his eyes wide, and exclaimed in amazement.

People still in line nearby immediately crowded around: "What's wrong? What did you see?"

The young man ignored him, wrapped the novel in his coat, and hurriedly left.

By 9:30, many customers in the cafes in the Latin Quarter were already reading a book.

On the main road, someone was walking and looking around, and almost bumped into a lamppost; he just looked up, said "sorry," and then continued to look down.

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At 10 a.m., people who had just finished reading the beginning started discussing it in the coffee shop.

The first focus of the discussion was, of course, Hercule Poirot.

When readers open the book and first see the detective, Lionel describes him as follows:

Mr. Hercule Poirot was of medium height and had a well-proportioned figure, showing no signs of becoming overweight.

He was wearing a well-fitting dark gray suit, with his vest buttoned up perfectly and a dark blue silk bow tie.

His face was clean-shaven, and what was most striking was his two neatly trimmed, elegantly upturned mustaches.

His beard was like a work of art, making his entire face appear refined and dignified...

Some readers have already nodded in agreement by now.

"This is what the French should be like."

"Yes, he's not like the British one, who's always unkempt."

"Elegance never goes out of style!"

……

The buzzing discussion continued for a while, and every Frenchman was quite pleased with the detective's image.

This was also the result of Lionel's deliberate "correction," but not merely to make the detective more in line with French aesthetics.

In Agatha Christie's original novel, Poirot was not only short and round, but also had a head "like an egg."

She later deeply regretted this design. She complained in interviews more than once that she wasn't even sure what an egg-shaped head actually looked like.

When some curious readers asked her, "Which side of this egg is facing up?", she could only reply, "Since I wrote it, you have to accept it!"

Lionel certainly wouldn't let that happen to him.

In the original novel, Poirot has another "bug": he appears too old when he first appears. He is a retired detective from the Belgian police force, over sixty years old.

This led to the novel progressing to the point where the detective with the egg-shaped head, even in his nineties, still remained active on the front lines of solving cases, driven by a burning desire to achieve great things.

In Lionel's version, Poirot, though also from the Paris police department, retired early at the age of forty due to injury and became a private detective.

Readers were captivated by him from the very beginning.

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By noon, more and more readers were discovering the huge differences between Hercule Poirot and Sherlock Holmes.

In the Café de la République in Montparnasse, a few young literary enthusiasts sat together, with newly purchased books spread out on the table.

A young man wearing glasses pointed to a page in the book with his finger:

"Have you noticed? Poirot and Holmes are completely different."

"How are they different?"

"In 'A Study in Scarlet,' Holmes immediately determined that Watson was a recent medical graduate upon their first meeting. Do you remember that part?"

"Of course I remember, 'Your hands are too rough, and your skin is dull; this kind of condition only occurs in housewives and surgeons…'"

"It's such a classic! I've read it at least ten times, and I can recite it from memory!"

The bespectacled young man nodded: "That's Sherlock Holmes. He's like lightning, drawing conclusions in an instant, and then looking for evidence; but Poirot is different!"
You see him walk into the dining car, see all the passengers, but say nothing, just look and listen. The train conductor asked him what he thought of the case, and he said—"

He opened the book, found that page, and read it aloud:
Poirot picked up his coffee cup, took a small sip, then put the cup down and gently stroked his beard.

“I have no opinion at the moment, sir. I haven’t collected all the fragments yet.”

The bespectacled young man closed the book: "See? Holmes jumps from one point to another, while Poirot slowly walks from one point to another."

Someone nearby chimed in, "But that doesn't mean one is more clever; it's just a different approach."

“Holmes’s leaps of thought require talent, which ordinary people like us can’t keep up with. But Poirot… we can follow him and think along with him.”

“You’re right, this kind of detective is approachable. He’s not some unapproachable god; he’s just the person sitting across from us.”

"And there are methods for solving cases. What does Sherlock Holmes rely on? Footprints, cigarette ash, dirt, bloodstains... He has a chemistry lab; he's practically a scientist."

“But Poirot is different! He also values ​​evidence, but he is far more perceptive of lies, pretense, and cover-ups; he can always detect the secrets behind them!”

"Yes, Poirot doesn't care what you say, he only cares whether you say it or not—as soon as you open your mouth, he can find subtle contradictions in your words."

"Holmes chases after clues, while Poirot waits for clues to come to him."

