In the Place de la Révolution the scarlet-stained blade rose and fell every day, and tumbrels full of all manner of people, men and women, old and young, rich and poor, rattled over the cobbles on their last journey. The streets smelled of refuse piled high and rotting in the heat. Fear was in the air, sharp like sweat, and people along the Rue St Honoré complained because the streets stank of blood. You could not drive cattle down them any more because the stench terrified them and they stamped out of control, mowing down passersby and crashing into house and shop windows.

All that Carton cared about was Dr Manette’s daughter Lucie, whose husband was locked up in the prison of La Force, with no hope of escape. Carton would have done anything he could to ease her distress, but he was utterly helpless.

The café door was wide open to let in a little air, and he did not notice anyone coming or going until a small man with tousled hair and a cheeky, lopsided face sank into the chair opposite him, having ordered wine from Citizen Procope as he passed.

‘At least there’s still wine, even if there’s no bread,’ he said with a grunt. ‘Do you know what they’re charging for a loaf now?’ he demanded Carton’s attention. ‘Three sous! Twelve sous for four pounds! That’s more than a carpenter earns in a day, and twice a week’s rent. And the laundresses down at the river are creating hell because there’s no soap! Never mind a Committee of Public Safety! What’s the point of being safe if the sides of your belly are sticking together?’

‘I’d keep a still tongue in your head, if I were you, Jean-Jacques,’ Carton replied dryly. ‘If you criticise the good citizens of the Committee, your belly’ll think your throat has been cut, and likely it’ll be right!’