‘A dying creature will always convulse in its final moments,’ said Comtois. ‘These Royalist attacks are nothing more.’

Camille pursed her lips and turned to her uncle. ‘Will you be making a speech at the festival, Citoyen Molyneux?’

Molyneux’s face lit up.

‘I’m delighted you ask. The dear docteur here would be far better placed to speak about our research, but an event of this magnitude requires a statesman not a scientist, so it falls to me to press our case.’

‘Research?’ Camille brightened. ‘What research is this?’

She smiled so sweetly at him, he almost spoke. But a look from Comtois cut him off.

‘Never you mind your pretty little head about that. Suffice to say, the greatest minds in science are being put to work in aid of La France and to ensure her safety from foreign aggressors.’

Camille forced herself to pick up her fork and mechanically chew through a few bites of pork. Could this research involve Olympe? Surely it couldn’t be anything else? She didn’t understand what the defence of the Republic bit was all about, but she had to try to find out more.

‘I hope you will do your patriotic duty and attend,’ added Molyneux. ‘Once you have completed our job, of course.’

‘I’m not sure men congratulating themselves on their genius while standing on top of a giant papier-mâché mountain is quite my thing.’

Comtois was watching her as he delicately ate his own soup. She popped a cube of carrot in her mouth and stared back at him, waiting for him to look away first. He didn’t. ‘Although you won’t actually have a mountain to stand on – nice symbolism, by the way. I heard it burned down with the Théâtre Patriotique.’

‘The Patriotique? Oh, no, that was just a test model. The real one is far larger – couldn’t fit in a theatre! No, no, the mountain is ready to be unveiled,’ said Molyneux passing her a plate of white rolls. Not pain d’égalité, she noted.

Something took shape in Camille’s mind as she accepted a roll. She needed a stage for her sleight of hand, and the mountain would be perfect.

Before Camille could reply, the footman reappeared to take away their plates and lay a dish of stewed soles with a sauce of button onions and mushrooms, and a plate of pickled vegetables. Despite it being high summer, the harvest had been bad, as it had for years, and even the powerful found food at a premium.

‘I trust you are in a position to complete your job, as agreed?’ Molyneux served her a forkful of samphire.

‘Is that why you invited me here? Checking up on me?’

‘My dear, I am sorry that this distrust must exist between us. I invited you here in the hope it might remind you where you come from.’

‘Where I come from?’