"Now, Celie"—she had dropped the "Mlle." and the ironic suavity of her
manner—"try to free yourself."
For a moment the girl's shoulders worked, her hands fluttered. But they
remained helplessly bound.
"Ah, you will be content, Adele, to-night," cried Mme. Dauvray eagerly.
But even in the midst of her eagerness—so thoroughly had she been
prepared—there lingered a flavour of doubt, of suspicion. In Celia's
mind there was still the one desperate resolve.
"I must succeed to-night," she said to herself—"I must!"
Adele Rossignol kneeled on the floor behind her. She gathered in
carefully the girl's frock. Then she picked up the long train, wound it
tightly round her limbs, pinioning and swathing them in the folds of
satin, and secured the folds with a cord about the knees.
She stood up again.
"Can you walk, Celie?" she asked. "Try!"
With Helene Vauquier to support her if she fell, Celia took a tiny
shuffling step forward, feeling supremely ridiculous. No one, however,
of her audience was inclined to laugh. To Mme. Dauvray the whole
business was as serious as the most solemn ceremonial. Adele was intent
upon making her knots secure. Helene Vauquier was the well-bred servant
who knew her place. It was not for her to laugh at her young mistress,
in however ludicrous a situation she might be.
"Now," said Adele, "we will tie mademoiselle's ankles, and then we
shall be ready for Mme. de Montespan."
The raillery in her voice had a note of savagery in it now. Celia's
vague terror grew. She had a feeling that a beast was waking in the
woman, and with it came a growing premonition of failure. Vainly she
cried to herself, "I must not fail to-night." But she felt
instinctively that there was a stronger personality than her own in
that room, taming her, condemning her to failure, influencing the
others.
She was placed in a chair. Adele passed a cord round her ankles, and
the mere touch of it quickened Celia to a spasm of revolt. Her last
little remnant of liberty was being taken from her. She raised herself,
or rather would have raised herself. But Helene with gentle hands held
her in the chair, and whispered under her breath:
"Have no fear! Madame is watching."
Adele looked fiercely up into the girl's face.
"Keep still, hein, la petite!" she cried. And the epithet—"little
one"—was a light to Celia. Till now, upon these occasions, with her
black ceremonial dress, her air of aloofness, her vague eyes, and the
dignity of her carriage, she had already produced some part of their
effect before the seance had begun. She had been wont to sail into the
room, distant, mystical. She had her audience already expectant of
mysteries, prepared for marvels. Her work was already half done. But
now of all that help she was deprived. She was no longer a person
aloof, a prophetess, a seer of visions; she was simply a
smartly-dressed girl of today, trussed up in a ridiculous and painful
position—that was all. The dignity was gone. And the more she realised
that, the more she was hindered from influencing her audience, the less
able she was to concentrate her mind upon them, to will them to favour
her. Mme. Dauvray's suspicions, she was sure, were still awake. She
could not quell them. There was a stronger personality than hers at
work in the room. The cord bit through her thin stockings into her
ankles. She dared not complain. It was savagely tied. She made no
remonstrance. And then Helene Vauquier raised her up from the chair and
lifted her easily off the ground. For a moment she held her so. If
Celia had felt ridiculous before, she knew that she was ten times more
so now. She could see herself as she hung in Helene Vauquier's arms,
with her delicate frock ludicrously swathed and swaddled about her
legs. But, again, of those who watched her no one smiled.
"We have had no such tests as these," Mme. Dauvray explained, half in
fear, half in hope.
Adele Rossignol looked the girl over and nodded her head with
satisfaction. She had no animosity towards Celia; she had really no
feeling of any kind for her or against her. Fortunately she was unaware
at this time that Harry Wethermill had been paying his court to her or
it would have gone worse with Mlle. Celie before the night was out.
Mlle. Celie was just a pawn in a very dangerous game which she happened
to be playing, and she had succeeded in engineering her pawn into the
desired condition of helplessness. She was content.
"Mademoiselle," she said, with a smile, "you wish me to believe. You
have now your opportunity."
Opportunity! And she was helpless. She knew very well that she could
never free herself from these cords without Helene's help. She would
fail, miserably and shamefully fail.
