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 contemptous 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 parhaps--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."