It is a curious circumstance that my sojourn in Paris should both begin and conclude in Saint-Germain-des-Prés, scarcely a moment’s stroll from the rue Jacob and the dreaded Hôtel l’Impératrice. Had the Abbaye proven as hospitable as the rooms of that luxurious prison, I would not have uttered a single complaint. But, as a matter of course, they were not. From its exterior, the prison appeared more akin to a workhouse than a dungeon. Squat and turreted, it was neither large nor imposing, but that was where its catalogue of charms ended. Within, it was a place of damp grey stone and wretchedness.

The prospect of crossing the threshold of the Abbaye terrified me to my very bones so that I could not prevent them from quaking. I could not conceive of the terrors and depredations with which I should meet, nor if I would ever again know liberty. Oh, reader, how I attempted to make a display of courage, but soon found it near to impossible.

The room to which I was led appeared much like a servants’ hall in an ancient house. It was of a similar size, with stone floors and walls. Three barred and unglazed windows near to the ceiling permitted in both light and the cold. To my relief, I spied a vast hearth, large enough in which to roast a pig, but unfortunately even this convenience failed to dispel the ever-present chill. Arrayed about this space were no less than eight trestle beds, each of which had been manoeuvred into corners or at angles which seemed to provide the occupants with an attempt at privacy. There were no bed curtains, no screens to shield one’s modesty anywhere to be seen. Instead, portmanteaus and rickety chairs were set about as if to divide the room. Atop these items of furniture were balanced various objects: a mirror, a sewing box and an assortment of the earthenware jugs and basins which each inmate was granted. These were to be my lodgings.

I was greeted at once by five of my sister prisoners who showed me the greatest sympathy upon my arrival. They made their curtseys and took my hand in such a genteel manner that it caused my eyes to flow. This, Madame Hubert, who had once been a mother superior, explained was a natural response.

‘Not a one amongst us has entered this place without tears, ma chère. You will cease to shed them with time, but for the odd occasion.’ With that, she turned her gaze upon another lady with reddish tresses that nearly matched the colour of her nose and eyes. Madame Crozier sniffled her apologies that the news of the King’s murder had brought her quite low.

‘It has had that effect upon all of us,’ added Madame Desenfants, who stood beside her sullen-faced daughter of not more than sixteen years.