The hound Fouquier-Tinville then opened his jaws and launched his attack upon me. Standing at the centre of the court, he addressed those assembled, spreading wide his arms like a singer at the opera. He spoke as if reciting the words to some republican hymn. He offered thanksgiving to ‘the great spirit of liberty who, in her wisdom, uncovers and spoils all plots and schemes against the fatherland. May the Republic ever triumph over such machinations and its despoilers,’ cried he with a flourish of his hand.

The gallery whooped in appreciation.

‘It is the plan of the Prince of Coburg, of the Duke of Brunswick and all their minions and émigré traitors to sow the seeds of division among us. It is their most ardent wish that we, citizens, are returned to our shackles, that our Republic is broken beneath the heels of their princely shoes. That, citizens, honourable patriots, will never be!’

Such a roar and a stomping of feet rose from the assembly that I believed it might shatter the windows. When the noise subsided, he turned his coal eyes to me.