"You need have had no such fear. After all, we are not the visitors of
last night," said Hanaud, drawing a chair close to her and patting her
hand sympathetically. "Now, I want you to tell these gentlemen and
myself all that you know of this dreadful business. Take your time,
mademoiselle! We are human."
"But, monsieur, I know nothing," she cried. "I was told that I might go
to bed as soon as I had dressed Mlle. Celie for the seance."
"Seance!" cried Ricardo, startled into speech. The picture of the
Assembly Hall at Leamington was again before his mind. But Hanaud
turned towards him, and, though Hanaud's face retained its benevolent
expression, there was a glitter in his eyes which sent the blood into
Ricardo's face.
"Did you speak again, M. Ricardo?" the detective asked. "No? I thought
it was not possible." He turned back to Helene Vauquier. "So Mlle.
Celie practised seances. That is very strange. We will hear about them.
Who knows what thread may lead us to the truth?"
Helene Vauquier shook her head.
"Monsieur, it is not right that you should seek the truth from me. For,
consider this! I cannot speak with justice of Mlle. Celie. No, I
cannot! I did not like her. I was jealous—yes, jealous, Monsieur, you
want the truth—I hated her!" And the woman's face flushed and she
clenched her hand upon the arm of her chair. "Yes, I hated her. How
could I help it?" she asked.
"Why?" asked Hanaud gently. "Why could you not help it?"
Helene Vauquier leaned back again, her strength exhausted, and smiled
languidly.
"I will tell you. But remember it is a woman speaking to you, and
things which you will count silly and trivial mean very much to her.
There was one night last June—only last June! To think of it! So
little while ago there was no Mlle. Celie—" and, as Hanaud raised his
hand, she said hurriedly, "Yes, yes; I will control myself. But to
think of Mme. Dauvray now!"
And thereupon she blurted out her story and explained to Mr. Ricardo
the question which had so perplexed him: how a girl of so much
distinction as Celia Harland came to be living with a woman of so
common a type as Mme. Dauvray.
"Well, one night in June," said Helene Vauquier, "madame went with a
party to supper at the Abbaye Restaurant in Montmartre. And she brought
home for the first time Mlle. Celie. But you should have seen her! She
had on a little plaid skirt and a coat which was falling to pieces, and
she was starving—yes, starving. Madame told me the story that night as
I undressed her. Mlle. Celie was there dancing amidst the tables for a
supper with any one who would be kind enough to dance with her."
The scorn of her voice rang through the room. She was the rigid,
respectable peasant woman, speaking out her contempt. And Wethermill
must needs listen to it. Ricardo dared not glance at him.
"But hardly any one would dance with her in her rags, and no one would
give her supper except madame. Madame did. Madame listened to her story
of hunger and distress. Madame believed it, and brought her home.
Madame was so kind, so careless in her kindness. And now she lies
murdered for a reward!" An hysterical sob checked the woman's
utterances, her face began to work, her hands to twitch.
"Come, come!" said Hanaud gently, "calm yourself, mademoiselle."
Helene Vauquier paused for a moment or two to recover her composure. "I
beg your pardon, monsieur, but I have been so long with madame—oh, the
poor woman! Yes, yes, I will calm myself. Well, madame brought her
home, and in a week there was nothing too good for Mlle. Celie. Madame
was like a child. Always she was being deceived and imposed upon. Never
she learnt prudence. But no one so quickly made her way to madame's
heart as Mlle. Celie. Mademoiselle must live with her. Mademoiselle
must be dressed by the first modistes. Mademoiselle must have lace
petticoats and the softest linen, long white gloves, and pretty ribbons
for her hair, and hats from Caroline Reboux at twelve hundred francs.
And madame's maid must attend upon her and deck her out in all these
dainty things. Bah!"
Vauquier was sitting erect in her chair, violent, almost rancorous with
anger. She looked round upon the company and shrugged her shoulders.
"I told you not to come to me!" she said, "I cannot speak impartially,
or even gently of mademoiselle. Consider! For years I had been more
than madame's maid—her friend; yes, so she was kind enough to call me.
She talked to me about everything, consulted me about everything, took
me with her everywhere. Then she brings home, at two o'clock in the
morning, a young girl with a fresh, pretty face, from a Montmartre
restaurant, and in a week I am nothing at all—oh, but nothing—and
mademoiselle is queen."
