At The Villa Rose

"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."