On Tuesday evening Catherine dined with Miss Cushing with the idea
of discussing a project formed in her mind. Since events had shown her
how hopeless it was to get rid of Jeanne by ordinary means, she had
concentrated on a plan which at first glance appeared
impossible--namely, that of persuading the maid to go away of her own
accord. If this could be accomplished, even for a short period,
Germaine might become gradually accustomed to an altered régime, so
that when a definite break came she could bear it with equanimity.
“For Jeanne has got to go,” she declared to herself with passionate
vehemence. “Thief or not, she’s undermining the poor thing’s vitality
to a terrifying extent. The more Germaine clings to her, the more
dangerous the situation becomes.”
She had, in fact, begun to regard the maid as an insuperable barrier
to her cousin’s improvement--she hoped the only one, though that was
an optimistic thought. Still if Mme. Bender could be given a chance to
believe in her own sanity, who could say what wonders might not be
achieved? She would have to be provided with competent nurses, and
against these she would fight tooth and nail, but Catherine trusted to
her own persuasiveness to overcome the unreasoning prejudice. After
all, was the latter not due to Jeanne’s insidious suggestions? Once
the childish creature realized that she need not be removed from her
home, she would probably cease to regard a professional nurse as an
enemy.
Everything therefore depended on getting Jeanne away for a holiday. If
she herself wished it, her mistress would raise no objection; but
could she be induced to consider such a proposal? Catherine, after
hours of thought, believed she had solved the problem.
However, she doubted if by herself she could accomplish her purpose.
She was young and inexperienced, her word might carry little weight.
She must have Hermione’s support.
She outlined her idea with earnestness, seated opposite the singer in
the tiny _salle à manger_, and resolutely keeping her gaze from
gravitating towards the large photograph of her hostess which
displayed the latter’s ripe charms in the classic draperies of
_Thaïs_, ready primed for seduction.
“You see, Jeanne is so clever that she has undoubtedly pulled the wool
over that doctor’s eyes. He may not be willing to believe anything
against her. Will you back me up in what I am going to tell him?”
“_Mais certainement, ma chère--de grand coeur!_” replied the artist
emotionally. “_C’est une bonne idée!_”
With moist eyes and utter self-forgetfulness she was drinking many
little glasses of Burgundy, under the influence of which her depressed
spirits were rising by rapid degrees. In the beginning she had been
steeped in misery, and had donned an emblematic costume, nothing less
than the gown of voluminous net in which she had many times died a
lingering death as _La Dame aux Camélias_; but now she had so far
forgotten her intended _rôle_ as to allow the angel sleeves to dip
into the _soupe à l’oignon_, so that they left little trails of
grease and cheese across the table-cloth.
“But _naturellement_ I will come with you,” she cried, delighted at
the prospect of outwitting her hated rival. “I scarcely know this
man--_comment s’appelle-t-il?_--but he has undoubtedly heard of me. We
will go at once, when we have finished dinner. I have eaten nothing
for days, owing to my unhappiness, and Yvonne insists that I am in
need _d’être nourie_.”
Whereupon she did justice to the excellent _ragoût de veau_,
following it with several helpings of _haricots verts_, a _crême
renversée_, and two cups of black coffee, managing so successfully to
fortify herself that she was in danger of lapsing into lengthy
reminiscences of her opera days if Catherine had not reminded her to
change into street attire before it was too late for their venture.
At nine o’clock they sallied forth in a taxi to a quiet street leading
out of the Avenue de la Grande Armée, and soon afterwards were
ushered into Dr. Girard’s reception-room, ghastly with modern
François Premier chairs and snowy marble groups set upon pedestals.
Catherine had barely time to collect her thoughts when the pompous
figure of the physician appeared in the doorway. Bowing ceremoniously,
he gazed at his visitors through thick convex lenses, meanwhile
fingering his black, spade-shaped beard with a tentative hand.
“And what can I do for these ladies?” he inquired in his booming
voice.
Hermione made the necessary introductions, then embarked with
tumultuous dignity upon a narrative so jumbled and incoherent that
presently Catherine was obliged to take pity on the poor man’s
bewilderment and explain matters herself. She described simply and
forcibly all that had come under her observation during the past
weeks, emphasizing her belief that Jeanne’s influence on Mme. Bender
was distinctly bad. The Frenchman listened with growing astonishment,
and when she reached the mouse episode gave vent to an exclamation of
shocked incredulity.
