“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. Célie’s hands, or assuredly I would have refused. And I did not wish to quarrel with Mlle. Célie; 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 séances 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 séances 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. Célie 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 Hélène. “That was nothing—oh, but nothing at all. Mademoiselle Célie would make spirits appear and speak!”
“Really! And she was never caught out! But Mlle. Célie 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. Célie 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 Hélène Vauquier. “Well, continue, mademoiselle! Assume that the company is assembled for our séance.”
“Then Mlle. Célie, 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,” Hélène 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 tonight. 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. Célie 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. Célie 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 séances 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 séances all day, but Mlle. Célie pleaded that she was left exhausted at the end of them. But Mlle. Célie 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. Célie 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
