Jane tried to fill the days while Vincent was away in Brussels by focusing on those activities that she still had at her disposal. She went with Mme Chastain on her rounds, visiting the local ladies and learning enough about the village to engage in the common hobby of gossip. Mme Meynard’s home in the centre of Binché was a frequent destination for their excursions. Fond of conviviality and more than twenty years younger than her husband, Mme Meynard had regular card parties to which she seemed to delight in inviting guests of different beliefs merely to watch the conflicts that ensued.

Having borne silent witness to several of these conversations which, while interesting to watch, must cause a strain upon the participants, Jane was understandably apprehensive when Mme Meynard greeted her with enthusiasm at the door. ‘Mme Vincent! I am so glad to see you. There is someone here that you must particularly meet.’ Before Jane could utter a word, Mme Meynard took her by the arm and led her into the drawing room and across to a small knot of people. ‘Lieutenant Segal, a moment of your time.’

Willingly, the young man turned from his conversation. His countenance was comely, with that openness of expression and lively gaze indicative of a strong understanding. Had Mme Meynard not named him a lieutenant, Jane would have known him for a French officer from the blue and white coat and the shako which lay on the side table, with a tricolour cockade rakishly pinned to the side of the hat. The pale blue of the coat set off his blond hair to advantage. Jane quickly realized that his audience consisted almost entirely of young women, all of whom gazed upon him, almost cooing their pleasure at being in his company.

Lieutenant Segal stood immediately and his eyes widened in surprise. ‘Madame, it is a pleasure to see you again.’

Jane furrowed her brow, trying to place him. ‘I am afraid you have the better of me.’

‘Ah. Of course. You were unwell, and I? I was masked.’ He took Jane’s hand and bowed very low, while raising her hand to his lips. He kissed it, never removing his gaze from her face. Even through the leather of her gloves, his lips were warm.

Jane felt the colour mount in her cheeks and she hardly knew where to look. This then, was the mysterious Gilles who had carried her from the parade?

Mme Meynard threw back her head and laughed. She tapped Lieutenant Segal on the shoulder with her fan. ‘You must excuse Mme Vincent. She is English.’

Though he did not drop her hand, Lieutenant Segal lowered it with remarkable speed. ‘Pardon, madame. I would never have trifled with you had I known.’

‘Is it trifling with a woman’s affections to kiss her hand, in England?’ Mme Meynard flirted her fan open. ‘I had always thought it was a mark of respect.’