No sooner had my heart rejoiced than it fell into despair once more. I sighed and examined my pen from across the room. It lay in its porcelain tray, as innocent as a knife before a murder. Slowly, I rose upon my weary limbs and then hesitated. I could not fathom what I should write to her, yet I understood I could not prevaricate without causing her greater agitation. I drew a long breath and then wrote a hasty scrawl begging her forgiveness. I gave a lengthy description of my sufferings and mentioned that Madame had been brought to bed of a boy, intelligence which I trusted Orléans had already delivered to her. I wrote nothing of politics, for in that December no one spoke of anything but the King’s trial, the thought of which was so abhorrent that I wished to clap my hands upon my ears at its very mention. I sealed it and gave it to Lucy to send. In the days that followed, I was plagued by the thought of what I had written, or rather what I had omitted. I bit my lip as I imagined her reading down the single page and finding nothing there of interest to her. I dreaded the reply, yet I knew it would arrive, stinging with remonstrances and injury.

It did not come until the New Year, on the day the bells rang declaring 1793 as Year II of the Republic. I recall that week with much vividness, for in it I had taken my first strides across the frozen Jardins de la Révolution on strong legs. I had inhaled the crisp, sweet, smoke-laced air of winter without shortness of breath, nor the slightest touch of dizziness. I felt the thin light of January cross my cheek as if a gentle finger had stroked it. My health had returned to me by degrees, as slowly as my first steps. I had felt the steadiness return to my back and neck and the fullness to my face. Over the weeks I had learned to hold my paints and brushes again with ease. But as my youthful vigour was restored to me, so it brought with it a sense of uncertainty as to my future.