‘But where are we going? You just say Paris.’

‘We have a safe place to go,’ insisted Annette. ‘No one will find you there. Now,’ she went on, ‘you can bring just a small bag with you. Pierre will go with us across the fields to the village and see us onto the train. I have money for our tickets and Pierre will buy them so that we are not seen at the ticket office. Then he will come back here, ready to hear that you’ve disappeared.’

‘It’s too risky,’ ventured Hélène. ‘Especially for you and Pierre.’

‘There is an element of risk,’ agreed Annette, ‘but it shouldn’t be too great and we have to get you away from here. This is your only chance if you really want to go. Think about it and make your decision.’

When Annette had left her, Hélène lay in bed, unable to sleep, and considered the plan Annette had explained. It was so risky that her heart failed her and so far she was refusing to contemplate the idea. For a long while she simply stared into the darkness, with only the glow of the fire for light and warmth, but at last she drifted off to an uneasy sleep. As the fire died to embers the chill of the night crept back into the room, and with it the night terror that had haunted her as a child.

She was alone in a cold, damp cell. It was almost dark and she was freezing. The floor and the walls of the cell were stone, wet and slippery. She sat on the small heap of straw piled into a corner, the only light illuminating her prison filtering through a barred window high above her. She curled into a ball, her arms wrapped round her body, trying to retain some warmth, but her clothes were torn and her body was bruised and she shook with cold and fear. Then she heard it, the key scraping in the lock, and when the door opened she saw his face, lit by the candle he carried. Flickering flame showed her the black beard, the scarred cheeks, the cruel eyes, now alight with lustful anticipation.

‘On your feet!’ he ordered. ‘It’s playtime!’

She screamed then, a shrill, penetrating scream of terror, a scream that woke her and left her shivering in the dark.

The bedroom door burst open and her mother was across the room and at her bedside. She gathered her weeping daughter into her arms and rocked her gently as she had done so often in the days after the siege, letting her sob great heaving sobs until, exhausted, she collapsed back on her pillows.

Annette had heard her cries and tiptoed down from the servants’ landing, but when she saw that Rosalie St Clair was already there, she turned and went back upstairs to tell Agathe that they simply must persuade Hélène to follow their plan and make a break for it.

‘Imagine what he’ll do to her if she wakes up screaming like that when they’re married,’ Annette said before returning to her own bed.