"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.