"Yes, it is quite natural," said Hanaud sympathetically. "You would not
have been human, mademoiselle, if you had not felt some anger. But tell
us frankly about these seances. How did they begin?"
"Oh, monsieur," Vauquier answered, "it was not difficult to begin them.
Mme. Dauvray had a passion for fortune-tellers and rogues of that kind.
Any one with a pack of cards and some nonsense about a dangerous woman
with black hair or a man with a limp—Monsieur knows the stories they
string together in dimly lighted rooms to deceive the credulous—any
one could make a harvest out of madame's superstitions. But monsieur
knows the type."
"Indeed I do," said Hanaud, with a laugh.
"Well, after mademoiselle had been with us three weeks, she said to me
one morning when I was dressing her hair that it was a pity madame was
always running round the fortune-tellers, that she herself could do
something much more striking and impressive, and that if only I would
help her we could rescue madame from their clutches. Sir, I did not
think what power I was putting into Mlle. Celie's hands, or assuredly I
would have refused. And I did not wish to quarrel with Mlle. Celie; so
for once I consented, and, having once consented, I could never
afterwards refuse, for, if I had, mademoiselle would have made some
fine excuse about the psychic influence not being en rapport, and
meanwhile would have had me sent away. While if I had confessed the
truth to madame, she would have been so angry that I had been a party
to tricking her that again I would have lost my place. And so the
seances went on."
"Yes," said Hanaud. "I understand that your position was very
difficult. We shall not, I think," and he turned to the Commissaire
confidently for corroboration of his words, "be disposed to blame you."
"Certainly not," said the Commissaire. "After all, life is not so easy."
"Thus, then, the seances began," said Hanaud, leaning forward with a
keen interest. "This is a strange and curious story you are telling me,
Mlle. Vauquier. Now, how were they conducted? How did you assist? What
did Mlle. Celie do? Rap on the tables in the dark and rattle
tambourines like that one with the knot of ribbons which hangs upon the
wall of the salon?"
There was a gentle and inviting irony in Hanaud's tone. M. Ricardo was
disappointed. Hanaud had after all not overlooked the tambourine.
Without Ricardo's reason to notice it, he had none the less observed it
and borne it in his memory.
"Well?" he asked.
"Oh, monsieur, the tambourines and the rapping on the table!" cried
Helene. "That was nothing—oh, but nothing at all. Mademoiselle Celie
would make spirits appear and speak!"
"Really! And she was never caught out! But Mlle. Celie must have been a
remarkably clever girl."
"Oh, she was of an address which was surprising. Sometimes madame and I
were alone. Sometimes there were others, whom madame in her pride had
invited. For she was very proud, monsieur, that her companion could
introduce her to the spirits of dead people. But never was Mlle. Celie
caught out. She told me that for many years, even when quite a child,
she had travelled through England giving these exhibitions."
"Oho!" said Hanaud, and he turned to Wethermill. "Did you know that?"
he asked in English.
"I did not," he said. "I do not now."
Hanaud shook his head.
"To me this story does not seem invented," he replied. And then he
spoke again in French to Helene Vauquier. "Well, continue,
mademoiselle! Assume that the company is assembled for our seance."
"Then Mlle. Celie, dressed in a long gown of black velvet, which set
off her white arms and shoulders well—oh, mademoiselle did not forget
those little trifles," Helene Vauquier interrupted her story, with a
return of her bitterness, to interpolate—"mademoiselle would sail into
the room with her velvet train flowing behind her, and perhaps for a
little while she would say there was a force working against her, and
she would sit silent in a chair while madame gaped at her with open
eyes. At last mademoiselle would say that the powers were favourable
and the spirits would manifest themselves to night. Then she would be
placed in a cabinet, perhaps with a string tied across the door
outside—you will understand it was my business to see after the
string—and the lights would be turned down, or perhaps out altogether.
Or at other times we would sit holding hands round a table, Mlle. Celie
between Mme. Dauvray and myself. But in that case the lights would be
turned out first, and it would be really my hand which held Mme.
