The problem here is that without some knowledge of her story, the viewer is progressively bewildered by the random selection of what are, presumably, Mary’s own words. The text by Darrell Pinckney, is fragmented by a kind of washing machine effect whereby scraps of phrase and sentences whirl round inside the drum and randomly stick to the glass door of our attention.

Some are sententious: “If you ever bed a king don’t talk about it.” “Men make for the cruellest of mirrors.” “I am a vain shadow.” Others need context. “Elizabeth Boleyn a Virgin Queen? Do me a favour!” is fairly clear. (Some cousins just do not get on.) While the point of “That John Knox kept staring at my chest…” is easily lost. “Catherine de’ Medici was so terrified of losing her jewels she always wore as many as possible.” Others are plainer. Banal, even. As interesting as greetings on a holiday post card.  And banality is not exactly burnished by repetition. Even the heart-breaking dignity of Mary’s final letter: After dinner I was told that I am to be executed at eight o’clock in the morning… loses its power in this somewhat chaotic company.

By avoiding anything like a narrative the production leaves us with the spectacle of a woman falling apart in front of us. She can slump, or suddenly spring into life to charge diagonally to her stage right and makes stand-up gestures to the audience. What this means, is hard to say. Perhaps she is exhorting an invisible army to come to her aid. Like so many things about Mary, why even the devotional music turns into jangling bar-room piano, we will never know. Though presumably Robert Wilson does.

But it Ms Huppert’s sheer physical endurance and stunning vocal command that will linger in the memory.