Napoleon grasped the arm of a young woman at the rear of the crowd. ‘Citizen, what’s going on?’

She glanced at his uniform and gave him an unfriendly look before she replied. ‘There’s a petition for the King. To tell the bastard to approve the Assembly’s decree to penalise those priests who won’t swear allegiance to the constitution. He wouldn’t listen to the deputies, but he’s going to listen to us - or there’ll be trouble.’

‘Trouble?’

She did not elaborate, but pulled away from Napoleon, surged forward into the crowd and took up the chant of the revolutionary song, ‘Ça Ira’ that was echoing back off the buildings lining the boulevard. With a growing sense of excitement and curiosity Napoleon quickened his pace to keep up with the crowd.

The mob poured out of the boulevard and spilled into the Place du Carousel. The chant was deafening now, but Napoleon could not see what was happening over towards the royal apartments of the Tuileries. He hurried to a building on one side of the square and climbed up on to a window sill for a better view. The foremost ranks of the crowd had fastened ropes to the iron bars of the gates and with a rhythmic roar they now strained on the ropes, aiming to tear the gates down.There was a cheer as one of the great gates began to buckle. Napoleon saw that an officer was hurriedly marching the Swiss Guards back to the barracks on the far side of the courtyard. A handful remained to close up the doors of the central pavilion that provided access to the vast staircase inside the entrance hall.

Napoleon muttered his disapproval. While he could understand that no one in the palace wanted to provoke the mob, the crowd had to be dispersed before it gained access to the courtyard. But it was already too late. There was a wrenching crash as the gate was pulled from its hinges and toppled into the square. A huge roar of triumph filled the air and the crowd surged through the gap, across the courtyard towards the palace. When they reached the doors at the top of the steps leading up from the courtyard, they battered at the timbers with axes and hammers.To no avail. The doors were solid and had been reinforced in recent months to guard against such an assault.

Suddenly there were several puffs of smoke and then the flat crack of musket fire. On the second and third floors of the palace, windows shattered, showering those nearest in the mob with shards of glass; victims of their foolhardy companions with firearms.The shooting continued for nearly a quarter of an hour, shattering every window and pockmarking the façade of the palace. Then a white sheet fluttered at one of the windows and the shooting gradually stopped. A figure appeared on one of the balconies and gestured down to the crowd. Those closest to the palace roared out a reply, and moments later the doors of the palace opened and the mob began to surge inside.

Was this it, Napoleon wondered: the moment when the Bourbon dynasty fell, torn to pieces by the Paris mob? He felt a great sense of regret and disgust well up inside him at the thought that France now belonged to these animals. It was too horrible to contemplate, but a morbid fascination kept him standing there on the window sill, straining his eyes towards the distant entrance to the palace. Shortly afterwards he saw the tall doors open behind a balcony overlooking the courtyard and several figures shuffled out into the full view of the mob. There was a cheer. In amongst the figures stood a man and woman in powdered wigs.The King and Queen, Napoleon realised, his blood going cold with dread. But it was soon clear they were not in mortal danger. A man stepped up beside Louis and placed a red bonnet on his head. The crowd cheered and Louis made no effort to remove it. Instead he raised a glass, made some kind of toast and then took a swig as the crowd cheered again.

‘Lieutenant Buona Parte?’

Napoleon looked down and saw Monsieur Perronet with a companion on the edge of the square below him. He waved a greeting and climbed down to join his landlord.

‘A sad business,’ Perronet said quietly after making sure no one was close enough to overhear.

‘Indeed,’ Napoleon replied.

Perronet turned to indicate his companion. ‘My friend Monsieur Lavaux, a lawyer.’

‘A lawyer?’ Napoleon smiled. ‘It seems that your profession may soon be out of business. A few more days of this and there won’t be any law at all.’

Lavaux nodded. ‘It’s an outrage. How dare those animals treat the King and his family like that? It’s an outrage!’ he repeated through clenched teeth.

‘You must forgive Monsieur Lavaux,’ Perronet smiled. ‘He is something of a royalist.’

Napoleon shrugged. ‘You don’t need to be a royalist to be offended by such a spectacle.’ He stared at the distant figures on the balcony, being displayed before the mob. ‘I tell you, if I was in charge of the royal bodyguard such things would not be tolerated.’

Perronet exchanged a quick look of surprise with his friend, before he turned back to Napoleon. ‘And what would you do to prevent such an event, Lieutenant?’

Napoleon glanced at the mob and narrowed his eyes. ‘They’re nothing more than a rabble. A quick blast of grapeshot and they’d bolt like rabbits. That’s what I’d do.’

‘Maybe,’ Lavaux conceded.‘But they’d be back, sooner or later.’

‘Then I’d have the guns loaded and ready,’ Napoleon replied. ‘And sooner or later, they’d realise the futility of opposing me.’

‘Er, quite.’ Lavaux shuffled uncomfortably, and then smiled at his friend Perronet.‘We must go, or we’ll be late for our meeting.’

‘Eh?’ Perronet looked confused, then grasped the point. ‘Of course. Please excuse us, Lieutenant. We must go. If I may, I’d advise you to get off the streets.’

Napoleon tore his gaze away from the distant balcony and smiled. ‘Later. I want to see how this ends.’

‘Be careful, then.’ Perronet waved a farewell and made off with his friend.

When they were out of earshot, Lavaux turned back for one last look at the young artillery officer bearing witness to the public humiliation of the royal family. He nudged Perronet and whispered, ‘What on earth do you make of that - “If I was in charge . . .”?’ For a moment he chuckled at the young man’s astonishing hubris, and then idly wondered if he would ever hear of the name Buona Parte again.