Feeling distinctly out of sorts, she went back down the grand marble staircase to the entrance hall. A small party was waiting for her in a reception room, lost in the vast space which was bigger than the battalion’s whole apartment. It was stuffed with Louis XVI furniture, lacquered cabinets inlaid with walnut and gilded mirrors. Above, a single vast fresco covered the entire ceiling. Molyneux, ruminating over a glass of sherry through pince-nez, sat in an ornate armchair upholstered in green velvet. Docteur Comtois stood by the marble fireplace, reading a letter. There was no one else.

She introduced herself with a cough.

‘Ah, my dear Camille. Do join us.’ He gestured to the settee opposite. ‘I trust you find the dress to your liking.’

She sat, looping her fingers in her lap. ‘You know I am not much interested in fashions, Citoyen Molyneux.’

‘Uncle Georges, please. Whatever has passed, to me you’ll always be the baby girl I bounced on my knee.’ He smiled indulgently.

‘I think we are well beyond whatever family ties there might have been between us,’ she replied, without returning his smile.

She wished it wasn’t a lie. The nagging tug of their past connection was jumbling her thoughts. Part of her wanted to throw everything he’d done back in his face, to hurt him the way she’d been hurt. The other part felt lost in nostalgia for the man who’d taught her how to ride a fat pony through lavender fields.

But this couldn’t be about her. This was about Olympe. That was her focus.

A footman announced dinner. Camille followed Molyneux to the dining room, acutely aware of Comtois close behind. The dining room was as cold and imposing as the rest of the building, the walls hung floor to ceiling with paintings of sprawling battle scenes and landscapes, and parquet floors that echoed her footsteps. A long table was set for three. Outside the tall windows, the grounds of the chateau rolled away towards a lake, the grass and water cast in grey and blue as the light faded.

Molyneux ushered her into a chair on one side, with Comtois opposite, before taking his place at the head of the table.

Apart from the footman bringing in dishes, they were left to serve themselves in a display of egalitarian principles. A bouillie soup was presented and Camille pushed the tough salted pork around the bowl, debating her angle. The way Molyneux kept smiling fondly at her made her wonder if some part of it was genuine affection.

She shook the thought away.

‘I’m surprised you have time to have dinner with me,’ she said. ‘After the Royalist arson attack on the theatre I’d have thought your attention would be directed elsewhere. They are saying it’s arson, aren’t they? And with the Festival of the Supreme Being so soon…’