She had wondered if they might be summoned together, but they were not. Étienne went in first. The big door closed, and she heard nothing of what passed behind it. After a long, cold silence he came out, looking ashen. He tried to smile and moved across to kiss her. But the guards would not let him, and pushed her through the door into the courtroom, and she heard the heavy door thud.

They took her to a wooden rail, upon which she could rest her hands, and told her to stand behind it. Opposite her was a table at which several men were sitting. In the middle was a small man with a pointed face and sharp eyes, who reminded her of a rat. On each side of him were others. These were the judges, she supposed. At the end sat a tall, thin man, all in black, who looked bored. Several men were sitting at another table. She supposed they were the jury. At one side of the room there was a row of chairs. One of these was occupied by a large, ugly woman with black hair, whom Sophie had never seen before.

Now the small man at the center of the table spoke. It seemed he was the principal judge.

“Citizen Sophie Constance Madeleine de Cygne, you are charged under the Law of Suspects with treason, as an enemy of the People and of the Revolution. How do you plead?”

“Not guilty,” Sophie said, as clearly as she could.

Now it was the turn of the tall man. He did not bother to get up, but asked her whether she had been in the company of the priest known as Father Pierre the day before.

“I was,” she replied, wondering what this could possibly be about.

“Call the witness,” he said.

The big, black-haired woman at the side of the room now rose and stood before the judge’s table.

The widow Le Sourd was soon established by the tall prosecutor as a citizen of good character, and she told her tale. With horror, Sophie heard her harmless expression of shock at the death of the Carmelites turned into an attack on the Revolution. But then, to her astonishment, she heard that she and her husband had told their laborers and tenants to join the rising in the Vendée.

“Your daughter was in the chapel with them when she heard these words?” the prosecutor asked.

“She was. She has a perfect memory, and she told me at once.”

“But this is absurd,” cried Sophie. “Let me call Father Pierre and he will tell you I said no such thing.”

“The prisoner will be silent,” said the judge.

“I may not be defended?”

“By the law of 22 Prairial, enacted by the Convention this year,” the judge intoned, “those brought before this court are not allowed any counsel for their defense.”

He turned to the jury.

“How do you find?” he asked.

“Guilty,” they said all together.