‘The Duke of Orléans is a clever devil, to be sure,’ Lord Barry-more had said to me, ‘for he has spared himself the unpopularity of his cousin the King and sold his palace to the shopkeepers and whoremongers so they may conduct their business untroubled beneath his very windows.’ At the time, I had been unable to conceive of that which was described to me: a space as long and broad as St James’s Park, surrounded on four sides by the wings of a vast white palace. ‘All along the colonnades are shops and restaurants, clubs, societies, gaming rooms and cafés of every description. By day it is peopled by titled ladies, and by night it is entirely given over to the basest sort of filles de joie,’ he had whispered into my ear.

Although these words had coloured my thoughts about the place, I could not begin to fathom the marvels that awaited me. When Mrs Elliot guided me through the arch upon the rue de Richelieu, a veritable Xanadu unfolded before me.

At its centre could be found a vast pleasure garden replete with avenues of chestnut and cherry trees frothing with pink blossom. Statues and fountains, bowers and secluded seats were positioned amid a profusion of flowers. But these picturesque charms served merely as the backdrop for the circus which whirled all about us. There were tents arranged as a Turk’s bazaar, there were amphitheatres, fire dancers and musicians who appeared to lurk behind every tree or column. There were menageries of beasts in gold collars as well as giants and fortune tellers. There were girls peddling sweet rolls and coloured ices, as well as firebrands in their bonnets rouges hollering at the crowds.

Never before in Paris had I surveyed such a broad field of humanity. They were of every rank and order, from the noble-born child with her nurse and satin-slippered maman to the threadbare old man in wooden sabots. And scattered throughout could be seen what seemed hundreds of tricolour rosettes. They bloomed upon lapels and hats and shoes. Some were as large as sunflowers, while others wilted like poppies. Beneath the mid-morning sun, Mrs Elliot led us on a slow, meandering path through this vibrant garden, pausing here to observe a jig dancer or there a harpist, before passing into the shade of the colonnades.

We moved through the rows of chairs and tables where gentlemen took their coffee and played at chess, or supped brandy. We strolled beyond the windows of countless cafés and wove our course along the shops. Such an emporium of wares I had never seen in all my life. Why, I was perfectly dazzled by the rows of booksellers and instrument-makers, purveyors of soaps and perfumes, of haberdashery, tobacco, carpets and jewels. As we progressed, the light spring breeze blew their scents of lavender and leather and dankness through the arcades.