“_Est-ce possible? Est-ce possible?_” he murmured, wiping his glasses
with a hand that trembled.
Catherine assured him it was.
“But, mademoiselle--you saw this animal, with your own eyes?”
“Not only that, monsieur, but I found traces of food under the bed,
left--I believe purposely--to provide an attraction.”
“_Mon Dieu!_”
He rose, pacing the floor, his brow heavily corrugated. Both women
watched him eagerly.
“But this alters everything! It puts the whole case in a different
light!”
“I hoped you would see that,” cried Catherine earnestly. “Mind, I may
be wrong about her doing this intentionally; it is possible she is
only very careless; but the result is the same. Mme. Bender has been
encouraged to think that she is suffering from delusions.”
He scarcely heard her, snapping his fingers impatiently. After a
moment he subsided into his chair, deep in thought.
“Since you tell me this, mademoiselle,” he said at last, “I am forced
to admit that my knowledge of the poor lady’s hallucinations is
founded chiefly on hearsay. There are indications to show that she is
in a state of profound melancholia, but beyond that I can affirm
little with exactitude. I now see that I have been disgracefully
misled. I have looked upon this maid as a capable nurse, but if I had
faintly suspected that she was falsifying her reports I should long
ago have insisted on a trained attendant. It is mainly because madame
herself so violently objected----”
“Ah, that is the difficulty!” interrupted the girl, and straightway
described what had happened when Jeanne threatened to depart. “You see
from this, monsieur, how useless it is to expect madame to send the
woman away. She is completely under her thumb. That is why we want
your assistance.”
She waited till the good man had roused himself sufficiently to give
her full attention.
“Yes, mademoiselle? I am listening. What do you suggest?”
“It seemed to us,” began Catherine tactfully, “that if you could use
your authority to order this Jeanne to take a rest--say that she was
overtaxing herself and becoming unnerved--she would have to agree to
go away. That would give us our chance. Once the woman is out of the
house we could easily find an excuse to prevent her return, and
meanwhile we might persuade my cousin to go into the country, where
with new surroundings and expert care she could build up her strength
again. Doesn’t it seem a feasible plan?”
He nodded with slow approval.
“Excellent, mademoiselle! Excellent! The chief obstacle will be the
patient herself, but if we can over-rule her objections----”
“We can do nothing without you, monsieur. Neither Jeanne nor madame
would listen to us.”
It was a wise move. The doctor was not immune to flattery.
“I see! Precisely! Well, then, I promise to do my utmost. I will warn
this woman to-morrow that she is on the verge of a _crise_ of nerves,
order her to take a month’s rest, and _voilà!_ the affair will soon
right itself--or at least we shall hope so!”
With an impulse of glad relief Catherine sprang up and seized his big
hands in hers.
“Oh, that is good of you!” she exclaimed gratefully. “If you only knew
what a load you have taken off my mind!”
“It is nothing, mademoiselle, nothing!” replied Girard, not unmoved by
this appreciation. “It is I who should thank you for shedding light on
a most troublesome case--not, however, the first in my experience,” he
added jealously. “For I can assure you, mesdemoiselles, I have seen
some strange things in my practice!”
When the two were outside on the pavement Catherine breathed a sigh of
relief.
“Well, that’s accomplished!” she cried with satisfaction. “We’ve
opened his eyes a bit, which is something. Poor man, I felt rather
sorry for him. He is now in a state where he doesn’t know what to
think.”
“He is not the only one,” replied Hermione with an ominous shudder.
The exhilarating effect of the Burgundy having worn off, she was
becoming mysterious and pessimistic.
“Why do you say that?” asked Catherine, slightly annoyed.
The singer shrugged her vast shoulders.
“Jeanne. She is a deep one. I warn you, Catherine, we have not got the
best of her yet, any more than we have got to the bottom of her
devilment. You’ll see!” and she shook her head with a gesture
Cassandra might have envied.
It was stupid to be cast down by any pronouncement so irrational. So
Catherine told herself several hours later, when, unable to sleep, her
mind tiresomely harped upon what she scornfully called the gipsy’s
warning. Hermione was always dramatic; she invariably read mysteries
into things. It was simply her temperament, unchecked by common sense.
“And yet Jeanne is deep,” she reflected apprehensively. “If she
suspects this plan of ours she’ll find some way of outwitting us. Oh!
How I distrust the woman! It’s her cleverness that frightens me.”
