“Yes; from the point of view that concerns us.” “You are certainly easily satisfied,” she said in a faintly contemptuous tone. “And what are the links you think you see between these different adventures?” “I see three kinds of links,” said the Baron with some heat. “First there is the evidence of all the people who have recognized you, thanks to whom we can go back, step by step, to the end of the eighteenth century. Next your own avowal of your claims.” “What avowal?” “You have repeated to the Prince of Arcola the very terms of a conversation which took place between the two of you in the station at Modena.” “So I did!” she said. “And then?” “And then I have here three portraits, all three of which are portraits of you. Are they not?” She looked at them and said: “Yes. They are portraits of me.” “Well,” said Godfrey d’Etigues in a tone of triumph, “the first is a miniature, painted at Moscow in 1816, of Josine, Countess of Cagliostro. The second is this photograph taken in the year 1870. This is the last, taken recently in Paris. The miniature has your signature on the back, after the words presenting it to Prince Serge Dolgorouki; the two photographs have your signature across the face. All the three signatures are letter for letter the same with the same flourish.” “What does that prove?” she asked in the same mocking, ironical accents. “That proves that the same woman retains in 1892 her face of 1816 and of 1870.” “Then to the stake with her!” she cried and laughed a silvery, rippling laugh. “Do not laugh, Madam. You know that between you and us a laugh is an abominable blasphemy!” cried the Baron sternly. She struck the arm of the bench with an impatient hand. “Look here, Monsieur: we’ve had enough of this nonsense!” she exclaimed, frowning at the Baron. “What is it exactly that you have against me? What am I here for?” “You’re here, Madam, to pay the penalty of the crimes you have committed.” “What crimes?” “My friends and I were twelve, twelve men who were seeking the same end. Now we are only nine. The three others are dead. You murdered them!” * * * * * A shadow, perhaps--at least Ralph d’Andresy thought that he saw one--veiled for a moment, like a cloud, the smile of the Giaconda. Then on the instant her beautiful face resumed its usual expression as if nothing could ruffle its serenity, not even this frightful accusation launched at her with so violent a virulence. You might very well have said that the ordinary feelings of humanity were unknown to her, or that at any rate they did not betray themselves by those symptoms of indignation, revolt, and horror with which all human beings are overwhelmed. What an anomaly she was! Guilty or not, any other woman would have risen in revolt. She said never a word. It might have been cynicism; it might have been innocence. There was no saying.