Not one of us spoke. The closed coach swayed from side to side, sucking dust through her windows. La Buffon sat, absently caressing Moustache. It was a moment before she drew breath to speak.

‘Are you alarmed, monseigneur? Are you in fear of the émigré army? Of the Austrians and Prussians?’

Orléans lifted his head and examined her, as if uncertain how he should respond.

‘You should not be. You should not be alarmed, monseigneur,’ she insisted. ‘The people will rise. We are greater in strength and number than the Austrians and the Prussians and the émigré armies. The men and the women will fight for France, for the Revolution, for all that is right. Do not underestimate the fervour of your brothers and sisters, mon cher Orléans. They venerate you and they love liberty. They adore their freedom from tyranny and they will die before it is wrenched from them.’ She smiled and reached for his hand.

My eyes moved between the pair of them. Orléans considered each word she uttered and soon an expression of adoration and gratitude filled his countenance. It was the sort of humble look infrequently found upon a proud man of influence. That he loved her absolutely was unquestionable, and that she reciprocated could never be denied.

She was also not incorrect in her assessment of the people’s sentiments; they adored Orléans. Indeed, my first encounter with this came while we were upon the road to Paris. Wherever our train came to a halt, whichever inn served as our place of refreshment suddenly came alive. Word of our arrival spread rapidly, and then it seemed all the population rushed forward to glimpse him. They ran from the fields; they came from the houses and shops and encircled the carriages as we sat inside taking our meals or wine or beer. They stroked the horses; they pressed their faces to the glass until we pulled down the shades. Madame de Buffon would then release them once more.

‘You must permit them to look upon you, monseigneur,’ she scolded him. ‘They must see you are not the King, that you wear the uniform of a volunteer of the Army of the North. You are a hero. They believe you have fought at Courtrai. You must allow them to!’ she would remind him. Orléans would then step from the coach and go out among them.

‘Vive Orléans!’ the cries would rise up. ‘Vive Orléans! Vive la nation!’