At the Villa Rose · Chapter 6 (1/3)

VI

Hélène Vauquier’s Evidence

A nurse opened the door. Within the room Hélène Vauquier was leaning back in a chair. She looked ill, and her face was very white. On the appearance of Hanaud, the Commissaire, and the others, however, she rose to her feet. Ricardo recognised the justice of Hanaud’s description. She stood before them a hard-featured, tall woman of thirty-five or forty, in a neat black stuff dress, strong with the strength of a peasant, respectable, reliable. She looked what she had been, the confidential maid of an elderly woman. On her face there was now an aspect of eager appeal.

“Oh, monsieur!” she began, “let me go from here⁠—anywhere⁠—into prison if you like. But to stay here⁠—where in years past we were so happy⁠—and with madame lying in the room below. No, it is insupportable.”

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. But monsieur knows the type.”

“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 Mlle. Célie 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. Célie. And now she lies in her room murdered!”

Once more Hélène’s voice broke upon the words. But Hanaud poured her out a glass of water and held it to her lips. Hélène drank it eagerly.

“There, that is better, is it not?” he said.

“Yes, monsieur,” said Hélène 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. Célie 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. Célie could not answer?”

“Sometimes,” Hélène 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. Célie did not know, or only knew slightly. These visitors might be putting questions to test her, of which they knew the answers, while Mlle. Célie did not.”

“Exactly,” said Hanaud. “What happened then?”

All who were listening understood to what point he was leading Hélène Vauquier. All waited intently for her answer.

She smiled.

“It was all one to Mlle. Célie.”

“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 Hélène Vauquier in pity for Hanaud’s misconception, “I see that you are not in the habit of attending séances. 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. Célie’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,” said Hélène. So it seemed that Hanaud must look elsewhere for the explanation of that sentence. “I do not know.” Hélène continued: “Oh, Mlle. Célie⁠—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 Hélène Vauquier’s story carried its conviction. Mme. Dauvray rose vividly before their minds as a living woman. Célie’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.