And he set off after her, hurtling down the Butte Montmartre, gathering up every passer-by he encountered who happened to have ventured out for their morning bread or milk. Having made it to the bottom of the hill, he started beating on every door he passed, rounding up as many people as possible.

‘We are being disarmed by Versailles . . . They’re withdrawing the cannons from the Champ des Polonais . . .’

Auguste felt strong, alive, capable of decisive and timely action, ready to rouse all Paris singlehandedly. At last, here he was in the thick of things.

Already the streets were filling with people, aghast, who in turn set off to warn others. He saw Louise Michel, who was well known in the neighbourhood, shouting ‘Treason!’ at the top of her lungs.

And word ricocheted about until a riotous mob had gathered.

The crowd grew denser with every passing minute, surrounding the square and preventing the teams of horses from getting through. General Lecomte, whose name Auguste had picked up from the jeers flying thick and fast from every quarter, ordered the regulars to remove the cannons by hand and to form a path with their rifles to allow the horses through, but every time a cannon was harnessed up, the housewives would cut the traces with their kitchen knives. Slowly the crowd, comprising mostly women and children, regained possession of them, overwhelming the soldiers. Wild with rage, Lecomte ordered them to fire on the civilians. ‘Rifle butts in the air!’ shouted one of his officers, refusing to fire, as his general, frothing at the mouth, threatened him with the firing squad. By half past eight in the morning, it was all over.

Intoxicated by the action, by the revolutionary rhetoric, Auguste lingered in the area for a few hours, then decided to head home. He was keen to recount the story of the stealthy arrival of the soldiers to his aunt, to describe the difficulties faced by the teams of horses, the way men had fraternised with the people, but especially his role in helping Louise Michel trigger the day’s events, a day that would surely go down in the annals of history. He made his way back down Rue des Martyrs against the flow of curious onlookers heading up to Montmartre, only arriving back at Rue du 4 Septembre towards midday.

‘Aunt, I must tell you . . . it was extraordinary!’ he said, fervently.

The apartment looked like a battlefield, as if burglars had just departed. Clothilde and her maid, Rosalie, were busy frantically packing their valises with as much as they would carry.

‘But what is happening? Where are you going?’