Chapter SIXTEEN

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.