I saw clearly what I must do. I would go to Mrs Elliot immediately, as soon as I was able, and plead my case to her. I would confess all. I would tell her that while her noble sacrifices had secured my duty and love, I no longer had it in my heart to practise such duplicity upon Madame de Buffon, who had also proven herself a gentle, generous friend. I would explain to her what I had learned of La Buffon, that she was no murderess, no scheming minx, but a lonesome, maligned creature, entirely unworthy of contempt. Why, thought I, Mrs Elliot is herself so good-natured that she is certain to take to heart my entreaty and see what anguish I suffer by prolonging this deception. I would then present to her my thoughts of a better life in London and beg that I should be permitted to accompany her on her return there. However, I knew these sentiments could not be conveyed so effectively in a letter as they might be in person. I understood as well that time was not in my favour and that I must go to her at Meudon immediately.

But to fulfil this task I required one thing of vital importance: a passport, and in those desperate months following the massacres, there were few items more elusive. Passports were as difficult to procure as hen’s teeth and even once acquired they did not guarantee certain passage. I had heard terrible tales of guards at the barriers tearing apart wagons and carriages in search of counter-revolutionaries. I had been told that they had even rifled through the skirts of a high-born woman suspected of being royalist. They had nearly stripped her bare while laughing that they had seen many an aristocrat smuggled out between the legs of such harlots. Not a soul passed through the gates if they did not countenance it. Even the papers and visages of the most trusted Jacobins were subject to close enquiry.

I knew not how to obtain such papers, nor how I might do so without alerting the entire household, and Madame in particular, to my intentions. I began by discreetly approaching Monsieur Rotaux, who simply laughed at my enquiry.

‘You wish me to issue a passport for you?’ he cried. ‘You believe I am some magician, mademoiselle? Why, even Monsieur Égalité has not it in his power to grant one! You must enquire amongst his friends – which is to say, his particular friends in the Convention.’