At the Villa Rose (21 page)

"But Helene, I tell you," he said, "I have a conscience." And when she
smiled he explained. "Oh, not what the priests would call a conscience;
that I know. But none the less I have a conscience—a conscience about
the things which really matter, at all events to me. There is a flaw in
that new invention. It can be improved; I know that. But as yet I do
not see how, and—I cannot help it—I must get it right; I cannot let
it go imperfect when I know that it's imperfect, when I know that it
can be improved, when I am sure that I shall sooner or later hit upon
the needed improvement. That is what I mean when I say I have a
conscience."

Helena Vauquier smiled indulgently. Men were queer fish. Things which
were really of no account troubled and perplexed them and gave them
sleepless nights. But it was not for her to object, since it was one of
these queer anomalies which was giving her her chance.

"And the people are finding out that you have sold your rights twice
over," 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 restore
the money. Otherwise there will be disgrace, imprisonment, penal
servitude."

Helene Vauquier walked calmly on. No sign of the intense joy which she
felt was visible in her face, and only a trace of it in her voice.

"Monsieur will, perhaps, meet me tomorrow in Geneva," she said. And she
named a small cafe in a back street. "I can get a holiday for the
afternoon." And as they were near to the villa and the lights, she
walked on ahead.

Wethermill loitered behind. He had tried his luck at the tables and had
failed. And—and—he must have the money.

He travelled, accordingly, the next day to Geneva, and was there
presented 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 with
the big ears and the plastered hair. As a matter of fact, she had never
met 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 in
Geneva deliberately in order to carry out some robberies from the great
villas on the lake-side. But they had not been fortunate; and a
description of Mme. Dauvray's jewellery in the woman's column of a
Geneva newspaper had drawn Adele Tace over to Aix. She had set about
the task of seducing Mme. Dauvray's maid, and found a master, not an
instrument.

In the small cafe on that afternoon of July Helene Vauquier instructed
her accomplices, quietly and methodically, as though what she proposed
was the most ordinary stroke of business. Once or twice subsequently
Wethermill, who was the only safe go-between, went to the house in
Geneva, altering his hair and wearing a moustache, to complete the
arrangements. He maintained firmly at his trial that at none of these
meetings was there any talk of murder.

"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.

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 any one 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 Adele Tace. Adele 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 Adele Tace. But now they were together; now
they were talking. The first step had been taken. Adele Tace 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. Adele Tace 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 Adele
Tace. Mme. Dauvray got up at once.

"Are you ready to go, dear?" she asked, and she turned to Adele Tace.
"This is Celie, 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 motor-car she said apprehensively:

"You met a friend then, to-night, 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.

"Celie, 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
Helene in the dark—how the room filled with strange sounds, how
ghostly fingers touched my forehead and my eyes. She laughed—Adele
Rossignol laughed, Celie. I told her of the spirits with whom we held
converse. She would not believe. Do you remember the evening, Celie,
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 bright with
light? Adele Rossignol would not believe. I told her that I had found
the story afterwards in a volume of memoirs. Adele Rossignol laughed
and said no doubt you had read that volume yourself before the seance."

Celia stirred guiltily.

"She had no faith in you, Celie. It made me angry, dear. She said that
you invented your own tests. She sneered at them. A string across a
cupboard! A child, she said, could manage that; much more, then, a
clever young lady. Oh, she admitted that you were clever! Indeed, she
urged that you were far too clever to submit to the tests of some one
you did not know. I replied that you would. I was right, Celie, was I
not?"

And again the appeal sounded rather piteously in Mme. Dauvray's voice.

"Tests!" said Celia, with a contemptuous laugh. And, in truth, she was
not afraid of them. Mme. Dauvray's voice at once took courage.

"There!" she cried triumphantly. "I was sure. I told her so. Celie, I
arranged with her that next Tuesday—"

And Celia interrupted quickly.

"No! Oh, no!"

Again there was silence; and then Mme. Dauvray said gently, but very
seriously:

"Celie, you are not kind."

Celia was moved by the reproach.

"Oh, madame!" she cried eagerly. "Please don't think that. How could I
be anything else to you who are so kind to me?"

"Then prove it, Celie. On Tuesday I have asked Mme. Rossignol to come;
and—" The old woman's voice became tremulous with excitement. "And
perhaps—who knows?—perhaps SHE will appear to us."

Celia had no doubt who "she" was. She was Mme. de Montespan.

"Oh, no, madame!" she stammered. "Here, at Aix, we are not in the
spirit for such things."

And then, in a voice of dread, Mme. Dauvray asked: "Is it true, then,
what Adele said?"

And Celia started violently. Mme. Dauvray doubted.

"I believe it would break my heart, my dear, if I were to think that;
if I were to know that you had tricked me," she said, with a trembling
voice. Celia covered her face with her hands. It would be true. She had
no doubt of it. Mme. Dauvray would never forgive herself—would never
forgive Celia. Her infatuation had grown so to engross her that the
rest of her life would surely be embittered. It was not merely a
passion—it was a creed as well. Celia shrank from the renewal of these
seances. Every fibre in her was in revolt. They were so unworthy—so
unworthy of Harry Wethermill, and of herself as she now herself wished
to be. But she had to pay now; the moment for payment had come.

"Celie," said Mme. Dauvray, "it isn't true! Surely it isn't true?"

Celia drew her hands away from her face.

"Let Mme. Rossignol come on Tuesday!" she cried, and the old woman
caught the girl's hand and pressed it with affection.

"Oh, thank you! thank you!" she cried. "Adele Rossignol laughs
to-night; we shall convince her on Tuesday, Celie! Celie, I am so
glad!" And her voice sank into a solemn whisper, pathetically
ludicrous. "It is not right that she should laugh! To bring people back
through the gates of the spirit-world—that is wonderful."

To Celia the sound of the jargon learnt from her own lips, used by
herself so thoughtlessly in past times, was odious. "For the last
time," she pleaded to herself. All her life was going to change; though
no word had yet been spoken by Harry Wethermill, she was sure of it.
Just for this one last time, then, so that she might leave Mme. Dauvray
the colours of her belief, she would hold a seance at the Villa Rose.

Mme. Dauvray told the news to Helene Vauquier when they reached the
villa.

"You will be present, Helene," she cried excitedly. "It will be
Tuesday. There will be the three of us."

"Certainly, if madame wishes," said Helene submissively. She looked
round the room. "Mlle. Celie can be placed on a chair in that recess
and the curtains drawn, whilst we—madame and madame's friend and
I—can sit round this table under the side windows."

"Yes," said Celia, "that will do very well."

It was Madame Dauvray's habit when she was particularly pleased with
Celia to dismiss her maid quickly, and to send her to brush the girl's
hair at night; and in a little while on this night Helene went to
Celia's room. While she brushed Celia's hair she told her that
Servettaz's parents lived at Chambery, and that he would like to see
them.

"But the poor man is afraid to ask for a day," she said. "He has been
so short a time with madame."

"Of course madame will give him a holiday if he asks," replied Celia
with a smile. "I will speak to her myself to-morrow."

"It would be kind of mademoiselle," said Helene Vauquier. "But
perhaps—" She stopped.

"Well," said Celia.

"Perhaps mademoiselle would do better still to speak to Servattaz
himself and encourage him to ask with his own lips. Madame has her
moods, is it not so? She does not always like it to be forgotten that
she is the mistress."

On the next day accordingly Celia did speak to Servettaz, and Servettaz
asked for his holiday.

"But of course," Mme. Dauvray at once replied. "We must decide upon a
day."