So they had stayed, and endured five years of increasing misery. Five years of confusion, failed governments, intrigues, invasion from the angry monarchs of Europe, the king and queen executed, even risings in parts of rural France itself. And now, driven by fear of all these enemies, within and outside France, the Convention had approved a fearful purge, the witch hunt of the Terror.

It was the most radical of the Jacobins who had conceived it. Robespierre, their guiding spirit. They had vowed to destroy one category of people. But it had turned out to be a large category.

Enemies of the Revolution. They were all sorts of folk. Aristocrats were suspect first, of course. Their servants, too. Tradesmen. Peasants. Conscientious Catholics. Members of the liberal Girondin faction, who had opposed the radical Jacobins in the Convention. Even other Jacobins, who’d fallen out with Robespierre and his clique.

No one was safe. Anyone might be accused. And if the Tribunal judged that they were guilty, then execution followed rapidly, by the guillotine.

Month after month, using several guillotines in different parts of the city, the huge bloodletting had continued. Nor were there any signs that it would cease. It seemed that Robespierre and his friends were determined to purge France of every enemy and every error.

So what chance had a well-meaning young aristocrat who had believed in justice, and kindness, and compromise? Probably none.

Could they, even then, have escaped? Virtually impossible. All the ports were watched. To be caught in the attempt would mean instant execution.

By the previous autumn, Étienne and Sophie had been expecting to be thrown in jail on any day. And perhaps that would have happened, if it hadn’t been for the help of a wise friend who had shown them how to survive.

How innocent they were, even about that. For whatever its horrors, Étienne had still assumed, somehow, that the new republic would be different from the governments of the old regime that had gone before.

But Dr. Blanchard had known better. He’d shown them how to save their lives.

He was a sturdy, kindly figure. If Blanchard was successful, it was not only that he was a good doctor, but that his patients trusted him. They felt safe in his care. He’d been the family’s physician for a decade now, and had become a trusted counselor and friend.

“You need a protector,” he’d explained. “And I have the perfect man for you.” He’d smiled. “He’s a patient of mine too, and I know him quite well. Would you like me to arrange something?”

Danton, the giant. Danton the Jacobin. Danton the hero of the sans-culottes in the streets. Danton, whose stentorian voice carried all before it in the Convention. Danton, who set up the Committee of Public Safety.

“You mean he’d help us?” Étienne asked in astonishment.

“Yes. Probably. For a price.”

“Danton the Jacobin takes bribes?”

“His loyalty to the Revolution is total, I assure you,” Blanchard continued. “But he has huge appetites. And no self-discipline.” He grinned. “The poor fellow’s always in debt.”