“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!”