St. Juste reaches out his hand to me.

“But we also both know we’ll go down fighting,” he says.

I reluctantly take his hand, and behind me—far enough away that she is not able to make out our conversation—Ettie makes a noise of smothered delight.

It occurs to me that perhaps St. Juste can be of help getting us into the Tuileries if he is willing to do me just one more favor …

We arrive at the Pont Neuf, where, according to the tongues of Notre-Dame, the procession should be at this hour. The bridge was the first of its kind to be built: there are no houses on it, meaning that it has ample space for the cacophony of actors, vendors, quack doctors, and tooth-pullers who crowd it.

Today the traffic of coaches, wagons, omnibuses, cabs, and animals has slowed to a crawl. We have threaded our way through the clogged arteries of the city, avoiding seedy bouquinistes handing out illegal pamphlets denouncing the king, and colporteurs selling bawdy books from blue-papered trays. Around us, every inch of every wall is pasted over with bills bearing incendiary political gossip, historical essays, and an overflow of exclamation marks. Here, they cry, royal advisor Concini was roasted and eaten! Here, they claim, the king’s son was unhorsed by a runaway pig and died! And over and over, posters scream:

WANTED: ESCAPED CONVICT JEAN VALJEAN NO. 24601

We weave through the ruck till we’re buried in the crowds jostling for a clear view of the procession. Every day since the start of the famine, the remains of Sainte-Geneviève have been paraded through the streets in an attempt to blackmail God into mercy.

It’s great sport for the poor, who love watching hungry priests and wild-eyed penitents in their bloodstained shifts whip themselves to a frenzy. At the head of the procession is General Jean Maximilien Lamarque, one of the country’s most beloved military men, who looks dismayed at having to take part in this farce when he could be abroad fighting the Austrians. He’s supported by a handful of soldiers and several members of the Sûreté, riding on horseback in their bright blue uniforms, their eyes constantly sweeping the crowd.

Behind the wailing penitents, bored nobles, forced by the powerful Church to participate in the charade, are taking the agonizingly slow carriage ride from Notre-Dame to the Tuileries. Their plumed carriages of gold and glass wait in an exhausted line to cross the bridge.

The palace has decreed that each day, two poor children should be brought to be blessed and fed at the royal table. It’s an old tradition called l’Enlèvement—the Kidnapping—by the city’s children, started by la Reine des Gâteaux, Marie-Antoinette.

I spot a carriage that must be carrying the children; it’s the least adorned, a third-class carriage fit for transporting the very poor—after all, they might sully anything else.

I motion to Ettie and she follows me till we’re directly opposite the carriage. All we need to do is dart forward and slip under it. Everyone is watching the penitents, and between the noise and chaos we should be safe enough. I take a wary step forward and pull Ettie after me; we’re inches away from the carriage and are about to duck under it when a Sûreté officer approaches from the side of the procession on horseback. Her eyes meet mine and I take in the long ponytail of bright red hair.