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.

“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 seances.  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.  Any one 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—­any one could make a harvest out of madame’s superstitions.  But monsieur knows the type.”

“Indeed I do,” said Hanaud, with a laugh.