CHAPTER XV
CELIA'S STORY
The story begins with the explanation of that circumstance which hadgreatly puzzled Mr. Ricardo--Celia's entry into the household of Mme.Dauvray.
Celia's father was a Captain Harland, of a marching regiment, who hadlittle beyond good looks and excellent manners wherewith to support hisposition. He was extravagant in his tastes, and of an easy mind in thepresence of embarrassments. To his other disadvantages he added that offalling in love with a pretty girl no better off than himself. Theymarried, and Celia was born. For nine years they managed, through thewife's constant devotion, to struggle along and to give their daughteran education. Then, however, Celia's mother broke down under the strainand died. Captain Harland, a couple of years later, went out of theservice with discredit, passed through the bankruptcy court, and turnedshowman. His line was thought-reading; he enlisted the services of hisdaughter, taught her the tricks of his trade, and became "The GreatFortinbras" of the music-halls. Captain Harland would move amongst theaudience, asking the spectators in a whisper to think of a number or ofan article in their pockets, after the usual fashion, while the child,in her short frock, with her long fair hair tied back with a ribbon,would stand blind-folded upon the platform and reel off the answerswith astonishing rapidity. She was singularly quick, singularlyreceptive.
The undoubted cleverness of the performance, and the beauty of thechild, brought to them a temporary prosperity. The Great Fortinbrasrose from the music-halls to the assembly rooms of provincial towns.The performance became genteel, and ladies flocked to the matinees.
The Great Fortinbras dropped his pseudonym and became once more CaptainHarland.
As Celia grew up, he tried a yet higher flight--he became aspiritualist, with Celia for his medium. The thought-readingentertainments became thrilling seances, and the beautiful child, nowgrown into a beautiful girl of seventeen, created a greater sensationas a medium in a trance than she had done as a lightning thought-reader.
"I saw no harm in it," Celia explained to M. Fleuriot, without anyattempt at extenuation. "I never understood that we might be doing anyhurt to any one. People were interested. They were to find us out ifthey could, and they tried to and they couldn't. I looked upon it quitesimply in that way. It was just my profession. I accepted it withoutany question. I was not troubled about it until I came to Aix."
A startling exposure, however, at Cambridge discredited the craze forspiritualism, and Captain Harland's fortunes declined. He crossed withhis daughter to France and made a disastrous tour in that country,wasted the last of his resources in the Casino at Dieppe, and died inthat town, leaving Celia just enough money to bury him and to pay herthird-class fare to Paris.
There she lived honestly but miserably. The slimness of her figure anda grace of movement which was particularly hers obtained her at last asituation as a mannequin in the show-rooms of a modiste. She took aroom on the top floor of a house in the Rue St. Honore and settled downto a hard and penurious life.
"I was not happy or contented--no," said Celia frankly and decisively."The long hours in the close rooms gave me headaches and made menervous. I had not the temperament. And I was very lonely--my life hadbeen so different. I had had fresh air, good clothes, and freedom. Nowall was changed. I used to cry myself to sleep up in my little room,wondering whether I would ever have friends. You see, I was quiteyoung--only eighteen--and I wanted to live."
A change came in a few months, but a disastrous change. The modistefailed. Celia was thrown out of work, and could get nothing to do.Gradually she pawned what clothes she could spare; and then there camea morning when she had a single five-franc piece in the world and oweda month's rent for her room. She kept the five-franc piece all day andwent hungry, seeking for work. In the evening she went to a provisionshop to buy food, and the man behind the counter took the five-francpiece. He looked at it, rung it on the counter, and, with a laugh, bentit easily in half.
"See here, my little one," he said, tossing the coin back to her, "onedoes not buy good food with lead."
Celia dragged herself out of the shop in despair. She was starving. Shedared not go back to her room. The thought of the concierge at thebottom of the stairs, insistent for the rent, frightened her. She stoodon the pavement and burst into tears. A few people stopped and watchedher curiously, and went on again. Finally a sergent-de-ville told herto go away.
The girl moved on with the tears running down her cheeks. She wasdesperate, she was lonely.
