"Do you go and get her jewels out of the safe," she said, and she
spoke with a rough friendliness.
"You promised you would blindfold the girl," he cried hoarsely.
Helene Vauquier laughed.
"Did I?" she said. "Well, what does it matter?" "There would have
been no need to--" And his voice broke off shudderingly.
"Wouldn't there? And what of us--Adele and me? She knows certainly
that we are here. Come, go and get the jewels. The key of the
door's on the mantelshelf. While you are away we two will arrange
the pretty baby in there."
She pointed to the recess; her voice rang with contempt.
Wethermill staggered across the room like a drunkard, and picked
up the key in trembling fingers. Celia heard it turn in the lock,
and the door bang. Wethermill had gone upstairs.
Celia leaned back, her heart fainting within her. Arrange! It was
her turn now. She was to be "arranged." She had no doubt what
sinister meaning that innocent word concealed. The dry, choking
sound, the horrid scuffling of feet upon the floor, were in her
ears. And it had taken so long--so terribly long!
She heard the door open again and shut again. Then steps
approached the recess. The curtains were flung back, and the two
women stood in front of her--the tall Adele Rossignol with her red
hair and her coarse good looks and her sapphire dress, and the
hard-featured, sallow maid. The maid was carrying Celia's white
coat. They did not mean to murder her, then. They meant to take
her away, and even then a spark of hope lit up in the girl's
bosom. For even with her illusions crushed she still clung to life
with all the passion of her young soul.
The two women stood and looked at her; and then Adele Rossignol
burst out laughing. Vauquier approached the girl, and Celia had a
moment's hope that she meant to free her altogether, but she only
loosed the cords which fixed her to the pillar and the high stool.
"Mademoiselle will pardon me for laughing," said Adele Rossignol
politely; "but it was mademoiselle who invited me to try my hand.
And really, for so smart a young lady, mademoiselle looks too
ridiculous."
She lifted the girl up and carried her back writhing and
struggling into the salon. The whole of the pretty room was within
view, but in the embrasure of a window something lay dreadfully
still and quiet. Celia held her head averted. But it was there,
and, though it was there, all the while the women joked and
laughed, Adele Rossignol feverishly, Helene Vauquier with a real
glee most horrible to see.
"I beg mademoiselle not to listen to what Adele is saying,"
exclaimed Helene. And she began to ape in a mincing, extravagant
fashion the manner of a saleswoman in a shop. "Mademoiselle has
never looked so ravishing. This style is the last word of fashion.
It is what there is of most chic. Of course, mademoiselle
understands that the costume is not intended for playing the
piano. Nor, indeed, for the ballroom. It leaps to one's eyes that
dancing would be difficult. Nor is it intended for much
conversation. It is a costume for a mood of quiet reflection. But
I assure mademoiselle that for pretty young ladies who are the
favourites of rich old women it is the style most recommended by
the criminal classes."