Celia clenched her hands to make the muscles of her wrists rigid to resist the pressure of the cord. Adèle quietly unclasped them and placed them palm to palm. And at once Celia became uneasy. It was not merely the action, significant though it was of Adèle’s alertness to thwart her, which troubled Celia. But she was extraordinarily receptive of impressions, extraordinarily quick to feel, from a touch, some dim sensation of the thought of the one who touched her. So now the touch of Adèle’s swift, strong, nervous hands caused her a queer, vague shock of discomfort. It was no more than that at the moment, but it was quite definite as that.
“Keep your hands so, please, mademoiselle,” said Adèle; “your fingers loose.”
And the next moment Celia winced and had to bite her lip to prevent a cry. The thin cord was wound twice about her wrists, drawn cruelly tight and then cunningly knotted. For one second Celia was thankful for her gloves; the next, more than ever she regretted that she wore them. It would have been difficult enough for her to free her hands now, even without them. And upon that a worse thing befell her.
“I beg mademoiselle’s pardon if I hurt her,” said Adèle.
And she tied the girl’s thumbs and little fingers. To slacken the knots she must have the use of her fingers, even though her gloves made them fumble. Now she had lost the use of them altogether. She began to feel that she was in master-hands. She was sure of it the next instant. For Adèle stood up, and, passing a cord round the upper part of her arms, drew her elbows back. To bring any strength to help her in wriggling her hands free she must be able to raise her elbows. With them trussed in the small of her back she was robbed entirely of her strength. And all the time her strange uneasiness grew. She made a movement of revolt, and at once the cord was loosened.
“Mlle. Célie objects to my tests,” said Adèle, with a laugh, to Mme. Dauvray. “And I do not wonder.”
Celia saw upon the old woman’s foolish and excited face a look of veritable consternation.
“Are you afraid, Célie?” she asked.
There was anger, there was menace in the voice, but above all these there was fear—fear that her illusions were to tumble about her. Celia heard that note and was quelled by it. This folly of belief, these séances, were the one touch of colour in Mme. Dauvray’s life. And it was just that instinctive need of colour which had made her so easy to delude. How strong the need is, how seductive the proposal to supply it, Celia knew well. She knew it from the experience of her life when the Great Fortinbras was at the climax of his fortunes. She had travelled much amongst monotonous, drab towns without character or amusements. She had kept her eyes open. She had seen that it was from the denizens of the dull streets in these towns that the quack religions won their recruits. Mme. Dauvray’s life had been a featureless sort of affair until these experiments had come to colour it. Madame Dauvray must at any rate preserve the memory of that colour.
“No,” she said boldly; “I am not afraid,” and after that she moved no more.
Her elbows were drawn firmly back and tightly bound. She was sure she could not free them. She glanced in despair at Hélène Vauquier, and then some glimmer of hope sprang up. For Hélène Vauquier gave her a look, a smile of reassurance. It was as if she said, “I will come to your help.” Then, to make security still more sure, Adèle turned the girl about as unceremoniously as if she had been a doll, and, passing a cord at the back of her arms, drew both ends round in front and knotted them at her waist.
“Now, Célie,” said Adèle, with a vibration in her voice which Celia had not remarked before.
Excitement was gaining upon her, as upon Mme. Dauvray. Her face was flushed and shiny, her manner peremptory and quick. Celia’s uneasiness grew into fear. She could have used the words which Hanaud spoke the next day in that very room—“There is something here which I do not understand.” The touch of Adèle Tacé’s hands communicated something to her—something which filled her with a vague alarm. She could not have formulated it if she would; she dared not if she could. She had but to stand and submit.
“Now,” said Adèle.
She took the girl by the shoulders and set her in a clear space in the middle of the room, her back to the recess, her face to the mirror, where all could see her.
“Now, Célie”—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, Adèle, tonight,” 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 tonight,” she said to herself—“I must!”
Adèle 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, Célie?” she asked. “Try!”
With Hélène Vauquier to support her if she fell, Celia took a tiny shuffling