"I thought of throwing myself into the Seine," said Celia simply, intelling her story to the Juge d'Instruction. "Indeed, I went to theriver. But the water looked so cold, so terrible, and I was young. Iwanted so much to live. And then--the night came, and the lights madethe city bright, and I was very tired and--and--"
And, in a word, the young girl went up to Montmartre in desperation, asquickly as her tired legs would carry her. She walked once or twicetimidly past the restaurants, and, finally, entered one of them, hopingthat some one would take pity on her and give her some supper. Shestood just within the door of the supper-room. People pushed pasther--men in evening dress, women in bright frocks and jewels. No onenoticed her. She had shrunk into a corner, rather hoping not to benoticed, now that she had come. But the novelty of her surroundingswore off. She knew that for want of food she was almost fainting. Therewere two girls engaged by the management to dance amongst the tableswhile people had supper--one dressed as a page in blue satin, and theother as a Spanish dancer. Both girls were kind. They spoke to Celiabetween their dances. They let her waltz with them. Still no onenoticed her. She had no jewels, no fine clothes, no CHIC--the threeindispensable things. She had only youth and a pretty face.
"But," said Celia, "without jewels and fine clothes and CHIC these gofor nothing in Paris. At last, however, Mme. Dauvray came in with aparty of friends from a theatre, and saw how unhappy I was, and gave mesome supper. She asked me about myself, and I told her. She was verykind, and took me home with her, and I cried all the way in thecarriage. She kept me a few days, and then she told me that I was tolive with her, for often she was lonely too, and that if I would shewould some day find me a nice, comfortable husband and give me amarriage portion. So all my troubles seemed to be at an end," saidCelia, with a smile.
Within a fortnight Mme. Dauvray confided to Celia that there was a newfortune-teller come to Paris, who, by looking into a crystal, couldtell the most wonderful things about the future. The old woman's eyeskindled as she spoke. She took Celia to the fortune-teller's rooms nextday, and the girl quickly understood the ruling passion of the womanwho had befriended her. It took very little time then for Celia tonotice how easily Mme. Dauvray was duped, how perpetually she wasrobbed. Celia turned the problem over in her mind.
"Madame had been very good to me. She was kind and simple," said Celia,with a very genuine affection in her voice. "The people whom we knewlaughed at her, and were ungenerous. But there are many women whom theworld respects who are worse than ever was poor Mme. Dauvray. I wasvery fond of her, so I proposed to her that we should hold a seance,and I would bring people from the spirit world I knew that I couldamuse her with something much more clever and more interesting than thefortune-tellers. And at the same time I could save her from beingplundered. That was all I thought about."
That was all she thought about, yes. She left Helene Vauquier out ofher calculations, and she did not foresee the effect of her seancesupon Mme. Dauvray. Celia had no suspicions of Helene Vauquier. Shewould have laughed if any one had told her that this respectable andrespectful middle-aged woman, who was so attentive, so neat, sograteful for any kindness, was really nursing a rancorous hatredagainst her. Celia had sprung from Montmartre suddenly; thereforeHelene Vauquier despised her. Celia had taken her place in Mme.Dauvray's confidence, had deposed her unwittingly, had turned theconfidential friend into a mere servant; therefore Helene Vauquierhated her. And her hatred reached out beyond the girl, and embraced theold, superstitious, foolish woman, who
m a young and pretty face couldso easily beguile. Helene Vauquier despised them both, hated them both,and yet must nurse her rancour in silence and futility. Then came theseances, and at once, to add fuel to her hatred, she found herselfstripped of those gifts and commissions which she had exacted from theherd of common tricksters who had been wont to make their harvest outof Mme. Dauvray. Helene Vauquier was avaricious and greedy, like somany of her class. Her hatred of Celia, her contempt for Mme. Dauvray,grew into a very delirium. But it was a delirium she had the cunning toconceal. She lived at white heat, but to all the world she had lostnothing of her calm.
Celia did not foresee the hatred she was arousing; nor, on the otherhand, did she foresee the overwhelming effect of these spiritualisticseances on Mme. Dauvray. Celia had never been brought quite close tothe credulous before.
