Alarmed by this news, I asked for the commissioner to be brought in to me so that he could explain. He turned out to be quite a well-educated sort of chap, Légion d’honneur and all that. He was very sorry, most apologetic in fact, then told me that I would find I was harbouring a convict in my household!

I was absolutely revolted. I said I could answer for my entire domestic staff and I got them all to come up.

“This is the concierge, Pierre Courtin, an ex-military man …”

“No, that’s not him.”

“This is my coachman, François Pingau, from the Champagne, son of one of my father’s tenant farmers …”

“Not him.”

“This is the headman at my stables, also from the Champagne, son of other tenants also known to me. And of course the footman you’ve just seen …”

“Not them.”

“Well you can see for yourself now, can’t you, there’s obviously been some mistake.”

“I beg your pardon, Madame, there’s no mistake whatsoever. We’re talking about a notorious criminal here, and under the circumstances I would be most grateful if you could call in your entire staff for us to interview.”

I was unwilling to begin with but then I gave in and called every single member of the household, male and female alike. The commissioner cast a quick glance over them all and declared: “Not everyone is present.”

“Forgive me, Monsieur, but the only person not present is my own personal maid, a young lady you’re hardly likely to take for a convict, I imagine?”

“May I see her too, please?”

“Of course.”

I rang for Rose, who came immediately. She had hardly stepped into the room when the commissioner gave a signal and two men I hadn’t noticed hidden behind the door pounced on her, grabbed both her hands and tied them with rope. Furious, I cried out and would have leapt to her defence if the commissioner hadn’t stopped me.

“This girl, Madame, is in fact a man. He is called Jean-Nicolas Lecapet. He was sentenced in 1879 for murder preceded by rape. His sentence was commuted to life imprisonment. Four months ago he escaped and we have been searching for him ever since.”

I was stunned. Flabbergasted. I couldn’t believe it. Laughing, the commissioner went on: “There’s only one proof I can offer you. He has a tattoo on his right arm.”

The sleeve was rolled up and, lo and behold, there was a tattoo. Then the police officer added, in rather poor taste, I thought actually: “I should leave any other proof to us if I were you.”

And away they led my personal maid!’