At The Villa Rose

As the motor-car rolled away, courage returned for a moment to

Celia. The man--the murderer--had gone. She was alone with Adele

Rossignol in a carriage moving no faster than an ordinary trot.

Her ankles were free, the gag had been taken from her lips. If

only she could free her hands and choose a moment when Adele was

off her guard she might open the door and spring out on to the

road. She saw Adele draw down the blinds of the carriage, and very

carefully, very secretly, Celia began to work her hands behind

her. She was an adept; no movement was visible, but, on the other

hand, no success was obtained. The knots had been too cunningly

tied. And then Mme. Rossignol touched a button at her side in the

leather of the carriage.

The touch turned on a tiny lamp in the roof of the carriage, and

she raised a warning hand to Celia.

"Now keep very quiet."

Right through the empty streets of Geneva the landau was quietly

driven. Adele had peeped from time to time under the blind. There

were few people in the streets. Once or twice a sergent-de-ville

was seen under the light of a lamp. Celia dared not cry out. Over

against her, persistently watching her, Adele Rossignol sat with

the open flask clenched in her hand, and from the vitriol Celia

shrank with an overwhelming terror. The carriage drove out from

the town along the western edge of the lake.

"Now listen," said Adele. "As soon as the landau stops the door of

the house opposite to which it stops will open. I shall open the

carriage door myself and you will get out. You must stand close by

the carriage door until I have got out. I shall hold this flask

ready in my hand. As soon as I am out you will run across the

pavement into the house. You won't speak or scream."

Adele Rossignol turned out the lamp and ten minutes later the

carriage passed down the little street and attracted Mme. Gobin's

notice. Marthe Gobin had lit no light in her room. Adele Rossignol

peered out of the carriage. She saw the houses in darkness. She

could not see the busybody's face watching the landau from a dark

window. She cut the cords which fastened the girl's hands. The

carriage stopped. She opened the door. Celia sprang out on to the

pavement. She sprang so quickly that Adele Rossignol caught and

held the train of her dress. But it was the fear of the vitriol

which had made her spring so nimbly. It was that, too, which made

her run so lightly and quickly into the house. The old woman who

acted as servant, Jeanne Tace, received her. Celia offered no

resistance. The fear of vitriol had made her supple as a glove.

Jeanne hurried her down the stairs into the little parlour at the

back of the house, where supper was laid, and pushed her into a

chair. Celia let her arms fall forward on the table. She had no

hope now. She was friendless and alone in a den of murderers, who

meant first to torture, then to kill her. She would be held up to

execration as a murderess. No one would know how she had died or

what she had suffered. She was in pain, and her throat burned. She

buried her face in her arms and sobbed. All her body shook with

her sobbing. Jeanne Rossignol took no notice. She treated Celie

just as the others had done. Celia was la petite, against whom she

had no animosity, by whom she was not to be touched to any

tenderness. La petite had unconsciously played her useful part in

their crime. But her use was ended now, and they would deal with

her accordingly. She removed the girl's hat and cloak and tossed

them aside.