“Let us take our seats at the table,” she heard Mme. Dauvray say.  “Helene, you are by the switch of the electric light.  Will you turn it off?” And upon that Helene whispered, yet so that the whisper reached to Celia and awakened hope: 

“Wait!  I will see what she is doing.”

The curtains opened, and Helene Vauquier slipped to the girl’s side.

Celia checked her tears.  She smiled imploringly, gratefully.

“What shall I do?” asked Helene, in a voice so low that the movement of her mouth rather than the words made the question clear.

Celia raised her head to answer.  And then a thing incomprehensible to her happened.  As she opened her lips Helene Vauquier swiftly forced a handkerchief in between the girl’s teeth, and lifting the scarf from her shoulders wound it tightly twice across her mouth, binding her lips, and made it fast under the brim of her hat behind her head.  Celia tried to scream; she could not utter a sound.  She stared at Helene with incredulous, horror-stricken eyes.  Helene nodded at her with a cruel grin of satisfaction, and Celia realised, though she did not understand, something of the rancour and the hatred which seethed against her in the heart of the woman whom she had supplanted.  Helene Vauquier meant to expose her to-night; Celia had not a doubt of it.  That was her explanation of Helene Vauquier’s treachery; and believing that error, she believed yet another—­that she had reached the terrible climax of her troubles.  She was only at the beginning of them.

“Helene!” cried Mme. Dauvray sharply.  “What are you doing?”

The maid instantly slid back into the room.

“Mademoiselle has not moved,” she said.

Celia heard the women settle in their chairs about the table.

“Is madame ready?” asked Helene; and then there was the sound of the snap of a switch.  In the salon darkness had come.

If only she had not been wearing her gloves, Celia thought, she might possibly have just been able to free her fingers and her supple hands from their bonds.  But as it was she was helpless.  She could only sit and wait until the audience in the salon grew tired of waiting and came to her.  She closed her eyes, pondering if by any chance she could excuse her failure.  But her heart sank within her as she thought of Mme. Rossignol’s raillery.  No, it was all over for her. ...

She opened her eyes, and she wondered.  It seemed to her that there was more light in the recess than there had been when she closed them.  Very likely her eyes were growing used to the darkness.  Yet--yet—­she ought not to be able to distinguish quite so clearly the white pillar opposite to her.  She looked towards the glass doors and understood.  The wooden shutters outside the doors were not quite closed.  They had been carelessly left unbolted.  A chink from lintel to floor let in a grey thread of light.  Celia heard the women whispering in the salon, and turned her head to catch the words.