Hercule Poirot was sitting at the table having his breakfast. In his right hand, a cup of hot chocolate was steaming. He had always liked sweets. The accompaniment to the chocolate was a brioche. It went well with the chocolate. He nodded in approval. It was from the fourth shop he had tried: Danish, but infinitely superior to the supposedly French one nearby, which was nothing but a complete fraud. He was gastronomically satisfied. His stomach was calm. His mind was also calm – perhaps somewhat excessively so. He had completed his magnum opus*, an analysis of great detective novel writers. He had dared to speak sharply about Edgar Allan Poe, had complained about the lack of method and order in Wilkie Collins' romantic outbursts, had praised two American writers who were essentially unknown to heavenly heights, and had, in various other ways, given credit where it was truly due, while strictly denying it where he believed it was not deserved.
He had seen his book at the printing house and – apart from a truly incredible number of typographical errors – had declared it good. He had enjoyed this literary achievement and had been pleased with the endless reading it required, had sniffed with disgust, throwing a book on the floor (although he always remembered to get up and pick it up and regularly throw it into the wastebasket), and had nodded in approval on the rare occasions when such approval was justified. And now? He had a pleasant break to relax, much needed after the intellectual toil. However, no one could relax forever; he had to move on to the next thing. Unfortunately, he had no idea what the next thing could be. Some additional literary achievement? He thought not. "Do something well and then leave it alone." That was his motto. The truth was that he was bored. All this strenuous intellectual activity, to which he had given in, was excessive. It had led him to bad habits, made him very nervous…