It was a lovely summer's day, and Madame Carimon's neat little slip of a
kitchen was bright and hot with the morning sun. Madame, herself, stood
before the paste-board, making a green-apricot tart. Of pies and tarts à
la mode Anglaise, Monsieur Jules was more fond than a schoolboy; and of
all tarts known to the civilized world, none can equal that of a green
apricot.
Madame had put down the rolling-pin, and stood for the moment idle,
looking at Flore Pamart, and listening to something that Flore was
saying. Flore, whisking out of the Petite Maison Rouge a few minutes
before, ostensibly to do her morning's marketings, had whisked straight
off to the Rue Pomme Cuite, and was now seated at the corner of the
pastry-table, telling a story to Madame Carimon.
"It was madame's own fault," she broke off in her tale to remark.
"Madame _will_ give me her orders in French, and half the time I can't
understand them. She had an engagement to take tea at Madame Smith's
in the Rue Lambeau, was what I thought she said to me, and that I must
present myself there at half-past nine to walk home with her. Well,
madame, I went accordingly, and found nobody at home there but the
bonne, Thomasine. Her master was dining out at the Sous-préfet's, and
her mistress had gone out with some more ladies to walk on the pier, as
it was so fine an evening. Naturally I thought my mistress was one of
the ladies, and sat there waiting for her and chatting with Thomasine.
Madame Smith came in at ten o'clock, and then she said that my lady had
not been there and that she had not expected her."
"She must have gone to tea elsewhere," observed Madame Carimon.
"Clearly, madame; as I afterwards found. It was to Madame Lambert's, in
the Rue Lothaire, that I ought to have gone. I could only go home, as
madame sees; and when I arrived there I found the house-door wide open.
Just as I entered, a frightful cry came from the kitchen, and there I
found her dropped down on the floor, half senseless with terror. Madame,
she avowed to me that she had seen Mademoiselle Lavinia standing near
her in the moonlight."
Madame Carimon took up her rolling-pin slowly before she spoke. "I know
she has a fancy that she appears in the house."
"Madame Carimon, I think she _is_ in the house," said Flore solemnly.
And for a minute or two Madame Carimon rolled her paste in silence.
"Monsieur Fennel used to see her--I am sure he did--and now his wife
sees her," went on the woman. "I think that is the secret of his running
away so much: he can't bear the house and what is haunting it."
"It is altogether a dreadful thing; I lie awake thinking of it,"
bewailed Mary Carimon.
"But it cannot be let go on like this," said Flore; "and that's what
has brought me running here this morning--to ask you, madame, whether
anything can be done. If she is left alone to see these sights, she'll
die of it. When she got up this morning she was shivering like a leaf in
the wind. Has madame noticed that she is wasting away? For the matter of
that, so was Monsieur Fennel."
Madame Carimon, beginning to line her shallow dish with paste, nodded in
assent. "He ought to be here with her," she remarked.
"Catch him," returned Flore, in a heat. "Pardon, madame, but I must avow
I trust not that gentleman. He is no good. He will never come back to
stay at the house so long as there is in it--what is there. He dare
not; and I would like to ask him why not. A man with the conscience at
ease could not be that sort of coward. Honest men do not fly away, all
scared, when they fancy they see a revenant."
Deeming it might be unwise to pursue the topic from this point, Madame
Carimon said she would go and see Mrs. Fennel in the course of the day,
and Flore clattered off, her wooden shoes echoing on the narrow pavement
of the Rue Pomme Cuite.
But, as Madame Carimon was crossing the Place Ronde in the afternoon to
pay her visit, she met Mrs. Fennel. Of course, Flore's communication was
not to be mentioned.
"Ah," said Madame Carimon readily, "is it you? I was coming to ask
if you would like to take a walk on the pier with me. It is a lovely
afternoon, and not too hot."
"Oh, I'll go," said Nancy. "I came out because it is so miserable at
home. When Flore went off to the fish-market after breakfast, I felt
more lonely than you would believe. Mary," dropping her voice, "I saw
Lavinia last night."
"Now I won't listen to that," retorted Mary Carimon, as if she were
reprimanding a child. "Once give in to our nerves and fancies, there's
no end to the tricks they play us. I wish, Ann, your house were in a
more lively situation, where you might sit at the window and watch the
passers-by."
"But it isn't," said Nancy sensibly. "It looks upon nothing but the
walls."
Walking on, they sat down upon a bench that stood back from the port,
facing the harbour. Nearly opposite lay the English boat, busily loading
for London. The sight made Nancy sigh.
"I wish it would bring Edwin the next time it comes in," she said in low
tones.
"When do you expect him?"
"I don't know _when_," said poor Nancy with emphasis. "Mary, I am
beginning to think he stays away because he is afraid of seeing
Lavinia."
"Men are not afraid of those foolish things, Ann."
"He is. Recollect those fits of terror he had. He used to hear her
following him up and downstairs; used to see her on the landings."
Madame Carimon found no ready answer. She had witnessed one of those
fits of terror herself.
"Last night," went on Mrs. Fennel, after a pause, "when Flore had left
me and I could only shiver in my bed, and not expect to sleep, I became
calm enough to ask myself _why_ Lavinia should come back again, and what
it is she wants. Can you think why, Mary?"
"Not I," said Madame Carimon lightly. "I shall only believe she does
come when she shows herself to me."
