Valentin himself was a somewhat puffed-up man of great showiness, who, beneath his plum-coloured greatcoat, wore long lace ruffles at his wrists. His daughters, who could have been no older than ten and twelve, by contrast had a timid and glum air about them. They sat, quietly stitching samplers, almost too frightened to glance at me. Eventually, one whispered to the other and then, in an act of bravery, ventured to speak.

‘Mademoiselle,’ said the eldest in the voice of a mouse, ‘my sister wishes to convey her compliments upon your English gown.’

I smiled weakly at them, before hanging my head once more in despair and heartache. We continued in this manner as our carriage wound up the streets beyond Saint-Germain towards the southernmost wall of the city and the barrier Vaugirard. Here our vehicle was drawn to a halt and a soldier, much in need of a razor and soap, came to address Monsieur Valentin, who presented our passports. The guard picked his teeth as he read through them.

‘Monsieur Valentin, master of the orchestra at the Théâtre de la République?’ The guard smiled with what seemed an air of reverence for the man before him. ‘And these are your daughters?’

‘Yes, captain.’

He then shuffled through the documents and drew forth mine.

‘And Mademoiselle Lightfoot . . . an Englishwoman?’

‘Yes, captain,’ replied Valentin on my behalf. ‘She is a singer, come from London.’

The guard nodded approvingly.

‘And you are for Sèvres?’

‘Yes. We are to visit my sister.’

‘Pray, citizen, is your sister not the famous Mademoiselle Valentin, also of the Théâtre de la République?’

Valentin seemed to puff out his chest.

‘Indeed she is, captain, but she has lately been married to Monsieur LeRoy, who is intendant of the Théâtre du Marais.’ Valentin laughed gently to himself. ‘It was a fortuitous union of musical families . . .’

‘Ah! She has made a good dowry but is wise to be finished with those other admirers, those debauched aristocrats, non?’ the captain exclaimed with good humour.

‘Indeed, captain,’ Valentin agreed with him unsteadily.

‘Very well, citizen, you may pass, and I bid you and your family and Mademoiselle Lightfoot well.’ The captain, grinning broadly, leaned forward to return the documents, but then stopped short. ‘Eh! But before you depart, Mademoiselle Lightfoot must favour us with a song!’ he announced, turning to his fellow guards. The two behind him stepped forward, cheering their agreement.

‘“La Marseillaise”? Or “Ça Ira”? Yes, that one . . . “Ça Ira”, citizeness.’

Monsieur Valentin turned to me, his smile growing wider still.

‘Do you sing, mademoiselle?’ he asked me from between his teeth.

‘No!’ I breathed in terror. Nor did I know the words to ‘Ça Ira’. My heart began to pound. ‘What should I do?’ I hissed beside his ear.

The guard still had in his possession our passports, without which we were captive.

‘You must try,’ he grunted, clenching his teeth.

‘But I cannot! Monsieur, I cannot carry a tune.’