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
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
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