‘Ah, mademoiselle, revolutions are dreadful for those who live through them, but their benefits are immeasurable for future generations. It is those to whom we must turn our minds, rather than the unfortunate dead who dwelt in a world of the past.’

‘I cannot imagine that any good should come from such wicked deeds,’ I protested.

Barrois moved awkwardly in his seat, as if uncertain how to contend with such royalist sentiments. ‘One may be inclined to conclude this in the face of the disaster, mademoiselle, but I would have you consider what has also come to pass. A National Convention has been elected by all Frenchmen over the age of twenty-five. All men have been granted the right to vote. Is that not remarkable? The members have abolished monarchy from France. We are a true republic. Is that not worth the sacrifice of some? To bring liberty for all?’

In truth, I did not believe these principles so abhorrent, but I wondered at the price of them; however, I chose to say not a word to the contrary. To be sure, a good deal had transpired in the world as I had languished in death’s parlour and much of it did not strike me as especially fortuitous.

‘Papa has a seat in the new Convention,’ interjected Beaujolais, who sat like a fully fledged gentleman in his white breeches and royal blue coat. A large, proud rosette bloomed from his lapel.

‘But not as Monsieur d’Orléans,’ corrected Barrois, with a gently piqued brow. ‘The members have chosen for him a name less . . . obnoxious to the sensibilities of the nation. He is now to be known as Philippe Égalité.’

‘I am Monsieur Beaujolais Égalité,’ chimed the boy.

‘The others . . . Monsieur de Chartres has become General Égalité . . . and Montpensier—’

‘—is Monsieur Montpensier Égalité,’ added Beaujolais. ‘And Mademoiselle Lightfoot, it is my duty to inform you that you no longer inhabit the Palais-Royal.’

I cocked my head teasingly at him.

‘This is the Maison Égalité,’ he announced. ‘The gardens are now Les Jardins de la Révolution.’

I was quite taken aback. I could not conceive that Monsieur d’Orléans would consent to such measures. To suffer the name Bourbon to be all but rubbed from his history would have rankled with his pride, for certain. Philippe Égalité, thought I. Why, it has the sound of a character in a comic opera. I might have laughed aloud at this absurdity, had I not thought I would give offence. To be sure, the expressions of my visitors showed no levity whatsoever. Whatever the nature of Orléans’s true thoughts upon the matter, he knew better than to protest. Everyone about him from his friends to his household was fiercely Jacobin and I soon reminded myself by whose sufferance I remained there.