She sank into her chair, and Hanaud came over to her side.
“Yes, yes,” he said, in a soothing voice. “I can understand your feelings, my poor woman. We will not keep you here. You have, perhaps, friends in Aix with whom you could stay?”
“Oh yes, monsieur!” Hélène cried gratefully. “Oh, but I thank you! That I should have to sleep here tonight! Oh, how the fear of that has frightened me!”
“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. Célie for the séance.”
“Séance!” 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 Hélène Vauquier. “So Mlle. Célie practised séances. That is very strange. We will hear about them. Who knows what thread may lead us to the truth?”
Hélène 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. Célie. 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?”
Hélène 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. Célie—” 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 Hélène Vauquier, “madame went with a party to supper at the Abbaye Restaurant in Montmartre. And she brought home for the first time Mlle. Célie. 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. Célie was there dancing amidst the tables for a supper with anyone 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 anyone 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.”
Hélène 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. Célie. 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. Célie. 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 séances. 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. Anyone 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—anyone could make a harvest out of madame’s superstitions.