At this point, the bespectacled young man quickly flipped to the back of the novel and found a quote from Poirot:

"I never rush, for haste is the mother of error; let the truth come to me, and it will, if only I have the patience."

He read it three times, and everyone else looked mesmerized.

Poirot's words were so elegant, so composed, so "French" that no Frenchman could remain unmoved.

Such a detective could only belong to France; and only France could produce such a detective! ——————————

At 2 p.m., as the reading progressed, the details of Hercule Poirot's methods of solving cases began to attract more and more attention.

The "Les Demos" café was packed with people, and a literary critic was explaining the secrets of "Poirot's questioning" to the readers around him.

"Did you notice how Poirot interrogated the suspects?"

He opened the novel and read a passage aloud:
Poirot did not ask Mrs. Hubbard any pointed questions directly.

He first asked her if she enjoyed her trip, if the markets in Istanbul were interesting, and if she was used to the temperature in the train carriage.

Then he mentioned American winters, the snow in New York, and the frozen lake in the park.

Mrs. Hubbard began to talk about her life in New York, her daughter, and her son-in-law's work on Wall Street.

……

After speaking for five minutes, she realized that Poirot hadn't asked anything, but she had already said a lot.

He closed the book: "This was just casual conversation, not an interrogation. That rude Englishman only had one method of interrogation: surprise attack—"

He would corner someone with a barrage of questions. But Poirot is different; he'll let you talk for yourself, letting you reveal yourself when you're relaxed!

The person next to him seemed thoughtful: "So Poirot's method is more suitable for the French? We're not used to being interrogated, but we like to chat."

"Exactly."

A middle-aged man listened intently and couldn't help but slam his hand on the table: "Brilliant! There's no need for interrogation at all; he made you reveal the flaw yourself."

Those listening were captivated, fascinated by Poirot's amazing ability to solve cases with a few words, and wished they were in that train carriage themselves.

The French are probably the most talkative people in all of Europe, and salons are essentially offline chat rooms. So, praise abounds once again—

"This is true wisdom!"

"You don't need to know the color of the soil from which place or the shape of the ash from which type of cigar!"

"Relying solely on intellect and eloquence, that's what makes a French detective!"

"That bull Sherlock Holmes only knows how to rampage through London!"

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At four o'clock in the afternoon, the winter sky began to darken, and more and more people read the ending, and the discussion became more and more intense.

Georges Boiser mentioned in his report in Le Figaro that the ending had a surprising twist.

But knowing it is one thing, actually reading it is quite another.

Inside the "Café de Flore," seven or eight people sat around a long table.

A bearded man sat in the middle. He had just finished reading the last chapter, closed the book, leaned back in his chair, and remained silent for a long time.

A person nearby asked out of curiosity, "So? What was the ending?"

Mr. Beard shook his head: "I can't say. But I must tell you, this is not an ordinary ending."

"What do you mean?"

"In a typical detective novel, the ending is that the murderer is caught and justice is served. This ending..."

He stopped.

"What happened with the ending? The murderer escaped?"

"See for yourselves!"

……

After a while, almost everyone at the table had finished reading.

Poirot chose to conceal the truth from the Avengers and instead provided the police with the conclusion that "the killer was an outsider."

The truth was forever buried in the snow.

A man in a gray suit slumped into a chair, muttering to himself:
"Poirot was a good detective; he found the truth. He was also a good man. He knew when to silence the truth."

Those nearby nodded in agreement upon hearing this.

"Today I finally understand what 'French reasoning' means—it's not the fastest, but the result is the best."

"Yes, this is a uniquely French romance! Even in 'mystery,' it shines with the light of humanity!"

"No, it should be said—'Romance is justice'!"

These words made everyone in the room squint, as if they were being bathed in this beam of light.

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"Look, what is this?"

A reader who had just finished reading "Murder on the Orient Express" subconsciously flipped through the last few pages of the book and suddenly found that the inside pages of the back cover, which should have been blank, were filled with text.

He immediately picked up the book, brought it close to his eyes, and then read it aloud, word by word:

"Murder on the Brest Express? What's that? Is it a teaser for the next Poirot novel? And it happens on a train again?"

"No, look! What's this?" Another reader also noticed and excitedly poked the bottom of the page with his finger.

(First update, thank you everyone, please vote with monthly tickets!)
　The story of the novel has already been told once during the train game, so this chapter will not repeat it. The focus will be on the adaptations and the differences between Poirot and Holmes.

　　
　
(End of this chapter)