The smell of blood rose intolerably and clung to her nostrils; it reminded her that all her poor reasonings were of no avail, that this was an age of anarchy when none of the old arguments held good. And she was in the power of creatures without pity, without justice, who stopped for nothing in their swift slaying. But she would not accept this view; her mind rejected it. She could not and would not believe that she was meant for death. Suddenly the jailer entered; she had meant to assail him with questions, arguments, reproaches, but when she saw him, though he had no particular appearance of brutality, she could not summon the courage to say one word. He put a plate of bread and meat and a glass of water on the table. He did not even look at her; his air was one of absolute indifference. She noticed his black and broken nails, his dirty neck and greasy clothes; she felt sick, and closed her eyes. The sound of the closing door penetrated her nausea. She tried to ask for a light, but he had gone and the key was turned in the lock; she rose then and pushed away the fat, almost raw meat, the sight of which made her quiver with disgust. She tried to eat a little of the bread, but it was coarse and dry and stuck in her throat. Some of the water she drank and the rest she used to bathe her hands and brow, drying them afterwards on her petticoat. The light faded quickly in this confined chamber, built in as it was; and though the chimes of the Concièrgerie clock told her that it was no more than four, it was soon completely dark. She faced the fact that they meant to leave her without a light; this did not much trouble her. She felt a dullness creeping over her spirits; she was more conscious of the cold than anything else. Chilled in every limb, she lay down on the distasteful bed and dragged the thin blankets over her. All her terrified and bewildered thoughts were soothed by the exquisite sense of physical relief that ran through her fatigued body. She sighed and dismissed everything till to-morrow; the tension of nerves and brain relaxed. She spread her thick hair between her face and the pillow and slept. She dreamt of a little episode that had taken place many years ago at Versailles. Marie Antoinette, the childish young Dauphine, had, in her tremendous pride of royal birth and purity, refused to speak to the Comtesse du Barry, who was then the most powerful person in France. The Austrian Ambassador had besought this concession of her in vain; but at last, on the commands of her mother, the Empress Marie Therèse, she had given way, and had reluctantly promised to speak to the favourite in full court. It was this scene that Madame du Barry saw now in her sleep.