There were means by which I might avoid this fate. Though prone to their own discomforts – sweats and aches and blood – they were far less injurious to the heart. I knew what manner of herbs to procure to induce it and how I might concoct them into a tisane. I would force it and its many woes from me as soon as I was able. However, I could scarcely perform this task in secret. There is not a woman of apprehension, whether married or debauched, who would not recognize the steeping scent of pennyroyal and her sister leaves. There is not a servant who would not understand the meaning of sodden scarlet linens. There was not a nose or a pair of eyes in the Petits Appartements who would not sense these irregularities and fail to hold their tongues. Madame La Buffon would learn of it, and it was best that she heard my confession before the tattle reached her ears. I could only pray that Orléans would permit common sense to command him and refrain from speaking of it. I would put it to her in the morning, I instructed myself, and then pulled my bedding close and tight and waited for sleep.

It was the sound of bells which roused me first. I was uncertain of the time, for the curtains still sealed me into where I slept. They clanged incessantly, wild and discordant and vaguely muffled from within the drapery. It is the tocsin, I thought, and then sat up straight.

‘Lucy!’ I called out, pushing my head between the lengths of silk, but my maid did not respond. The shutters and drapery were still closed and the room was as dark as a tomb.

‘Lucy!’ I cried, opening the door which led to my dressing room.

With my maid nowhere to be found, I threw wide the window coverings and was assailed by a blaze of morning light.

There came a sudden patter of footsteps from some corner of my apartments.

‘I did not know you were awake, madam,’ she called out in apology. Her expression was harried and almost entirely stripped of its colour.

‘Lucy, what is the matter? Why is the tocsin sounding?’

‘There has been a disturbance this morning, madam.’ She seemed to tremble as she spoke. ‘Monsieur Romain informed us. There has been an uprising at one of the prisons. The royalist prisoners . . . the counter-revolutionaries . . . But I am told it has been put down. There are many soldiers and citizens with arms still upon the streets—’ She broke off and turned from me abruptly, intent on setting about her task of dressing me.

I waited for her further explanation but curiously, she made none. My eyes followed her about as she moved, darting and anxious as a mouse, shaking out my petticoats and mantua, collecting my linens from drawers. Her agitation alarmed me nearly as much as the news she had delivered.