"There had always been the row of footlights," she said. "I was on theplatform; the audience was in the hall; or, if it was at a house, myfather made the arrangements. I only came in at the last moment, playedmy part, and went away. It was never brought home to me that someamongst these people really and truly believed. I did not think aboutit. Now, however, when I saw Mme. Dauvray so feverish, so excited, sofirmly convinced that great ladies from the spirit world came and spoketo her, I became terrified. I had aroused a passion which I had notsuspected. I tried to stop the seances, but I was not allowed. I hadaroused a passion which I could not control. I was afraid that Mme.Dauvray's whole life--it seems absurd to those who did not know her,but those who did will understand--yes, her whole life and happinesswould be spoilt if she discovered that what she believed in was all atrick."
She spoke with a simplicity and a remorse which it was difficult todisbelieve. M. Fleuriot, the judge, now at last convinced that theDreyfus affair was for nothing in the history of this crime, listenedto her with sympathy.
"That is your explanation, mademoiselle," he said gently. "But I musttell you that we have another."
"Yes, monsieur?" Celia asked.
"Given by Helene Vauquier," said Fleuriot.
Even after these days Celia could not hear that woman's name without ashudder of fear and a flinching of her whole body. Her face grew white,her lips dry.
"I know, monsieur, that Helene Vauquier is not my friend," she said. "Iwas taught that very cruelly."
"Listen, mademoiselle, to what she says," said the judge, and he readout to Celia an extract or two from Hanaud's report of his firstinterview with Helene Vauquier in her bedroom at the Villa Rose.
"You hear what she says. 'Mme. Dauvray 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.' And again, speaking of Mme.Dauvray's queer craze that the spirit of Mme. de Montespan should becalled up, Helene Vauquier says: 'She was never gratified. Always shehoped. Always Mlle. Celie tantalised her with the hope. She would notspoil her fine affairs by making these treats too common.' Thus sheattributes your reluctance to multiply your experiments to a desire tomake the most profit possible out of your wares, like a good businesswoman."
"It is not true, monsieur," cried Celia earnestly. "I tried to stop theseances because now for the first time I recognised that I had beenplaying with a dangerous thing. It was a revelation to me. I did notknow what to do. Mme. Dauvray would promise me everything, give meeverything, if only I would consent when I refused. I was terriblyfrightened of what would happen. I did not want power over people. Iknew it was not good for her that she should suffer so much excitement.No, I did not know what to do. And so we all moved to Aix."
And there she met Harry Wethermill on the second day after her arrival,and proceeded straightway for the first time to fall in love. To Celiait seemed that at last that had happened for which she had so longed.She began really to live as she understood life at this time. The day,until she met Harry Wethermill, was one flash of joyous expectation;the hours when they were together a time of contentment which thrilledwith some chance meeting of the hands into an exquisite happiness. Mme.Dauvray understood quickly what was the matter, and laughed at heraffectionately.
"Celie, my dear," she said, "your friend, M. Wethermill--'Arry, is itnot? See, I pronounce your tongue--will not be as comfortable as thenice, fat, bourgeois gentleman I meant to find for you. But, since youare young, naturally you want storms. And there will be storms, Celie,"she concluded, with a laugh.
Celia blushed.
"I suppose there will," she said regretfully. There were, indeed,moments when she was frightened of Harry Wethermill, but frightenedwith a delicious thrill of knowledge that he was only stern because hecared so much.
But in a day or two there began to intrude upon her happiness astinging dissatisfaction with her past life. At times she fell intomelancholy, comparing her career with that of the man who loved her. Attimes she came near to an extreme irritation with Helene Vauquier. Herlover was in her thoughts. As she put it herself:
"I wanted always to look my best, and always to be very good."
Good in the essentials of life, that is to be understood. She had livedin a lax world. She was not particularly troubled by the character ofher associates; she was untouched by them; she liked her fling at thebaccarat-tables. These were details, and did not distress her. Love hadnot turned her into a Puritan. But certain recollections plagued hersoul. The visit to the restaurant at Montmartre, for instance, and theseances. Of these, indeed, she thought to have made an end. There werethe baccarat-rooms, the beauty of the town and the neighbourhood todistract Mme. Dauvray. Celia kept her thoughts away from seances. Therewas no seance as yet held in the Villa Rose. And there would have beennone but for Helene Vauquier.
One evening, however, as Harry Wethermill walked down from the Cercleto the Villa des Fleurs, a woman's voice spoke to him from behind.
"Monsieur!"
He turned and saw Mme. Dauvray's maid. He stopped under a street lamp,and said:
"Well, what can I do for you?"
