She had roughly three solitary hours before the trial, and she spent them dressing slowly in the corner of her cell, brushing her hair while seated on the edge of the cot, then trying to rest. Although she had been denied mascara, one of the attendants had brought her a little rouge. She had also been given pins for her hair, and the dress had been pressed.

After dressing she was led to another sealed room adjacent to the court. Here she was given coffee and a slice of buttered bread. After another half hour her attorney entered—the distinguished Clunet, a gaunt white figure in striped trousers. There were rumors that he had been a secret lover—of course he hadn't—but in fact they were simply friends. On entering the room he took her hand, pushed away the remains of her breakfast, and sat down. His upper lip was already beaded with perspiration, his face flushed.

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

She managed a weak smile. "Better than I thought I would."

"Well, you look absolutely marvelous."

She smiled again. "Is that to our advantage?"

"Oh, I think so. You see, the jury is entirely composed of soldiers."

A woman appeared briefly in the doorway. There were also footsteps from the corridor, and someone was complaining about the heat.

"I imagine they'll begin with the obvious questions," he told her. "The point is to remain calm, and try to answer without hesitating."

"What if I can't answer at all?"

"Don't worry. Just tell the truth. And look beautiful."

The woman appeared again, exchanging another glance with Clunet. Moments later a young uniformed clerk came in. Apparently it was time. "Yes," Clunet said quietly, "I think they're ready now."

For a moment she couldn't seem to move, except to slide a hand across the table to his. "Are we afraid, Edouard?"

The presiding judge was fifty-four year old Lieutenant Colonel Albert Ernest Somprou of the Republican Guard. The seven-member jury had been chosen from the Third Permanent Council of War. The prosecuting attorney was the skeletal Jean Mornet (who would eventually serve as Marshal Petain's prosecutor following the next war). They had all more or less assembled by the time the prisoner entered, some speaking softly among themselves, others merely watching.

She entered slowly, a step behind Clunet. Her arms hung loosely at her side, her eyes remained fixed on the floor. In dreams she had imagined a larger room in marble, not these cloistered chambers with a single row of windows on the northern wall. She had also imagined a younger jury, and a gallery filled with friends from the better salons. It was also much warmer than she had expected.

It began with a series of innocent questions, just as Clunet had predicted. Her inquisitor was the lean Mornet, whose style reminded her of Bouchardon. He tended to speak very slowly while pacing back and forth. His eyes, too, seemed in motion except when meeting hers.