"And I happened on the thought that, possibly, she may be wanting us to
inquire into the true cause of her death. It might have been ascertained
at the time, but for my stopping the action of the doctors, you know."
"Ann, my dear, you should exercise a little common sense. I would ask
you what end ascertaining it now would answer, to her, dead, or to you,
living?"
"It might be seen that she could have been cured, had we only known what
the malady was."
"But you did not know; the doctors did not know. It could only have been
discovered, even at your showing, after her death, not in time to save
her."
"I wish Monsieur Dupuis had come more quickly on the Monday night!"
sighed Nancy. "I am always wishing it. You can picture what it was,
Mary--Lavinia lying in that dreadful agony and no doctor coming near
her. Edwin was gone so long--so long! He could not wake up Monsieur
Dupuis. I think now that the bell was out of order."
"Why do you think that now? Captain Fennel must have known whether the
bell answered to his summons, or not."
"Well," returned Nancy, "this morning when Flore returned with the fish,
she said I looked very ill. She had just seen Monsieur Dupuis in the
Place Ronde, and she ran out again and brought him in----"
"Did you mention to him this fancy of seeing Lavinia?" hastily
interrupted Madame Carimon.
"No, no; I don't talk of that to people. Only to you and Flore;
and--yes--I did tell Mrs. Smith. I let Monsieur Dupuis think I was ill
with grieving after Lavinia, and we talked a little about her. I said
how I wished he could have been here sooner on the Monday night, and
that my husband had rung several times before he could arouse him.
Monsieur Dupuis said that was a mistake; he had got up and come as soon
as he was called; he was not asleep at the time, and the bell had rung
only once."
"What an extraordinary thing!" exclaimed Mary Carimon. "I know your
husband said he rang many times."
"That's why I now think the bell must have been out of order; but I did
not say so to Monsieur Dupuis," returned Nancy. "He is a kind old man,
and it would grieve him: for of course we know doctors _ought_ to keep
their door-bells in order."
Madame Carimon rose in silence, but full of thought, and they continued
their walk. It was low water in the harbour, but the sun was sparkling
and playing on the waves out at sea. On the pier they found Rose and
Anna Bosanquet; and in chatting with them Nancy's mood became more
cheerful.
That same evening, on that same pier, Mary Carimon spoke a few
confidential words to her husband. They sat at the end of it, and the
beauty of the night, so warm and still, induced them to linger. The
bright moon sailed grandly in the heavens and glittered upon the
water that now filled the harbour, for the tide was in. Most of the
promenaders had turned down the pier again, after watching out the
steamer. What a fine passage she would make, and was making, cutting
there so smoothly through the crystal sea!
Mary Carimon began in a low voice, though no one was near to listen and
the waves could not hear her. She spoke pretty fully of a haunting doubt
that lay upon her mind, as to whether Lavinia had died a natural death.
"If we make the best of it," she concluded, "her dying in that strangely
sudden way was unusual; you know that, Jules; quite unaccountable. It
never _has_ been accounted for."
Monsieur Jules, gazing on the gentle waves as they rose and fell in the
moonlight at the mouth of the harbour, answered nothing.
"He had so much to wish her away for, that man: all the money would
become Nancy's. And I'm sure there was secret enmity between them--on
both sides. Don't you see, Jules, how suspicious it all looks?"
The moonbeams, illumining Monsieur Jules Carimon's face, showed it to be
very impassive, betraying no indication that he as much as heard what
his wife was talking about.
"I have not forgotten, I can never forget, Jules, the very singular
Fate-reading, or whatever you may please to call it, spoken by the
Astrologer Talcke last winter at Miss Bosanquet's soirée. You were not
in the room, you know, but I related it to you when we arrived home.
He certainly foretold Lavinia's death, as I, recalling the words, look
upon it now. He said there was some element of evil in their house,
threatening and terrible; he repeated it more than once. _In their
house_, Jules, and that it would end in darkness; which, as every one
understood, meant death: not for Mrs. Fennel; he took care to tell her
that; but for another. He said the cards were more fateful than he had
ever seen them. That evil in the house was Fennel."
Still Monsieur Jules offered no comment.
"And what could be the meaning of those dreams Lavinia had about him, in
which he always seemed to be preparing to inflict upon her some fearful
ill, and she knew she never could and never would escape from it?" ran
on Mary Carimon, her eager, suppressed tones bearing a gruesome sound
in the stillness of the night. "And what is the explanation of the fits
of terror which have shaken Fennel since the death, fancying he sees
Lavinia? Flore said to me this morning that she is sure Lavinia is in
the house."
Glancing at her husband to see that he was at least listening, but
receiving no confirmation of it by word or motion, Mary Carimon
continued:
"Those dreams came to warn her, Jules. To warn her to get out of the
house while she could. And she made arrangements to go, and in another
day or two would have been away in safety. But he was too quick for
her."
Monsieur Jules Carimon turned now to face his wife. "Mon amie, tais
toi," said he with authority. "Such a topic is not convenable," he
added, still in French, though she had spoken in English. "It is
dangerous."
"But, Jules, I believe it _to have been so_."
"All the same, and whether or no, it is not your affair, Marie. Neither
must you make it so. Believe me, my wife, the only way to live peaceably
ourselves in the world is to let our neighbours' sins alone."