‘Madame!’ I called out as if I might stop her where her beloved Orléans had failed. But I fear it was then far too late.

Her cries brought the entire household to her side. They were of a sort I had never before known: echoing forth as if they emanated from the pages of Mrs Radcliffe’s dark tales; as if they were issued from some dungeon, from a lunatic in chains. The horror of it – why, it seemed almost indecorous to gaze upon her while in the grip of this hysteria.

Orléans rushed to support her, and then Messrs Boyd and Kerly. There was such shouting and commotion. Two footmen and Romain came up behind them and struggled to place her back upon a chair. The table, gentlemen and servants barred my path to her and so I pressed in towards her, moving towards the windows. That is when I looked.

I cannot say why. Some animal passion drove me to it, perhaps. Some prurient curiosity, some part of me that wished to know the demon in human nature and to see its face drawn plain.

It was a head, but one so bloodied, so rolled in filth, that it was scarcely recognizable as such but for its long red curls. It had been stuck on a pike like a lump of bread upon a toasting fork. Behind it, at some distance, came the remainder of the person; the body, stripped naked in the most indecent manner conceivable. Several men alternately held it aloft or dragged it along the cobbles, its bowels left to trail behind it on the street like a tangle of wet, grey ribbons.

I returned my attention to La Buffon, who now held out her hand for me to take. She sobbed without end, her face as red as a cherry. I expect that mine was as white as snow.

‘It is Madame de Lamballe! Oh, mon Dieu! That will be my head there one day!’ she wailed. I attempted to hush her, but she could not be consoled. Her eyes began to flutter before she slumped motionless in her chair.

Orléans cried out to Romain, ‘Fetch Seiffert! Where is the physician? Bring him immediately!’ One of the footmen went running for hartshorn and salts, the other to locate Rosalie.

‘Madame? Madame,’ I called to her, tapping at her cheeks in an effort to revive her. ‘Agnès, please, Agnès . . .’

All at once she gasped and opened her eyes wide. Two blue stones blinked at me.

‘Agnès,’ I breathed. For a moment, her countenance appeared calm, as if the storm had passed. I beamed at her and touched her damp, cold face, but as I did so her features contracted and she let out a sudden roar of pain. She clutched at her belly and then at her back.