Cynthia subsided meekly but kept an eye on the little Leonie. What a lovely pose ... and that one ... and the next. Why the child was a born model, a picture in herself!
She was also excellent material for the hypnotist, for she immediately obeyed his orders, going to sleep bolt upright in her chair before the professor’s waving, commanding hands. The other little girl, older and of stouter stuff, though not so easy a victim was also finally put to sleep. To Cynthia’s relief Reynaldo used more discretion in this case and satisfied his audience by having the children do a little dance, by having them appear to smell a rose when he gave them an onion, seem to taste something sour when he gave them a bonbon.
Then he asked if either of the girls were musical. Someone in the audience volunteered that Marie could sing but that Leonie could not sing a note. He then commanded Leonie to come forward and perform for them. “Sing correctly,” he ordered, and named a little nursery tune known to all French children.
The child really had a very pretty voice and performed with considerable credit. Also her friends seemed to think it marvelous that she could sing at all. But Cynthia, stifling a sneeze in her handkerchief, tapped a restless foot on the stone floor.
Good, it was going to end! Monsieur Reynaldo had commanded with a sharp clap of his hand beside the ear of each child, that his subjects come awake. M’rie blinked her china blue eyes, smiled timorously and clattered down the steps to join her friends.
But Leonie was a different matter. As Cynthia, taking a deep breath of her “Breathex” soaked handkerchief, watched with some interest, then growing apprehension, it seemed that the Professor also was becoming concerned.
To cover his own confusion, he ordered her to get up, to walk across the stage, to do various things, all of which she performed with her former obedience. But when he again made passes before her eyes, then, in a low tone to cover possible failure, again ordered her to waken, she remained as soundly, as blank-eyed asleep as before. The audience was apparently undisturbed, and seemed to take all this as part of the performance.
“I’m worried,” Cynthia confided to Nancy through the muffling folds of her handkerchief. “Oh, but this stuff is strong.” Her eyes were streaming with tears, but so far she had managed to keep back that sneeze.
“Worried?” Nancy turned big eyes on Cynthia. “Do you mean to say ...”
“I don’t think he can get that child out of that trance. I wonder ...”