The woman hesitated.
"I hope monsieur will pardon me," she said humbly. "I am committing agreat impertinence. But I think monsieur is not very kind to Mlle.Celie."
Wethermill stared at her.
"What on earth do you mean?" he asked angrily.
Helene Vauquier looked him quietly in the face.
"It is plain, monsieur, that Mlle. Celie loves monsieur. Monsieur hasled her on to love him. But it is also plain to a woman with quick eyesthat monsieur himself cares no more for mademoiselle than for thebutton on his coat. It is not very kind to spoil the happiness of ayoung and pretty girl, monsieur."
Nothing could have been more respectful than the manner in which thesewords were uttered. Wethermill was taken in by it. He protestedearnestly, fearing lest the maid should become an enemy.
"Helene, it is not true that I am playing with Mlle. Celie. Why shouldI not care for her?"
Helene Vauquier shrugged her shoulders. The question needed no answer.
"Why should I seek her so often if I did not care?"
And to this question Helene Vauquier smiled--a quiet, slow,confidential smile.
"What does monsieur want of Mme. Dauvray?" she asked. And the questionwas her answer.
Wethermill stood silent. Then he said abruptly:
"Nothing, of course; nothing." And he walked away.
But the smile remained on Helene Vauquier's face. What did they allwant of Mme. Dauvray? She knew very well. It was what she herselfwanted--with other things. It was money--always money. Wethermill wasnot the first to seek the good graces of Mme. Dauvray through herpretty companion. Helene Vauquier went home. She was not discontentedwith her conversation. Wethermill had paused long enough before hedenied the suggestion of her words. She approached him a few days latera second time and more openly. She was shopping in the Rue du Casinowhen he passed her. He stopped of his own accord and spoke to her.Helene Vauquier kept a grave and respectful face. But there was a pulseof joy at her heart. He was coming to her hand.
"Mon
sieur," she said, "you do not go the right way." And again herstrange smile illuminated her face. "Mlle. Celie sets a guard aboutMme. Dauvray. She will not give to people the opportunity to findmadame generous."
"Oh," said Wethermill slowly. "Is that so?" And he turned and walked byHelene Vauquier's side.
"Never speak of Mme. Dauvray's wealth, monsieur, if you would keep thefavour of Mlle. Celie. She is young, but she knows her world."
"I have not spoken of money to her," replied Wethermill; and then heburst out laughing. "But why should you think that I--I, of allmen--want money?" he asked.
And Helene answered him again enigmatically.
"If I am wrong, monsieur, I am sorry, but you can help me too," shesaid, in her submissive voice. And she passed on, leaving Wethermillrooted to the ground.
It was a bargain she proposed--the impertinence of it! It was a bargainshe proposed--the value of it! In that shape ran Harry Wethermill'sthoughts. He was in desperate straits, though to the world's eye he wasa man of wealth. A gambler, with no inexpensive tastes, he had beenalways in need of money. The rights in his patent he had mortgaged longago. He was not an idler; he was no sham foisted as a great man on anignorant public. He had really some touch of genius, and he cultivatedit assiduously. But the harder he worked, the greater was his need ofgaiety and extravagance. Gifted with good looks and a charm of manner,he was popular alike in the great world and the world of Bohemia. Hekept and wanted to keep a foot in each. That he was in desperatestraits now, probably Helene Vauquier alone in Aix had recognised. Shehad drawn her inference from one simple fact. Wethermill asked her at alater time when they were better acquainted how she had guessed hisneed.
"Monsieur," she replied, "you were in Aix without a valet, and itseemed to me that you were of that class of men who would never movewithout a valet so long as there was money to pay his wages. That wasmy first thought. Then when I saw you pursue your friendship with Mlle.Celie--you, who so clearly to my eyes did not love her--I felt sure."
On the next occasion that the two met, it was again Harry Wethermillwho sought Helene Vauquier. He talked for a minute or two uponindifferent subjects, and then he said quickly:
"I suppose Mme. Dauvray is very rich?"
"She has a great fortune in jewels," said Helene Vauquier.
Wethermill started. He was agitated that evening, the woman saw. Hishands shook, his face twitched. Clearly he was hard put to it. For heseldom betrayed himself. She thought it time to strike.
