“But I cannot–do–it—” she stammered. “I–cannot–I am not an aristocrat–I–I–have nothing to die for–I am only a woman of the people—” There was no response in the faces of her two companions; they were watching the opening of the doors at the top of the few shallow steps. Madame du Barry watched too; her senses seemed suspended or dulled; her mouth hung open in a childish circle and her eyes showed the white round the pupils. The doors were flung wide and fastened back; four soldiers entered and took up their places inside the entrance. A shaft of chill white light fell across the lantern-lit gloom, and a rush of bitter air dispersed the close odours of the hall. Madame du Barry found the name–“salle des pas perdu” running in her head; for the first time in her life she noticed the meaning.… Of course, “The hall of lost footsteps.” Of course that was why it was given to entrance places: people came and went, but no one stayed–lost footsteps … lost footsteps.… She could see a cart outside, a humble, dirty cart with straw in the bottom. A jailer began to call out numbers; the prisoners moved towards the door. She found herself being drawn along by the young man who had spoken to her, found herself mounting the few steps and outside in the raw, cold morning. She had an appalling sensation of being hurried along too fast for comprehension. If they would only give her time to think! She could not realise anything. There were very few people before the prison; the one or two there took no notice. A man delivering bread looked over his shoulder, then away again, indifferently. Some passers-by on the quay stopped to watch.… Madame du Barry wondered what was the matter with these people, with the river, with the houses beyond, with the sky–all seemed unreal, distorted. This was not the world that she knew … she was among grotesque strangers. Following the others meekly, she ascended the cart; there were about twelve people in it, and they had to stand. When the horse started the jerk almost threw her on her knees; the man next her helped her up. “Where are we going?” she asked. “Where are we going?” “To Heaven, I hope,” was the flippant answer. A man the other side of her spoke. “One cannot be sure of one’s company even in the tumbrils,” he remarked, glancing at her. “But poor Duquesne had to go with Philippe Égalité, which was worse,” he added. Madame du Barry looked wildly round for the young aristocrat who had befriended her; he was standing towards the front of the cart, looking with a melancholy air at the river. She could not attract his attention. The lady with the knitting had not come. They soon left the quay for the more crowded thoroughfares. People began to line the roads, to fill the windows. There was an unusual crowd to-day to watch the passing of the King’s favourite.