There was a particular new dress of which she knew, and it was very desirable that Mlle. Celie should wear it tonight. For one thing, if Celia wore it, it would help the theory that she had put it on because she expected that night a lover; for another, with that dress there went a pair of satin slippers which had just come home from a shoemaker at Aix, and which would leave upon soft mould precisely the same imprints as the grey suede shoes which the girl was wearing now.
Celia was not greatly disconcerted by Mme. Rossignol’s precautions. She would have to be a little more careful, and Mme. de Montespan would be a little longer in responding to the call of Mme. Dauvray than most of the other dead ladies of the past had been. But that was all. She was, however, really troubled in another way. All through dinner, at every word of the conversation, she had felt her reluctance towards this seance swelling into a positive disgust. More than once she had felt driven by some uncontrollable power to rise up at the table and cry out to Adele:
"You are right! It IS trickery. There is no truth in it."
But she had mastered herself. For opposite to her sat her patroness, her good friend, the woman who had saved her. The flush upon Mme. Dauvray’s cheeks and the agitation of her manner warned Celia how much hung upon the success of this last seance. How much for both of them!
And in the fullness of that knowledge a great fear assailed her. She began to be afraid, so strong was her reluctance, that she would not bring her heart into the task. "Suppose I failed tonight because I could not force myself to wish not to fail!" she thought, and she steeled herself against the thought. Tonight she must not fail. For apart altogether from Mme. Dauvray’s happiness, her own, it seemed, was at stake too.
"It must be from my lips that Harry learns what I have been," she said to herself, and with the resolve she strengthened herself.
"I will wear what you please," she said, with a smile. "I only wish Mme. Rossignol to be satisfied."
"And I shall be," said Adele, "if-" She leaned forward in anxiety. She had come to the real necessity of Helene Vauquier’s plan. "If we abandon as quite laughable the cupboard door and the string across it; if, in a word, mademoiselle consents that we tie her hand and foot and fasten her securely in a chair. Such restraints are usual in the experiments of which I have read. Was there not a medium called Mlle. Cook who was secured in this way, and then remarkable things, which I could not believe, were supposed to have happened?"
"Certainly I permit it," said Celia, with indifference; and Mme. Dauvray cried enthusiastically:
"Ah, you shall believe tonight in those wonderful things!"
Adele Tace leaned back. She drew a breath. It was a breath of relief.
"Then we will buy the cord in Aix," she said.
"We have some, no doubt, in the house," said Mme. Dauvray.
Adele shook her head and smiled.
"My dear madame, you are dealing with a sceptic. I should not be content."
Celia shrugged her shoulders.
"Let us satisfy Mme. Rossignol," she said.
Celia, indeed, was not alarmed by this last precaution. For her it was a test less difficult than the light-coloured rustling robe. She had appeared upon so many platforms, had experienced too often the bungling efforts of spectators called up from the audience, to be in any fear. There were very few knots from which her small hands and supple fingers had not learnt long since to extricate themselves. She was aware how much in all these matters the personal equation counted. Men who might, perhaps, have been able to tie knots from which she could not get free were always too uncomfortable and self-conscious, or too afraid of hurting her white arms and wrists, to do it. Women, on the other hand, who had no compunctions of that kind, did not know how.
It was now nearly eight o’clock; the rain still held off.
"We must go," said Mme. Dauvray, who for the last half-hour had been continually looking at her watch.
They drove to the station and took the train. Once more the rain came down, but it had stopped again before the train steamed into Aix at nine o’clock.
"We will take a cab," said Mme. Dauvray: "it will save time."
"It will do us good to walk, madame," pleaded Adele. The train was full. Adele passed quickly out from the lights of the station in the throng of passengers and waited in the dark square for the others to join her. "It is barely nine. A friend has promised to call at the Villa Rose for me after eleven and drive me back in a motor-car to Geneva, so we have plenty of time."
They walked accordingly up the hill, Mme. Dauvray slowly, since she was stout, and Celia keeping pace with her. Thus it seemed natural that Adele Tace should walk ahead, though a passer-by would not have thought she was of their company. At the corner of the Rue du Casino Adele waited for them and said quickly:
"Mademoiselle, you can get some cord, I think, at the shop there," and she pointed to the shop of M. Corval. "Madame and I will go slowly on; you, who are the youngest, will easily catch us up." Celia went into the shop, bought the cord, and caught Mme. Dauvray up before she reached the villa.
"Where is Mme. Rossignol?" she asked.
"She went on," said Camille Dauvray. "She walks faster than I do."
They passed no one whom they knew, although they did pass one who recognised them, as Perrichet had discovered. They came upon Adele, waiting for them at the corner of the road, where it turns down toward the villa.
"It is near here-the Villa Rose?" she asked.
"A minute more and we are there."
They turned in at the drive, closed the gate behind them, and walked up to the villa.
The windows and the glass doors were closed, the latticed shutters fastened. A light burned in the hall.
"Helene is expecting us," said Mme. Dauvray, for as they approached she saw the front door open to admit them, and Helene Vauquier in the doorway. The three women went straight into the little salon, which was ready with the lights up and a small fire burning. Celia noticed the fire with a trifle of dismay. She moved a fire-screen in front of it.
"I can understand why you do that, mademoiselle," said Adele Rossignol, with a satirical smile. But Mme. Dauvray came to the girl’s help.
"She is right, Adele. Light is the great barrier between us and the spirit-world," she said solemnly.
Meanwhile, in the hall Helene Vauquier locked and bolted the front door. Then she stood motionless, with a smile upon her face and a heart beating high. All through that afternoon she had been afraid that some accident at the last moment would spoil her plan, that Adele Tace had not learned her lesson, that Celie would take fright, that she would not return. Now all those fears were over. She had her victims safe within the villa. The charwoman had been sent home. She had them to herself. She was still standing in the hall when Mme. Dauvray called aloud impatiently:
"Helene! Helene!"
And when she entered the salon there was still, as Celia was able to recall, some trace of her smile lingering upon her face.
Adele Rossignol had removed her hat and was taking off her gloves. Mme. Dauvray was speaking impatiently to Celia.
"We will arrange the room, dear, while Helene helps you to dress. It will be quite easy. We shall use the recess."
And Celia, as she ran up the stairs, heard Mme. Dauvray discussing with her maid what frock she should wear. She was hot, and she took a hurried bath. When she came from her bathroom she saw with dismay that it was her new pale-green evening gown which had been laid out. It was the last which she would have chosen. But she dared not refuse it. She must still any suspicion. She must succeed. She gave herself into Helene’s hands. Celia remembered afterwards one or two points which passed barely heeded at the time. Once while Helene was dressing her hair she looked up at the maid in the mirror and noticed a strange and rather horrible grin upon her face, which disappeared the moment their eyes met. Then again, Helene was extraordinarily slow and extraordinarily fastidious that evening. Nothing satisfied her, neither the hang of the girl’s skirt, the folds of her sash, nor the arrangement of her hair.