“To hear you talk, count,” said Madame Dubarry, “one would think the whole universe must die a violent death. Here we were, eight of us, and five are already condemned by you.”
“Oh, you understand that it is all prearranged to frighten us, and we shall only laugh at it,” said M. de Favras, trying to do so.
“Certainly we will laugh,” said Count Haga, “be it true or false.”
“Oh, I will laugh too, then,” said Madame Dubarry. “I will not dishonor the assembly by my cowardice; but, alas! I am only a woman, I cannot rank among you and be worthy of a tragical end; a woman dies in her bed. My death, a sorrowful old woman abandoned by every one, will be the worst of all. Will it not, M. de Cagliostro?”
She stopped, and seemed to wait for the prophet to reassure her. Cagliostro did not speak; so, her curiosity obtaining the mastery over her fears, she went on. “Well, M. de Cagliostro, will you not answer me?”
“What do you wish me to say, madame?”
She hesitated—then, rallying her courage, “Yes,” she cried, “I will run the risk. Tell me the fate of Jeanne de Vaubernier, Countess Dubarry.”
“On the scaffold, madame,” replied the prophet of evil.
“A jest, sir, is it not?” said she, looking at him with a supplicating air.
Cagliostro seemed not to see it. “Why do you think I jest?” said he.