"Jewels which she keeps in the safe in her bedroom," she added.
"Then why don't you--?" he began, and stopped.
"I said that I too needed help," replied Helene, without a ruffle ofher composure.
It was nine o'clock at night. Helene Vauquier had come down to theCasino with a wrap for Mme. Dauvray. The two people were walking downthe little street of which the Casino blocks the end. And it happenedthat an attendant at the Casino, named Alphonse Ruel, passed them,recognised them both, and--smiled to himself with some amusement. Whatwas Wethermill doing in company with Mme. Dauvray's maid? Ruel had nodoubt. Ruel had seen Wethermill often enough these recent days withMme. Dauvray's pretty companion. Ruel had all a Frenchman's sympathywith lovers. He wished them well, those two young and attractivepeople, and hoped that the maid would help their plans.
But as he passed he caught a sentence spoken suddenly by Wethermill.
"Well, it is true; I must have money." And the agitated voice and wordsremained fixed in his memory. He heard, too, a warning "Hush!" from themaid. Then they passed out of his hearing. But he turned and saw thatWethermill was talking volubly. What Harry Wethermill was saying he wassaying in a foolish burst of confidence.
"You have guessed it, Helene--you alone." He had mortgaged his patenttwice over--once in France, once in England--and the second time hadbeen a month ago. He had received a large sum down, which went to payhis pressing creditors. He had hoped to pay the sum back from a newinvention.
"But Helene, I tell you," he said, "I have a conscience." And when shesmiled he explained. "Oh, not what the priests would call a conscience;that I know. But none the less I have a conscience--a conscience aboutthe things which really matter, at all events to me. There is a flaw inthat new invention. It can be improved; I know that. But as yet I donot see how, and--I cannot help it--I must get it right; I cannot letit go imperfect when I know that it's imperfect, when I know that itcan be improved, when I am sure that I shall sooner or later hit uponthe needed improvement. That is what I mean when I say I have aconscience."
Helena Vauquier smiled indulgently. Men were queer fish. Things whichwere really of no account troubled and perplexed them and gave themsleepless nights. But it was not for her to object, since it was one ofthese queer anomalies which was giving her her chance.
"And the people are finding out that you have sold your rights twiceover," she said sympathetically. "That is a pity, monsieur."
"They know," he answered; "those in England know."
"And they are very angry?"
"They threaten me," said Wethermill. "They give me a month to restorethe money. Otherwise there will be disgrace, imprisonment, penalservitude."
Helene Vauquier walked calmly on. No sign of the intense joy which shefelt was visible in her face, and only a trace of it in her voice.
"Monsieur will, perhaps, meet me to-morrow in Geneva," she said. And shenamed a small cafe in a back street. "I can get a holiday for theafternoon." And as they were near to the villa and the lights, shewalked on ahead.
Wethermill loitered behind. He had tried his luck at the tables and hadfailed. And--and--he must have the money.
He travelled, accordingly, the next day to Geneva, and was therepresented to Adele Tace and Hippolyte.
"They are trusted friends of mine," said Helene Vauquier to Wethermill,who was not inspired to confidence by the sight of the young man withthe big ears and the plastered hair. As a matter of fact, she had nevermet them before they came this year to Aix.
The Tace family, which consisted of Adele and her husband and Jeanne,her mother, were practised criminals. They had taken the house inGeneva deliberately in order to carry out some robberies from the greatvillas on the lake-side. But they had not been fortunate; and adescription of Mme. Dauvray's jewellery in the woman's column of aGeneva newspaper had drawn Adele Tace over to Aix. She had set aboutthe task of seducing Mme. Dauvray's maid, and found a master, not aninstrument.
In the small cafe on that afternoon of July Helene Vauquier instructedher accomplices, quietly and methodically, as though what she proposedwas the most ordinary stroke of business. Once or twice subsequentlyWethermill, who was the only safe go-between, went to the house inGeneva, altering his hair and wearing a moustache, to complete thearrangements. He maintained firmly at his trial that at none of thesemeetings was there any talk of murder.
"To be sure," said the judge, with a savage sarcasm. "In decentconversation there is always a reticence. Something is left to beunderstood."
And it is difficult to understand how murder could not have been anessential part of their plan, since---But let us see what happened.