‘There is another statement from a Citizeness Buffon,’ said he, opening another folded sheet. At this, my mouth fairly fell wide. I raised my hand to my breast. ‘It is longer still than the first and filled with all manner of irrelevant female sentiment,’ he sighed, before perusing its contents. ‘It is claimed that the accused served as a dame de compagnie to this woman who declares herself a faithful champion of the Jacobin cause, one well known to Citizens Danton and Marat. This Citizeness Buffon proclaims the accused to be a passionate friend of the Revolution and greatly devoted to the writings of Rousseau, whose merits these women discussed upon many an occasion.’

There came sniggers from some quarter of the gallery.

‘Furthermore, Citizeness Buffon attests that Citizeness Lightfoot attended sessions of the Legislative Assembly and the National Convention to observe debates. Upon the third of September she was gravely injured while championing the cause of liberty. Citizeness Buffon concludes by writing in favour of the accused that Citizeness Lightfoot is in every way a sister to her as well as to the Republic.’

Nothing I had heard until that moment struck me with as much force as those words from Agnès de Buffon. I was ashamed I had ever suspected that bitterness had led her to denounce me to the section house. The pain of my betrayal of her pierced through me. The ache was more terrible than any I had ever known. Tears of regret streamed uncontrollably forth, mingling with those of relief, for I felt myself to some degree absolved of my crimes against her. I knew she would not be among the assembly of spectators, but I could not prevent myself from searching for her familiar figure.

‘The tribunal calls Pierre-Joseph Colbert,’ the cockerel-like voice of the clerk sounded again through the court.

To the bench advanced a short, round-bellied man, upon whom, I confess, I had never before laid eyes.

‘If you will, citizen, state your name, occupation, age and address for the tribunal.’

‘I am Pierre-Joseph Colbert. I am thirty-one years of age, a member of the Jacobin Club and a surgeon. I live on the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré, in the Hôtel Blanquefort upon the second floor, above the accused.’

‘Pray, citizen, tell us how you came to know Citizeness Lightfoot,’ began Fouquier-Tinville.

‘I am the patriot who raised the alarm,’ said he proudly, not daring to spare me a glance. ‘It was I who notified the section house upon several occasions when I noted the irregularities occurring below me.’

‘Irregularities? Elaborate, Citizen Colbert.’

The impudent little man then began his tale, claiming that he and his family thought it most peculiar that Citizeness Lightfoot’s housemaid came and went at such strange hours, even when her mistress was never at home. There seemed such a catalogue of errands to perform as to be improbable.