And upon the old woman’s face there came a look, not of alarm, but of extraordinary relief.  The genuine, heartfelt cry restored her confidence in Celia.

“Some one—­who means harm!” she whispered, trembling with excitement.

“Ah, mademoiselle is already under control,” said Helene, using the jargon which she had learnt from Celia’s lips.

Adele Rossignol grinned.

“Yes, la petite is under control,” she repeated, with a sneer; and all the elegance of her velvet gown was unable to hide her any longer from Celia’s knowledge.  Her grin had betrayed her.  She was of the dregs.  But Helene Vauquier whispered: 

“Keep still, mademoiselle.  I shall help you.”

Vauquier carried the girl into the recess and placed her upon the stool.  With a long cord Adele bound her by the arms and the waist to the pillar, and her ankles she fastened to the rung of the stool, so that they could not touch the ground.

“Thus we shall be sure that when we hear rapping it will be the spirits, and not the heels, which rap,” she said.  “Yes, I am contented now.”  And she added, with a smile, “Celie may even have her scarf,” and, picking up a white scarf of tulle which Celia had brought down with her, she placed it carelessly round her shoulders.

“Wait!” Helene Vauquier whispered in Celia’s ear.

To the cord about Celia’s waist Adele was fastening a longer line.

“I shall keep my foot on the other end of this,” she said, “when the lights are out, and I shall know then if our little one frees herself.”

The three women went out of the recess.  And the next moment the heavy silk curtains swung across the opening, leaving Celia in darkness.  Quickly and noiselessly the poor girl began to twist and work her hands.  But she only bruised her wrists.  This was to be the last of the seances.  But it must succeed!  So much of Mme. Dauvray’s happiness, so much of her own, hung upon its success.  Let her fail to-night, she would be surely turned from the door.  The story of her trickery and her exposure would run through Aix.  And she had not told Harry!  It would reach his ears from others.  He would never forgive her.  To face the old, difficult life of poverty and perhaps starvation again, and again alone, would be hard enough; but to face it with Harry Wethermill’s contempt added to its burdens—­as the poor girl believed she surely would have to do—­no, that would be impossible!  Not this time would she turn away from the Seine, because it was so terrible and cold.  If she had had the courage to tell him yesterday, he would have forgiven, surely he would!  The tears gathered in her eyes and rolled down her cheeks.  What would become of her now?  She was in pain besides.  The cords about her arms and ankles tortured her.  And she feared—­ yes, desperately she feared the effect of the exposure upon Mme. Dauvray.  She had been treated as a daughter; now she was in return to rob Mme. Dauvray of the belief which had become the passion of her life.