"It was madame who wished you to believe," she stammered.
And Adele Rossignol laughed suddenly—a short, loud, harsh laugh, which
jarred upon the quiet of the room. It turned Celia's vague alarm into a
definite terror. Some magnetic current brought her grave messages of
fear. The air about her seemed to tingle with strange menaces. She
looked at Adele. Did they emanate from her? And her terror answered her
"Yes." She made her mistake in that. The strong personality in the room
was not Adele Rossignol, but Helene Vauquier, who held her like a child
in her arms. But she was definitely aware of danger, and too late aware
of it. She struggled vainly. From her head to her feet she was
powerless. She cried out hysterically to her patron:
"Madame! Madame! There is something—a presence here—some one who
means harm! I know it!"
And upon the old woman's face there came a look, not of alarm, but of
extraordinary relief. The genuine, heartfelt cry restored her
confidence in Celia.
"Some one—who means harm!" she whispered, trembling with excitement.
"Ah, mademoiselle is already under control," said Helene, using the
jargon which she had learnt from Celia's lips.
Adele Rossignol grinned.
"Yes, la petite is under control," she repeated, with a sneer; and all
the elegance of her velvet gown was unable to hide her any longer from
Celia's knowledge. Her grin had betrayed her. She was of the dregs. But
Helene Vauquier whispered:
"Keep still, mademoiselle. I shall help you."
Vauquier carried the girl into the recess and placed her upon the
stool. With a long cord Adele bound her by the arms and the waist to
the pillar, and her ankles she fastened to the rung of the stool, so
that they could not touch the ground.
"Thus we shall be sure that when we hear rapping it will be the
spirits, and not the heels, which rap," she said. "Yes, I am contented
now." And she added, with a smile, "Celie may even have her scarf,"
and, picking up a white scarf of tulle which Celia had brought down
with her, she placed it carelessly round her shoulders.
"Wait!" Helene Vauquier whispered in Celia's ear.
To the cord about Celia's waist Adele was fastening a longer line.
"I shall keep my foot on the other end of this," she said, "when the
lights are out, and I shall know then if our little one frees herself."
The three women went out of the recess. And the next moment the heavy
silk curtains swung across the opening, leaving Celia in darkness.
Quickly and noiselessly the poor girl began to twist and work her
hands. But she only bruised her wrists. This was to be the last of the
seances. But it must succeed! So much of Mme. Dauvray's happiness, so
much of her own, hung upon its success. Let her fail to-night, she
would be surely turned from the door. The story of her trickery and her
exposure would run through Aix. And she had not told Harry! It would
reach his ears from others. He would never forgive her. To face the
old, difficult life of poverty and perhaps starvation again, and again
alone, would be hard enough; but to face it with Harry Wethermill's
contempt added to its burdens—as the poor girl believed she surely
would have to do—no, that would be impossible! Not this time would she
turn away from the Seine, because it was so terrible and cold. If she
had had the courage to tell him yesterday, he would have forgiven,
surely he would! The tears gathered in her eyes and rolled down her
cheeks. What would become of her now? She was in pain besides. The
cords about her arms and ankles tortured her. And she feared—yes,
desperately she feared the effect of the exposure upon Mme. Dauvray.
She had been treated as a daughter; now she was in return to rob Mme.
Dauvray of the belief which had become the passion of her life.
"Let us take our seats at the table," she heard Mme. Dauvray say.
"Helene, you are by the switch of the electric light. Will you turn it
off?" And upon that Helene whispered, yet so that the whisper reached
to Celia and awakened hope:
"Wait! I will see what she is doing."
The curtains opened, and Helene Vauquier slipped to the girl's side.
Celia checked her tears. She smiled imploringly, gratefully.
"What shall I do?" asked Helene, in a voice so low that the movement of
her mouth rather than the words made the question clear.
Celia raised her head to answer. And then a thing incomprehensible to
her happened. As she opened her lips Helene Vauquier swiftly forced a
handkerchief in between the girl's teeth, and lifting the scarf from
her shoulders wound it tightly twice across her mouth, binding her
lips, and made it fast under the brim of her hat behind her head. Celia
tried to scream; she could not utter a sound. She stared at Helene with
incredulous, horror-stricken eyes. Helene nodded at her with a cruel
grin of satisfaction, and Celia realised, though she did not
understand, something of the rancour and the hatred which seethed
against her in the heart of the woman whom she had supplanted. Helene
Vauquier meant to expose her to-night; Celia had not a doubt of it.
