An hour passed, and then perhaps two more. I observed as, one by one, those who occupied the room were summoned. With each name that was shouted through the hall, a soul rose humbly from their seat to meet with their fate. They were taken up the stair to the narrow gallery. The doors to the salon then swung wide, screeching ominously upon their hinges as they took in the accused and, on occasion, disgorged the innocent. Some would enter in tears and depart in elation, freed to return to their homes. Others would proceed with high heads, or take their leave in the depths of misery, wailing at the injustice of their circumstances. We sat below, as a silent, terrified audience.

I believe it was at some time in the afternoon when the name of Citizeness Saint-Clair was called and the unfortunate creature beside me stood to her feet.

‘Mademoiselle, you have warmed my hand and my heart. I bid you well,’ said she, before solemnly making her way to the stair.

‘There is no hope for her,’ whispered a man in a filthy gold-embroidered coat opposite me. His face had not been washed or shaven for several days and the white hairs upon his chin stood out among the black. ‘She was an émigré and was foolish enough to return.’

No sooner had he spoken than my name was bellowed out.

A sharpness struck through me. It passed as swiftly as lightning from my head to my feet. I rose instantly as two guards approached and escorted me up the stair. We passed into the wooden gallery and then through the whining door and into a corridor glowing with daylight.

Two more doors were pushed wide, and then, reader, then I heard it, that noise of which I had been warned by my fellow prisoners: the braying and bleating of the gallery. Encircled by a wooden rail, they appeared like penned animals, like captured savages. They lit pipes, they drank and whistled, even the women jeered and hissed. What had become of civility? I wondered as I made my way upon the dais, to the spot designated for the accused. Certainly it did not follow that the acquisition of liberty should lead to the end of human compassion. This was never the intention of men like Monsieur Condorcet or Madame de Gouges, or even Madame de Buffon.

My eyes stared out at this congregation, through the blinding afternoon light. It flooded through the wide windows, bathing everything before me in a curious glow. I squinted and blinked.

‘Citizeness, state your name, your age, your place of birth and your address before the tribunal,’ a thundering voice implored me.