At The Villa Rose

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.