She was looking into the face that made the portrait of the Iron Count so abhorrent to her: the leathery head of a cadaver with eyes that lived.

A portrait of Voltaire, the likeness of a satyr, a suggestion of Satan--all rushed up from memory's storehouse to hold her attention rapt in contemplation of this sinister figure.
He smiled.

It was like the crumpling of soft leather.

Then, with a word to one of the men, he abruptly left the room.

After that she broke down and cried herself into the sleep of exhaustion.
All the next day she sat limp and helpless in the chair they had brought to her.