The old slave ran over with two others. They collected the head and body of Moses, then set to cleaning down the bloody guillotine with brooms and buckets of water.

ALONE

A young Portuguese corporal and an old Creole man with a mule and wagon came to escort Elisabeth to the Hôtel de la République, right in the centre of town. Christophe had decided to remain with the doctor.

‘What else can I do with the général gone?’ he said. ‘I have no money or work and Girodet has offered me both.’

‘He guillotines slaves.’

‘For science.’

Elisabeth von Hoffmann said nothing. She kissed the général’s aide-de-camp on the cheek. ‘Be careful, Christophe.’ Then she climbed up into the wagon and sat beside the old Creole man (who smelled of fish), relieved to be leaving Girodet and his disconcerting hospitality behind.

They moved off. The day was already hot and humid. Every day was the same, every day was hot and humid; every day the heat pressed down and the buildings and trees in Cayenne shimmered in the light. As the sun rose, the world slowed and sank and the day took twice as long to pass.

The wagon swayed and rocked over the uneven road.

The young Portuguese corporal led them on his small brown horse and twice he turned his head and smiled at Elisabeth. After a time, he let the wagon come up alongside him.

He looked over to Elisabeth and touched his hat. ‘If you will permit me, Mademoiselle?’

Elisabeth nodded. The young corporal’s face was flushed and shiny with sweat.

‘They have taken the Général Fourés to Rio de Janeiro,’ he said. ‘Please do not say that I have told you this.’

‘Why have they taken him there?’ Elisabeth had been to see endless officials but nobody had told her a thing.

The young corporal shrugged. ‘I do not know. I am sorry.’

He rode the horse back up to lead the wagon again. Children ran across the road, dogs sniffed and weaved, there were soldiers on foot in pairs, Portuguese, a few English. Negro women balanced bundles on their heads, hips swaying like palms.

At the hotel, the young corporal helped Elisabeth down and then he and the old man carried her luggage to the room.

‘My name is Duarte dos Santos,’ he said at the door. ‘Please, Mademoiselle, if you need my help, you must ask. Anything.’

‘Thank you, Duarte,’ Elisabeth said. She liked the feeling of his name as she spoke it. ‘You are very kind.’

Corporal Duarte dos Santos bowed and walked off. His boots echoed down the stairs. He hoped, deep in his heart, that she would indeed call upon him.