She crouched down, hiding her eyes and her ears. A little cold rain began to fall; she felt it on her head and shivered. The cart stopped. She dropped her stiff fingers and looked up; she was face to face with the final horror. A platform surrounded with soldiers in the midst of an open place crowded with people; at one side a palace and trees–the great square once named after her lover, Louis XV. From the centre of the platform rose the hideous machine itself, the guillotine, with two tall upright posts dyed red, the plank, the basket, the cloth, a man in a dark coat holding a cord, all outlined against a grey tumultuous sky and the leafless, dry trees of November. The prisoners began to descend from the cart, began to ascend the steps to the guillotine amid the murmurs and yells of the haggard feverish crowd. Madame du Barry stood at the foot of the scaffold. One by one her companions passed her. The young man in the handsome great coat murmured “courage” as he stepped up and looked at her with pitying eyes. Her heart was beating very fast; she did not know what she was thinking or doing, only that all her worst anticipations had not equalled this horror— There were only three left besides herself. The man in charge of the cart seized hold of her long locks and quickly and roughly cut them off. “Your turn, my little piece of royalty,” he said. She looked at him blankly; he snatched her small, feeble hands and tied them behind her before she had guessed his intention. “Oh!” she cried. “Oh!” She was quite bewildered. The world seemed to have stopped. She saw her blonde curls lying at her feet and moved her head stiffly to and fro to see if the ringlets were not still there. They pushed her forward and told her to mount. “Up there?” she asked vacantly, and stared at the scaffold. “Yes, up there,” was the answer. She hesitated, looked about her as if she did not understand. The man, becoming impatient, pushed her again, roughly, and she, impeded by her bound arms, could not save herself, but fell in the slime and mud at the foot of the steps. They dragged her to her feet and up the steps, one either side of her, hurting her arms. The roar of the crowd that greeted her was prolonged and horrible; she looked round at them; no one who had seen her, even yesterday, would have recognised her then. Samson approached and caught hold of her fichu. “May I not keep that?” she asked. He did not even trouble to refuse, but snatched away the muslin, leaving her throat and bosom bare. She struggled to release her arms, turned and saw the plank, the posts, the basket full of heads. Shriek after shriek left her lips. Such desperate strength possessed her that she almost broke from the two men holding her. “Have mercy on me–I never hurt anything–I was not properly tried–I am not an aristocrat! Why did he denounce me? I was always good to him! Oh, my _God_, my _God_, save me from this!”