I eyed Langlois, who appeared as relieved as I. Together we stood in place and waited for the young man to disappear into the distance, before the servant pushed me forward. ‘Now,’ he commanded, ‘we must be quick!’

Darting behind the trees, he approached the wall and began tearing at the vines. They came away so easily into our hands that I could only assume they had been placed there intentionally by those who passed regularly through the opening. Eventually, Langlois uncovered what appeared to be a Y-shaped breach. There were loose stones at the top which looked as though they might be easily removed, while a section towards the bottom appeared just wide enough to accommodate a child or a woman.

‘My mistress was too tall to pass through this. She had to mount the wall and climb over, but you may squeeze through it like a rabbit.’ He pulled out some loose stones and I unpinned the hat from my head. ‘Look before you pass through,’ said he, gripping my arm and addressing me firmly. ‘There are guards on the opposite side as well. Take heed!’

This I did. As I peered through I could see nothing but what seemed to be a kitchen garden, and six large cabbages before me.

‘You must not delay, mademoiselle!’ he urged me forward, for we both could hear the approach of horses somewhere along the road. I bent down and pushed my head through first. My arms followed next and then my shoulders, before I drew through my torso and legs. Once I had risen to my feet, Langlois threw my hat over the wall. It fell upon the cabbages with a thud. Scarcely had I caught my breath before I heard him begin to fill in the breach once more.

‘À bientôt! Adieu, adieu, mademoiselle! May you go safely,’ he cried in a loud whisper from behind the stones. ‘I will pray for you.’

‘And I you,’ I replied. ‘And I you!’

Once beyond the city wall, my fear of discovery abandoned me and was replaced by a sensation of greater urgency: that I must make for the Palais-Royal, that every moment the ill consequences of my misguided deeds grew more grave.

I made my way across the garden, along rows of potatoes and onion shoots, the January soil hard beneath my feet. When I emerged I knew not in which direction to turn, for all I could see were the backs of cottages, small barns, hen houses and lean-tos. Cows stood in fields and, beneath the falling dusk, a flock of geese pecked along barren furrows. Hurriedly, I pressed through this patchwork of smallholdings, until I spied a passage that led into a wider thoroughfare. Beyond an old well which sat in the middle of the road, I beheld the spire of Les Invalides and strode purposefully towards it.