That was her explanation of Helene Vauquier's treachery; and believing
that error, she believed yet another—that she had reached the terrible
climax of her troubles. She was only at the beginning of them.
"Helene!" cried Mme. Dauvray sharply. "What are you doing?"
The maid instantly slid back into the room.
"Mademoiselle has not moved," she said.
Celia heard the women settle in their chairs about the table.
"Is madame ready?" asked Helene; and then there was the sound of the
snap of a switch. In the salon darkness had come.
If only she had not been wearing her gloves, Celia thought, she might
possibly have just been able to free her fingers and her supple hands
from their bonds. But as it was she was helpless. She could only sit
and wait until the audience in the salon grew tired of waiting and came
to her. She closed her eyes, pondering if by any chance she could
excuse her failure. But her heart sank within her as she thought of
Mme. Rossignol's raillery. No, it was all over for her. ...
She opened her eyes, and she wondered. It seemed to her that there was
more light in the recess than there had been when she closed them. Very
likely her eyes were growing used to the darkness. Yet—yet—she ought
not to be able to distinguish quite so clearly the white pillar
opposite to her. She looked towards the glass doors and understood. The
wooden shutters outside the doors were not quite closed. They had been
carelessly left unbolted. A chink from lintel to floor let in a grey
thread of light. Celia heard the women whispering in the salon, and
turned her head to catch the words.
"Do you hear any sound?"
"No."
"Was that a hand which touched me?"
"No."
"We must wait."
And so silence came again, and suddenly there was quite a rush of light
into the recess. Celia was startled. She turned her head back again
towards the window. The wooden door had swung a little more open. There
was a wider chink to let the twilight of that starlit darkness through.
And as she looked, the chink slowly broadened and broadened, the door
swung slowly back on hinges which were strangely silent. Celia stared
at the widening panel of grey light with a vague terror. It was strange
that she could hear no whisper of wind in the garden. Why, oh, why was
that latticed door opening so noiselessly? Almost she believed that the
spirits after all... And suddenly the recess darkened again, and Celia
sat with her heart leaping and shivering in her breast. There was
something black against the glass doors—a man. He had appeared as
silently, as suddenly, as any apparition. He stood blocking out the
light, pressing his face against the glass, peering into the room. For
a moment the shock of horror stunned her. Then she tore frantically at
the cords. All thought of failure, of exposure, of dismissal had fled
from her. The three poor women—that was her thought—were sitting
unwarned, unsuspecting, defenceless in the pitch-blackness of the
salon. A few feet away a man, a thief, was peering in. They were
waiting for strange things to happen in the darkness. Strange and
terrible things would happen unless she could free herself, unless she
could warn them. And she could not. Her struggles were mere efforts to
struggle, futile, a shiver from head to foot, and noiseless as a
shiver. Adele Rossignol had done her work well and thoroughly. Celia's
arms, her waist, her ankles were pinioned; only the bandage over her
mouth seemed to be loosening. Then upon horror, horror was added. The
man touched the glass doors, and they swung silently inwards. They,
too, had been carelessly left unbolted. The man stepped without a sound
over the sill into the room. And, as he stepped, fear for herself drove
out for the moment from Celia's thoughts fear for the three women in
the black room. If only he did not see her! She pressed herself against
the pillar. He might overlook her, perhaps! His eyes would not be so
accustomed to the darkness of the recess as hers. He might pass her
unnoticed—if only he did not touch some fold of her dress.
And then, in the midst of her terror, she experienced so great a
revulsion from despair to joy that a faintness came upon her, and she
almost swooned. She saw who the intruder was. For when he stepped into
the recess he turned towards her, and the dim light struck upon him and
showed her the contour of his face. It was her lover, Harry Wethermill.
Why he had come at this hour, and in this strange way, she did not
consider. Now she must attract his eyes, now her fear was lest he
should not see her.