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."
To all who listened Helene Vauquier's story carried its conviction.
Mme. Dauvray rose vividly before their minds as a living woman. Celie's
trickeries were so glibly described that they could hardly have been
invented, and certainly not by this poor peasant-woman whose lips so
bravely struggled with Medici, and Montespan, and the names of the
other great ladies. How, indeed, should she know of them at all? She
could never have had the inspiration to concoct the most convincing
item of her story—the queer craze of Mme. Dauvray for an interview
with Mme. de Montespan. These details were assuredly the truth.
Ricardo, indeed, knew them to be true. Had he not himself seen the girl
in her black velvet dress shut up in a cabinet, and a great lady of the
past dimly appear in the darkness? Moreover, Helene Vauquier's jealousy
was so natural and inevitable a thing. Her confession of it
corroborated all her story.
"Well, then," said Hanaud, "we come to last night. There was a seance
held in the salon last night."
"No, monsieur," said Vauquier, shaking her head; "there was no seance
last night."
"But already you have said—" interrupted the Commissaire; and Hanaud
held up his hand.
"Let her speak, my friend."
"Yes, monsieur shall hear," said Vauquier.
It appeared that at five o'clock in the afternoon Mme. Dauvray and
Mlle. Celie prepared to leave the house on foot. It was their custom to
walk down at this hour to the Villa des Fleurs, pass an hour or so
there, dine in a restaurant, and return to the Rooms to spend the
evening. On this
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."
To all who listened Helene Vauquier's story carried its conviction.
Mme. Dauvray rose vividly before their minds as a living woman. Celie's
trickeries were so glibly described that they could hardly have been
invented, and certainly not by this poor peasant-woman whose lips so
bravely struggled with Medici, and Montespan, and the names of the
other great ladies. How, indeed, should she know of them at all? She
could never have had the inspiration to concoct the most convincing
item of her story—the queer craze of Mme. Dauvray for an interview
with Mme. de Montespan. These details were assuredly the truth.
Ricardo, indeed, knew them to be true. Had he not himself seen the girl
in her black velvet dress shut up in a cabinet, and a great lady of the
past dimly appear in the darkness? Moreover, Helene Vauquier's jealousy
was so natural and inevitable a thing. Her confession of it
corroborated all her story.
"Well, then," said Hanaud, "we come to last night. There was a seance
held in the salon last night."
"No, monsieur," said Vauquier, shaking her head; "there was no seance
last night."
"But already you have said—" interrupted the Commissaire; and Hanaud
held up his hand.
"Let her speak, my friend."
"Yes, monsieur shall hear," said Vauquier.
It appeared that at five o'clock in the afternoon Mme. Dauvray and
Mlle. Celie prepared to leave the house on foot. It was their custom to
walk down at this hour to the Villa des Fleurs, pass an hour or so
there, dine in a restaurant, and return to the Rooms to spend the
evening. On this
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