A great fuss was then raised. We were seated upon the sofas and brought brandy to soothe our nerves while La Buffon recounted our ordeal. The Duke, his son, Messieurs Rotaux, Barrois, Seiffert and several politicians from the Hôtel de Ville gathered about us exclaiming and solemnly shaking their heads while offering praise for our bravery. It was from them that we discovered the Royal Family’s fate had not yet been determined. No one within that room knew what would become of them. A few supposed it would be exile, another whispered death. It would be several days still before King and Queen, along with their children and a number of their loyal servants, were removed to the Temple Prison.

The gentlemen rambled anxiously about the massacre. The massacre, they called it, speaking the word over and over. They informed us that many hundreds of Swiss Guards had been killed, along with hundreds more among the royal household. I listened with silent incredulity that such an atrocity could have befallen the King and those loyal to him. It was beyond conception. Irrespective of how well they claimed to love their Revolution, there was not a pair of eyes within that room that did not display some look of dread or shock. Indeed, Orléans’s countenance was flushed pink with heat and fury. Never before had I witnessed him in such a passion.

‘It is complete disorder!’ he fumed. ‘Who do you propose should contain it, now that the commander of the National Guard is murdered?’

‘They are attempting to contain it presently, monsieur. Searches have been ordered of all houses for Swiss Guards who have failed to lay down their arms. They have pledged to fight for the King and they must be brought to heel,’ replied one of the gentlemen.

‘There are corpses strewn about the roads, monsieur. The barracks at the Tuileries are in flames . . . Why, the city has been rendered a very picture of hell!’ the Duke railed.

The shouts came, volley upon volley, the echoes rising to the ceiling like smoke from the cannons. I sat and observed, as passive as La Buffon’s dogs listening to the noise. The words they spoke, the names they accused: they were meaningless to me, as if I comprehended not a word of French. With every flutter of my lids my memory turned over once more the images embossed upon it: the lifeless waxwork-like men I had glimpsed, the throat torn wide open like a ripped sack. I stared at my hands, my shaking fingers. I considered my arms. How easily they might be detached from my whole; how readily a body might be torn apart like a roast quail. I took another swallow of my brandy and felt its heat in my mouth. Where was Mrs Elliot? Where was Allenham?

La Buffon took my hand in hers and drew me back from my nightmare. I regarded her soft blue eyes.