And she tied the girl’s thumbs and little fingers.  To slacken the knots she must have the use of her fingers, even though her gloves made them fumble.  Now she had lost the use of them altogether.  She began to feel that she was in master-hands.  She was sure of it the next instant.  For Adele stood up, and, passing a cord round the upper part of her arms, drew her elbows back.  To bring any strength to help her in wriggling her hands free she must be able to raise her elbows.  With them trussed in the small of her back she was robbed entirely of her strength.  And all the time her strange uneasiness grew.  She made a movement of revolt, and at once the cord was loosened.

“Mlle. Celie objects to my tests,” said Adele, with a laugh, to Mme. Dauvray.  “And I do not wonder.”

Celia saw upon the old woman’s foolish and excited face a look of veritable consternation.

“Are you afraid, Celie?” she asked.

There was anger, there was menace in the voice, but above all these there was fear—­fear that her illusions were to tumble about her.  Celia heard that note and was quelled by it.  This folly of belief, these seances, were the one touch of colour in Mme. Dauvray’s life.  And it was just that instinctive need of colour which had made her so easy to delude.  How strong the need is, how seductive the proposal to supply it, Celia knew well.  She knew it from the experience of her life when the Great Fortinbras was at the climax of his fortunes.  She had travelled much amongst monotonous, drab towns without character or amusements.  She had kept her eyes open.  She had seen that it was from the denizens of the dull streets in these towns that the quack religions won their recruits.  Mme. Dauvray’s life had been a featureless sort of affair until these experiments had come to colour it.  Madame Dauvray must at any rate preserve the memory of that colour.

“No,” she said boldly; “I am not afraid,” and after that she moved no more.

Her elbows were drawn firmly back and tightly bound.  She was sure she could not free them.  She glanced in despair at Helene Vauquier, and then some glimmer of hope sprang up.  For Helene Vauquier gave her a look, a smile of reassurance.  It was as if she said, “I will come to your help.”  Then, to make security still more sure, Adele turned the girl about as unceremoniously as if she had been a doll, and, passing a cord at the back of her arms, drew both ends round in front and knotted them at her waist.

“Now, Celie,” said Adele, with a vibration in her voice which Celia had not remarked before.

Excitement was gaining upon her, as upon Mme. Dauvray.  Her face was flushed and shiny, her manner peremptory and quick.  Celia’s uneasiness grew into fear.  She could have used the words which Hanaud spoke the next day in that very room—­“There is something here which I do not understand.”  The touch of Adele Tact’s hands communicated something to her—­something which filled her with a vague alarm.  She could not have formulated it if she would; she dared not if she could.  She had but to stand and submit.