“To be sure,” said the judge, with a savage sarcasm. “In decent conversation there is always a reticence. Something is left to be understood.”
And it is difficult to understand how murder could not have been an essential part of their plan, since—But let us see what happened.
XVI
The First Move
On the Friday before the crime was committed Mme. Dauvray and Celia dined at the Villa des Fleurs. While they were drinking their coffee Harry Wethermill joined them. He stayed with them until Mme. Dauvray was ready to move, and then all three walked into the baccarat rooms together. But there, in the throng of people, they were separated.
Harry Wethermill was looking carefully after Celia, as a good lover should. He had, it seemed, no eyes for anyone else; and it was not until a minute or two had passed that the girl herself noticed that Mme. Dauvray was not with them.
“We will find her easily,” said Harry.
“Of course,” replied Celia.
“There is, after all, no hurry,” said Wethermill, with a laugh; “and perhaps she was not unwilling to leave us together.”
Celia dimpled to a smile.
“Mme. Dauvray is kind to me,” she said, with a very pretty timidity.
“And yet more kind to me,” said Wethermill in a low voice which brought the blood into Celia’s cheeks.
But even while he spoke he soon caught sight of Mme. Dauvray standing by one of the tables; and near to her was Adèle Tacé. Adèle had not yet made Mme. Dauvray’s acquaintance; that was evident. She was apparently unaware of her; but she was gradually edging towards her. Wethermill smiled, and Celia caught the smile.
“What is it?” she asked, and her head began to turn in the direction of Mme. Dauvray.
“Why, I like your frock—that’s all,” said Wethermill at once; and Celia’s eyes went down to it.
“Do you?” she said, with a pleased smile. It was a dress of dark blue which suited her well. “I am glad. I think it is pretty.” And they passed on.
Wethermill stayed by the girl’s side throughout the evening. Once again he saw Mme. Dauvray and Adèle Tacé. But now they were together; now they were talking. The first step had been taken. Adèle Tacé had scraped acquaintance with Mme. Dauvray. Celia saw them almost at the same moment.
“Oh, there is Mme. Dauvray,” she cried, taking a step towards her.
Wethermill detained the girl.
“She seems quite happy,” he said; and, indeed, Mme. Dauvray was talking volubly and with the utmost interest, the jewels sparkling about her neck. She raised her head, saw Celia, nodded to her affectionately, and then pointed her out to her companion. Adèle Tacé looked the girl over with interest and smiled contentedly. There was nothing to be feared from her. Her youth, her very daintiness, seemed to offer her as the easiest of victims.
“You see Mme. Dauvray does not want you,” said Harry Wethermill. “Let us go and play chemin-de-fer”; and they did, moving off into one of the further rooms.
It was not until another hour had passed that Celia rose and went in search of Mme. Dauvray. She found her still talking earnestly to Adèle Tacé. Mme. Dauvray got up at once.
“Are you ready to go, dear?” she asked, and she turned to Adèle Tacé. “This is Célie, Mme. Rossignol,” she said, and she spoke with a marked significance and a note of actual exultation in her voice.
Celia, however, was not unused to this tone. Mme. Dauvray was proud of her companion, and had a habit of showing her off, to the girl’s discomfort. The three women spoke a few words, and then Mme. Dauvray and Celia left the rooms and walked to the entrance-doors. But as they walked Celia became alarmed.
She was by nature extraordinarily sensitive to impressions. It was to that quick receptivity that the success of “The Great Fortinbras” had been chiefly due. She had a gift of rapid comprehension. It was not that she argued, or deducted, or inferred. But she felt. To take a metaphor from the work of the man she loved, she was a natural receiver. So now, although no word was spoken, she was aware that Mme. Dauvray was greatly excited—greatly disturbed; and she dreaded the reason of that excitement and disturbance.
While they were driving home in the motorcar she said apprehensively:
“You met a friend then, tonight, madame?”
“No,” said Mme. Dauvray; “I made a friend. I had not met Mme. Rossignol before. A bracelet of hers came undone, and I helped her to fasten it. We talked afterwards. She lives in Geneva.”
Mme. Dauvray was silent for a moment or two. Then she turned impulsively and spoke in a voice of appeal.
“Célie, we talked of things”; and the girl moved impatiently. She understood very well what were the things of which Mme. Dauvray and her new friend had talked. “And she laughed. … I could not bear it.”
Celia was silent, and Mme. Dauvray went on in a voice of awe:
“I told her of the wonderful things which happened when I sat with Hélène in the dark—how the room filled with strange sounds, how ghostly fingers touched my forehead and my eyes. She laughed—Adèle Rossignol laughed, Célie. I told her of the spirits with whom we held converse. She would not believe. Do you remember the evening, Célie, when Mme. de Castiglione came back an old, old woman, and told us how, when she had grown old and had lost her beauty and was very lonely, she would no longer live in the great house which was so full of torturing memories, but took a small appartement near by, where no one knew her; and how she used to walk out late at night, and watch, with her eyes full of tears, the dark windows which had been once so
