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.