Dauvray's. And whether it was the cabinet or the chairs, in a moment
mademoiselle would be creeping silently about the room in a little pair
of soft-soled slippers without heels, which she wore so that she might
not be heard, and tambourines would rattle as you say, and fingers
touch the forehead and the neck, and strange voices would sound from
corners of the room, and dim apparitions would appear—the spirits of
great ladies of the past, who would talk with Mme. Dauvray. Such ladies
as Mme. de Castiglione, Marie Antoinette, Mme. de Medici—I do not
remember all the names, and very likely I do not pronounce them
properly. Then the voices would cease and the lights be turned up, and
Mlle. Celie would be found in a trance just in the same place and
attitude as she had been when the lights were turned out. Imagine,
messieurs, the effect of such seances upon a woman like Mme. Dauvray.
She was made for them. She believed in them implicitly. The words of
the great ladies from the past—she would remember and repeat them, and
be very proud that such great ladies had come back to the world merely
to tell her—Mme. Dauvray—about their lives. She would have had
seances all day, but Mlle. Celie pleaded that she was left exhausted at
the end of them. But Mlle. Celie was of an address! For instance—it
will seem very absurd and ridiculous to you, gentlemen, but you must
remember what Mme. Dauvray was—for instance, madame was particularly
anxious to speak with the spirit of Mme. de Montespan. Yes, yes! She
had read all the memoirs about that lady. Very likely Mlle. Celie had
put the notion into Mme. Dauvray's head, for madame was not a scholar.
But she was dying to hear that famous woman's voice and to catch a dim
glimpse of her face. Well, she was never gratified. Always she hoped.
Always Mlle. Celie tantalised her with the hope. But she would not
gratify it. She would not spoil her fine affairs by making these treats
too common. And she acquired—how should she not?—a power over Mme.
Dauvray which was unassailable. The fortune-tellers had no more to say
to Mme. Dauvray. She did nothing but felicitate herself upon the happy
chance which had sent her Mlle. Celie. And now she lies in her room
murdered!"
Once more Helene's voice broke upon the words. But Hanaud poured her
out a glass of water and held it to her lips. Helene drank it eagerly.
"There, that is better, is it not?" he said.
"Yes, monsieur," said Helene Vauquier, recovering herself. "Sometimes,
too," she resumed, "messages from the spirits would flutter down in
writing on the table."
"In writing?" exclaimed Hanaud quickly.
"Yes; answers to questions. Mlle. Celie had them ready. Oh, but she was
of an address altogether surprising.
"I see," said Hanaud slowly; and he added, "But sometimes, I suppose,
the questions were questions which Mlle. Celie could not answer?"
"Sometimes," Helene Vauquier admitted, "when visitors were present.
When Mme. Dauvray was alone—well, she was an ignorant woman, and any
answer would serve. But it was not so when there were visitors whom
Mlle. Celie did not know, or only knew slightly. These visitors might
be putting questions to test her, of which they knew the answers, while
Mlle. Celie did not."
"Exactly," said Hanaud. "What happened then?"
All who were listening understood to what point he was leading Helene
Vauquier. All waited intently for her answer.
She smiled.
"It was all one to Mlle. Celie."
"She was prepared with an escape from the difficulty?"
"Perfectly prepared."
Hanaud looked puzzled.
"I can think of no way out of it except the one," and he looked round
to the Commissaire and to Ricardo as though he would inquire of them
how many ways they had discovered. "I can think of no escape except
that a message in writing should flutter down from the spirit appealed
to saying frankly," and Hanaud shrugged his shoulders, "'I do not
know.'"
"Oh no no, monsieur," replied Helene Vauquier in pity for Hanaud's
misconception, "I see that you are not in the habit of attending
seances. It would never do for a spirit to admit that it did not know.
At once its authority would be gone, and with it Mlle. Celie's as well.
But on the other hand, for inscrutable reasons the spirit might not be
allowed to answer."
"I understand," said Hanaud, meekly accepting the correction. "The
spirit might reply that it was forbidden to answer, but never that it
did not know."
"No, never that,"
(agreed)
Helene. So it seemed that Hanaud must look
elsewhere for the explanation of that sentence. "I do not know." Helene
continued: "Oh, Mlle. Celie—it was not easy to baffle her, I can tell
you. She carried a lace scarf which she could drape about her head, and
in a moment she would be, in the dim light, an old, old woman, with a
voice so altered that no one could know it. Indeed, you said rightly,
monsieur—she was clever."