Helene 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. Celie--" 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 Helene Vauquier, "madame went with
a party to supper at the Abbaye Restaurant in Montmartre. And she
brought home for the first time Mlle. Celie. 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. Celie was
there dancing amidst the tables for a supper with any one 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 any one 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."
Helene 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. Celie. 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. Celie.
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.