‘But why, madame?’

‘For your trial, ma chère. It is so you may go to your death attired with dignity.’ She raised her head and I stared at her in silence. Her eyes were crisp blue set within a multitude of pale folds and creases. She returned my unflinching look with one of equal defiance.

‘If your time arrives before mine, I shall assist you, as will the others. That is our practice here. Each one among us has set aside our attire for that day. We prepare one another for the inevitable, ma petite. It is only kindness.’ She lifted one of her faint eyebrows gently. ‘Should the occasion of my trial arrive before yours, may I call upon your assistance too, mademoiselle?’

I felt shame stain my cheeks.

‘But of course, madame,’ I whispered.

From that instant, Madame de Vollet, who acted as the grand matron of our small circle of lady prisoners, maintained a tender watch over me. I have never witnessed such displays of civility, charity and fortitude as those I observed amongst my companions at the Abbaye. Each soul assisted the other; the young tended the old; the strong saved their bread and watered wine for those who fell ill. In the hours of daylight we were permitted to make use of a common room for dining which led into an enclosed courtyard with a well. Each morning we filled our pitchers here and made our ablutions by the fire, though we had no means of heating the water and the bite of winter was strong. We dined together with the men, of which there were a considerable number. Many of them had been priests or printers of royalist tracts or true counter-revolutionaries who made no secret of their abhorrence of the Convention. Together we shared quiet conversation and our meagre repasts: cabbage and eggs and a thin soup called bouli, which often rendered us quite ill. Our bread was brown and coarse and frequently full of stones, upon which it was not unknown to break a tooth.