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.

"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 for