The hall clock struck twelve, half-past, then one, and still she was
wide awake. At last just as consciousness was beginning to film over a
stealthy sound in the passage outside roused her again to alert
attention. She sat up in bed and listened.
Footsteps, muffled by _pantoufles_, were descending the stairs to the
lower floor. She strained her ears, but after some time had elapsed
the person or persons had not returned. With a feeling of puzzled
uneasiness she slid out of bed, put on dressing-gown and slippers, and
went quietly out.
From the downstairs hall, in which a light showed, voices reached her.
She tried hard to catch what they were saying, but could make out
nothing beyond an angry whispered wrangling.
Curiosity got the better of caution. She crept stealthily down a step
at a time until, crouching at the turn, she was able to peer through
the balustrade into the illumined space.
What she saw made her gasp.
Against the closed door of the picture gallery Eduardo was stationed,
with his foot braced in an attitude of defiance. Jeanne was ranged
beside him, a dark coat thrown over her night-gown, her eyes hard and
sullen, while confronting the pair stood the meanly built figure of a
man, quivering with rage. One glance at the latter’s black,
broad-brimmed hat was enough. It hid the features of A. Blom.
What on earth was he doing here at this hour?
His manner frightened the watcher. Charged with malevolent animosity,
it hinted at something arrogant and at the same time implacable. She
held her breath, terrified lest he should turn and discover her, even
while realizing that his fury was entirely concentrated on the two
guarding the door. Guttural words reached her, but there was so much
argot as to render their meaning unintelligible.
Catherine stared, fascinated. The Alsatian was no match for Eduardo,
who could have throttled him with one powerful fist, yet for some
reason the butler’s bravado seemed a hollow sham, while the gleam in
his small eyes was distinctly nervous. Only Jeanne remained calm,
glancing from one face to the other with a cold calculation.
The whispering stopped, there was a pause during which nothing was
heard save stertorous breathing. Then the _notaire_ spoke between his
teeth:
“Enough! Give me the key. I am going to see for myself,” he commanded
brutally.
“No! I refuse. It’s not your affair,” retorted Eduardo.
“_Hein!_ Not my affair? Then listen: I will tell you something!”--and
putting his lips close to the Portuguese’s ear the speaker hissed a
few words venomously.
Some of the butler’s assurance wilted away. He wavered uncertainly,
looking towards Jeanne in doubtful question. The latter considered for
a moment, then with a shrug and a jerk of the head moved aside.
“Very well,” she agreed indifferently, “let him have his way.”
With slow reluctance the Portuguese drew a key from his pocket and
inserted it in the lock. The next instant the _notaire_ had pushed him
away, and with a muttered expletive had vanished into the gallery,
switching on the light within. The others followed with less confident
steps.
Silence ensued, broken only by hoarse exclamations of rage. Evidently
Blom had made some discovery not to his liking, doubtless in
connection with the missing pictures. Yet what could it mean?
Catherine’s belief that the three were working in conjunction with
each other was suddenly shaken.
If the listener had hoped to learn something conclusive, she was
doomed to disappointment. The door was softly closed, and the voices,
which had resumed their angry conference, sank into inaudibility.
Still she remained, rooted to the spot, and shivering more from
tension than cold, for the apartment was warm and close.
An endless time passed before the trio re-issued into the hall. They
were no longer quarrelling, and Eduardo was obviously cowed, but
Jeanne’s features remained an enigma. Without speaking, the _notaire_
moved towards the street door and opened it. A damp breeze swept in,
ruffling the tails of his ill-fitting coat. He turned and addressed
his companions distinctly, with the air of laying down the law.
“Remember, this is the last time. Play that trick again, and you will
find yourselves in the soup!”
In the glare of the overhead lustre his face showed pale like a
fish-belly, his eyes horridly repellent. Catherine shuddered.
“Now mind what I say. I am the master here--I,” he repeated, striking
his meagre chest.
He was gone, swallowed up in the darkness. The door shut upon him.
Eduardo and Jeanne exchanged questioning glances. Then the woman’s
lips tightened with a mutinous expression.
“We shall see,” she muttered briefly. “Put out the light.…”
Once more they disappeared into the gallery, while Catherine seized
the chance to escape unobserved. Safe in her room, she sank upon the
bed and waited with pounding heart till she heard the two servants
come up the stairs and separate in the passage outside. Only when all
was quiet again did her strained muscles relax and her pulse resume
its normal beat.