“Why do you not do something?” she glanced round the assembled prisoners. “All these people cannot be going to–die?”
The lady put her knitting in the pocket of her black silk apron; she had seen the guards unbarring the doors.
“Whatever we are or have been,” she answered, “none of us, so far, have failed in this moment.”
Madame du Barry sprang up.
“But I cannot–do–it—” she stammered. “I–cannot–I am not an aristocrat–I–I–have nothing to die for–I am only a woman of the people—”
There was no response in the faces of her two companions; they were watching the opening of the doors at the top of the few shallow steps. Madame du Barry watched too; her senses seemed suspended or dulled; her mouth hung open in a childish circle and her eyes showed the white round the pupils.
The doors were flung wide and fastened back; four soldiers entered and took up their places inside the entrance. A shaft of chill white light fell across the lantern-lit gloom, and a rush of bitter air dispersed the close odours of the hall.
Madame du Barry found the name–“salle des pas perdu” running in her head; for the first time in her life she noticed the meaning.… Of course, “The hall of lost footsteps.” Of course that was why it was given to entrance places: people came and went, but no one stayed–lost footsteps … lost footsteps.…
She could see a cart outside, a humble, dirty cart with straw in the bottom. A jailer began to call out numbers; the prisoners moved towards the door. She found herself being drawn along by the young man who had spoken to her, found herself mounting the few steps and outside in the raw, cold morning.
She had an appalling sensation of being hurried along too fast for comprehension. If they would only give her time to think! She could not realise anything.