Chapter THIRTEEN

The next moment she was on her knees beside the bed, her arms round the trembling figure.

“But of course it was real!” she declared vigorously. “I tell you I watched it climb up the hangings and didn’t dare to speak for fear of waking you. There, it’s quite gone. We’ll set a trap and catch it. I promise you won’t see it again!”

The unnerved woman clung to her, weeping hysterically.

“It always comes--again and again. I have told her, but she can’t, she won’t believe me. At last I’ve become afraid to say anything, because--because it is so plain what she thinks!”

Understanding flooded the dark places of Catherine’s mind. This, then, was one of Germaine’s delusions--mice running unchecked about her bed, while her poor bewildered brain strove to deny the evidence of her senses! What incredible negligence did it reveal, what wilful refusal to face facts? Or was there some much worse explanation?

For a second it seemed as though a curtain had been lifted, giving a glimpse of a monstrous scheme to cast doubt upon the invalid’s sanity. Here was a single instance of it; there might be others. What if an organized attempt was going on to overthrow the insecure balance of this poor woman’s reason?

Instantly common sense pulled her round. The idea was too utterly fantastic. Carelessness, yes, and inconceivable stupidity, but surely nothing more grave.

Still, the known facts were bad enough, and must be dealt with at once. While she fetched smelling-salts and eau-de-Cologne, chattering lightly and treating the whole affair as a joke, her mind was busy planning a surprise-attack on the offender now due to return. High time someone took matters in hand, but at the thought of facing Jeanne she inwardly trembled.

Presently she contrived without being noticed to lift the bed-valance and peer at the floor beneath. What met her eye filled her with righteous anger. Now she was no longer afraid.

Ten minutes later a hurried step approached, and the familiar figure stood in the door.

“Madame is comfortable? She has not required anything?”

The invalid summoned a tremulous smile.

“No, no, Jeanne! I have not needed you,” she hastened to declare.

The maid’s nostrils dilated, sniffing the eau-de-Cologne. Then she went back into the dressing-room to remove her wraps. Not heeding the imploring hand stretched out to stop her, Catherine walked straight into the adjoining room and closed the door.

“Jeanne,” she said abruptly, “there are mice in madame’s room. Something must be done about it at once.”

The woman wheeled round in the act of taking off her hat. Her eyes glared with sudden annoyance.

“Mice?” she repeated shortly. “Impossible! Madame has been telling you that story.”

“Not at all,” retorted Catherine. “I myself have just seen a mouse crawling across madame’s bed. There is no doubt about it.”

For several seconds the two regarded each other fixedly. Then with a face hard as iron Jeanne turned deliberately and hung her coat upon a peg. She was silent so long that Catherine began to think she was not going to reply. Once more she started to remove her round, dark hat; then, changing her mind, left it on her head. When at last she spoke it was with great restraint.

“Mademoiselle will pardon me if I find it difficult to believe her. In all the years I have lived in this apartment I have never set eyes on a mouse.”

“I’m sorry you think I’m lying,” returned the girl with asperity. “In any case I must insist on your setting a trap in a place which I will show you. Madame is being terrified half out of her senses.”

The woman darted a glance at her full of hatred and scorn. If she was intimidated, she showed no sign of it.

“_Jamais!_” Catherine heard her mutter under her breath. “_Jamais!_ I cannot think what you mean to insinuate.”

“Simply this, Jeanne. Quite obviously that room in there has not been properly cleaned for weeks, months even. I want you to come now and look under the bed. There has been something sticky there, and the mice have gnawed the carpet bare in patches.”

The sallow face swelled till the eyes were reduced to pinpoints. On the cheek-bones areas of mottled red appeared.

“Come, please, and let me show you what I mean,” said Catherine, holding open the door.

After a brief hesitation, still wearing her hat, the woman obeyed, stooped to examine the spot Catherine indicated, and straightened up, her features set in a mutinous mask.

“I see nothing beyond a few drops of spilled medicine. Madame herself knows whose fault it is that no one but me is allowed to do her room. I slave from morning to night; when I go to bed, I am often too tired to sleep. I am a human being, not a machine! No other person would do for madame what I do; but if my efforts are not appreciated, if I am to be criticized and called to account over trifles, it is time to give up. It is plain that mademoiselle came here for the purpose of setting her cousin against me!”

“Nothing of the sort, Jeanne. I only want you to remove whatever it is that is attracting mice. That is all.”

If Catherine spoke mildly, it was to spare Germaine, whose white face was quivering with agitated distress. Nothing could be gained by contradicting the maid, though what the valance concealed was not spilled medicine, but particles of food. She had even detected the odour of cheese.…

An hour later Catherine sat in the study, trying to think calmly. Difficult as it was to conceive of a well-trained servant leaving scraps of food upon the floor, it was equally incredible that the thing could have been done purposely. What was one to believe? One thing alone was certain. She had completely lost faith in Jeanne, whom she now regarded as a bad, if not dangerous, influence for Germaine. Devoted she might be, but for all that she was undermining the invalid’s confidence in herself, fostering, whether by ignorance or design, the poor creature’s fear of encroaching insanity. As things were, it was worse than hopeless to attempt to nurse the patient back to health.

