"Celie, you are not kind."
Celia was moved by the reproach.
"Oh, madame!" she cried eagerly. "Please don't think that. How could I be anything else to you who are so kind to me?"
"Then prove it, Celie. On Tuesday I have asked Mme. Rossignol to come; and—" The old woman's voice became tremulous with excitement. "And perhaps—who knows?—perhaps SHE will appear to us."
Celia had no doubt who "she" was. She was Mme. de Montespan.
"Oh, no, madame!" she stammered. "Here, at Aix, we are not in the spirit for such things."
And then, in a voice of dread, Mme. Dauvray asked: "Is it true, then, what Adele said?"
And Celia started violently. Mme. Dauvray doubted.
"I believe it would break my heart, my dear, if I were to think that; if I were to know that you had tricked me," she said, with a trembling voice.
Celia covered her face with her hands. It would be true. She had no doubt of it. Mme. Dauvray would never forgive herself—would never forgive Celia. Her infatuation had grown so to engross her that the rest of her life would surely be embittered. It was not merely a passion—it was a creed as well. Celia shrank from the renewal of these seances. Every fibre in her was in revolt. They were so unworthy—so unworthy of Harry Wethermill, and of herself as she now herself wished to be. But she had to pay now; the moment for payment had come.