“Now,” said Adèle, “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 tonight.” 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. Adèle 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 Hélène with gentle hands held her in the chair, and whispered under her breath:
“Have no fear! Madame is watching.”
Adèle 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 séance 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 Hélène 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 Hélène 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.
Adèle 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. Célie before the night was out. Mlle. Célie 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 Hélène’s help. She would fail, miserably and shamefully fail.
“It was madame who wished you to believe,” she stammered.
And Adèle 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 Adèle. 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 Adèle Rossignol, but Hélène 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—someone 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.
“Someone—who means harm!” she whispered, trembling with excitement.
“Ah, mademoiselle is already under control,” said Hélène, using the jargon which she had learnt from Celia’s lips.
Adèle 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 Hélène 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 Adèle 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, “Célie may even have her scarf,” and, picking up a white scarf of tulle which Celia had brought down with
