But that was when the flames of revolution burned at their highest; when I first passed through the barriers of that city they had only just begun to lap at the foundations. Nevertheless, to an Englishwoman, the alterations to life were most striking. I learned that the distinction of aristocracy had been abolished. No Frenchman or -woman of rank was permitted to be addressed as anything other than Madame or Monsieur. Coats of arms were removed from coach doors and from the architecture of great homes. Any display of wealth or hint of privilege was viewed as highly suspect. A life of moderation became de rigueur for all. Ladies fastened tricolour rosettes in place of jewelled buckles. Gentlemen abandoned their silk brocade coats for those of wool. It was considered prudent to speak in hushed tones when expressing a political opinion, and it now seemed every Frenchman and -woman was in possession of one of those. Few epithets were deemed more offensive than those of ‘enemy of the constitution’ or ‘aristocrat’, one who favoured the old regime. However, to be regarded as a ‘counter-revolutionary’ was worst of all. No one was to be trusted. Not a soul.

When I first landed upon that nation’s shores nothing was further from my mind than its troubles. As I was neither a Frenchwoman nor one of our country folk foolish enough to cross the Channel and play at patriot, I concluded that I was unlikely to be inconvenienced by political matters. This was not the first occasion upon which my judgement had deserted me. Indeed one might even suggest that it was on account of a similar miscalculation committed two years earlier that I landed at Mrs Elliot’s gate.