“Somehow or other she must be got rid of!” she told herself, still shaken by indignation. “Perhaps this business will open the way. A thief; and incompetent into the bargain!”

She could not help feeling a little exultant over the recent scene. After this Jeanne must either mend her ways or go. She hoped it would be the latter.

However, she had much to learn, as the evening was to prove.

Amid the staid magnificence of the _salle à manger_ she ate her solitary meal. Speculatively she looked round at the three fine pictures on the walls, at the tall, gold candelabra which once had adorned a palace. More objects easily convertible into money. Were the servants she now thought of as rogues merely waiting for her visit to be over before laying hands on these treasures? Well, they would wait in vain. It was her fixed intention to foil them at that or any other game they might be playing.

All at once her thoughts veered to the little _notaire_, A. Blom. What if he were in league with this pair, aiding them in disposing of their plunder? His visit here that night three weeks ago might have been to cast his appraising eye over things and possibly to take something off with him. Jeanne’s secret conferences with the man took on a new meaning. She wondered if there were any way of finding out the truth.

It was usual on the evenings she spent at home for Jeanne to call her when Mme. Bender was ready for bed, so that she could go in to say good night. However, the hour passed and there was no summons. This did not astonish her, for the feeling between Jeanne and herself was naturally strained; but when ten o’clock struck and nothing had happened she put down her book and went toward her cousin’s bedroom. The door was shut, but from the other side came sounds of tempestuous weeping.

She halted, full of consternation, thinking the strangled sobs came from Germaine, but a moment’s listening informed her that it was Jeanne herself who was indulging in the violent outburst. Somehow she had not expected this. A second later words reached her, stormy with protest.

“No, madame, it is useless! All is finished, all, all! I swear to you I am going away, at once; I shall pack to-night and leave quite early in the morning. Nothing can stop me. Eduardo, too, will go. Madame will be left absolutely alone, to face the doctors, the nurses, the strange enemies who will swoop down upon her. I have done my utmost, I; but if madame distrusts me, then my time with her is over. I have my future to think of. I cannot support plotting and scheming behind my back by those who have their own ends to serve!”

Catherine held her breath, appalled by the hurricane of tears and recriminations. Through the outcries she caught a despairing whimper which cut her to the heart.

“Jeanne, dear Jeanne, you must not say such things! Have I ever doubted you? It is cruel to torture me like this!”

The feeble protest was drowned in a renewed burst of weeping.

“Cruel? It is madame who is cruel! She accuses me of neglect, me who have given fifteen years of my life to her service! It is too much! How could I know this one thing was true, when every day madame sees and hears what is not there? Even now I cannot altogether believe. No, I see it plainly. I am no longer wanted, and am to be cast aside like an old shoe. Enough! I go to-morrow, to give place to some persons for whom madame will be only a mental case. But if when I am no longer here it is thought wise to shut madame up in an asylum----”

“Jeanne, you cannot, you must not leave me! Listen to me, I implore you to listen!”

“I will not hear madame! I go to my brother in the Vosges to take the long rest I have been needing this twelve-month. Then madame will realize what I have done for her, how I have protected her. She will know, she will know!”

Unable to bear more, Catherine burst into the room.

“Jeanne--what is the meaning of this?” she demanded in a stern whisper.

Quick as lightning the woman turned upon her, one finger outstretched in venomous accusation. She still wore her hat, while her face was swollen and streaked with tears.

“There!” she cried hoarsely. “Behold one who calls herself your friend! Why is she here if not to profit by madame’s weakness? Does madame flatter herself for one moment that this young American has come across the ocean for love of a bed-ridden woman? Ask her what she hopes to get for her pains! Ask her if she is not waiting for madame to die and leave her a fortune!”

The shameless attack deprived the girl of speech. She could only stare while the stream of abuse flowed on.

“Madame’s friends!” went on the voice with bitter scorn. “Who are they? I know of none but Mademoiselle Cushing and Mademoiselle West--paupers both! Why do they come here, why does the fat singer urge madame to make her will? Madame is indeed insane if she cannot see into the hearts of these creatures. Always this talk of the will, this fear that madame will die and leave these people penniless! Tell me--have I ever hoped that madame would leave me a single sou? Am I taking away with me more than I brought here? No, a thousand times no! Madame is turning away the one being who has tried to stand between her and these grasping----”

“Stop! Look, Jeanne, what you have done!”

The form on the bed had collapsed. Mme. Bender had fainted.

Instantly a miracle happened. Jeanne, her entire bearing transformed, every sign of hysteria vanished, cast a single appraising glance at the dead-white face of her mistress, then going to a little medicine-cupboard took out a bottle and measured a few drops of liquid into a glass.

Catherine watched the brisk, business-like movements with amazement, saw her raise the limp body, murmuring, “_Buvez-ceci, madame!_” in a tone of complete control.

Parenthetically she noticed that the bottle was labelled “Digitalis.”

In another second Mme. Bender’s eyelids fluttered open and a trembling sigh escaped her lips. With a grunt of satisfaction Jeanne turned to face the spell-bound girl.

“And now, mademoiselle,” she said in an even voice, “perhaps you had better leave madame with me.”