On the third day of November, 1793, Madame la Comtesse du Barry, arrested for “supplying the Emigrants with money,” and for this offence sentenced to death, was brought to the prison of the Concièrgerie. There were many prisoners that day, among them Philippe, one time Duc d’Orleans, recently Philippe Égalité, the man who had voted for the death of his cousin, the King, and was now to die the same way himself. Madame du Barry and her companions were conducted through a large Gothic hall, dark and low, down a long stone corridor, also dark and low, and half open one side to grim vaults, through two squat doors and across a courtyard narrowed and cobbled, into another building, up gloomy straight stairs and into a narrow corridor. While the jailer was unlocking doors Madame du Barry looked round her; she perceived that only one of her companions remained–a woman as young and beautiful as herself, with black hair and dusky eyes and a face twisted with terror. “What is your name?” whispered Madame du Barry. “Josephine Beauharnais,” answered the dark beauty in a feeble voice. “And for God’s sake tell me–are we to die–to die?” “No–no,” whispered the fair woman eagerly. Madame Beauharnais smiled foolishly. “A wise woman once said that I should be a queen and more,” she replied brokenly, “therefore I cannot be going to die—” “No, no,” repeated the Countess, shaking her blonde head. The jailer came and roughly separated them. Madame du Barry saw the pallid, dazed face of her companion and heard her shriek as she was thrust into a room and the key turned; then she herself was pushed through an open door and locked in. She stumbled across the threshold and nearly fell, recovered herself and went straight to the window and looked out. The window was heavily and closely barred from top to bottom, and faced the other portion of the prison through which she had just come, which was only a few yards distant. A small portion of sky was visible and a small strip of cobbled courtyard; nothing else. The sky was grey with the sullen snows of November, and the cobbles and the walls were splashed and stained with dark patches; Madame du Barry knew what they were: a few days before the Girondists had been gathered in the chapel of the Concièrgerie and then driven out into the courtyard to be massacred. She had heard a man say that the blood had been ankle-deep. A peculiar, terrible and sickening smell filled the prison; she had noticed it as soon as she had stepped down into the dark entrance hall. It was very strong in this room where they had put her. She tried to forget what it was. “I must think,” she said to herself; “I must think.” She had been saying that all day. Holding on to her senses and saying to herself that as soon as this horrible and bewildering tumult was over, as soon as she was alone and quiet, away from the abuse, the staring, the rough handling, she would think–straighten things out in her mind, decide what must be done.