“Do you not know, Madame, what this means?” A spasm of agony contracted her heart. “No–no—” she stammered. He very gently laid his hand on her wrist. “We are all condemned to the guillotine,” he said. “We are waiting for that now–the guillotine.” Incomprehension and confusion showed in the blue eyes of Madame du Barry; her mouth fell open. “They are going to kill–_me_?” she asked. His fingers tightened on her wrist; he answered, and his voice was so low and hoarse that it seemed a whistle in his throat. “They are watching us. Do not let them see that you care.” “Oh, I shall be very quiet,” she answered. He let go of her hand, and it fell like a dead thing to her side. She was, as she had promised, very quiet, but it was only because she did not, could not, realise what this man had said. Yesterday she had clung to the idea that once she was alone in prison she would think clearly, but she had not, and now the nightmare was closing round her again. Her weight slipped against the pillar; she felt both sick and giddy. Some one moved a chair towards her and gently pushed her into it; she looked up to see a woman holding some knitting in her left hand. “The bad air makes you faint,” said this lady kindly and serenely. “Was I faint?” asked Madame du Barry. The lady and the young man exchanged glances over her bent blonde head. “You must not be afraid,” he said. “It is only death.” “And it is very quickly over,” added the lady. “Who are you?” asked Madame du Barry stupidly. The lady mentioned a great name, the name of a friend of the Queen, the name of a woman who had quietly ignored the favourite at Versailles. “Yes, I remember you,” muttered the Countess and shrank away. The other woman touched her shoulder. “Madame has behaved like a person of quality,” she said gently. “Madame will die as such—” At this a little blood crept into the poor prisoner’s face; she caught at the kind hand on her shoulder. “Yes, yes,” she answered pitifully, “I will try to behave well.” “Are you afraid?” asked the young man. She looked up at him and thought that his face was beyond doubt horribly distorted now, like a wet clay mask pulled awry by clumsy fingers. “I am very much afraid–I can’t believe it—” Her voice trailed off; she turned her eyes to the woman the other side of her. In that white, calm face was that same dragged look of distortion. Madame du Barry did not know that her own features were now almost unrecognisable through the contraction of terror and anticipation of death. “Why do you not do something?” she glanced round the assembled prisoners. “All these people cannot be going to–die?” The lady put her knitting in the pocket of her black silk apron; she had seen the guards unbarring the doors. “Whatever we are or have been,” she answered, “none of us, so far, have failed in this moment.” Madame du Barry sprang up.