The Chinese pavilion appeared far more spectacular by daylight than when silhouetted by the moon. While obscured by night, its fanciful position at the end of a formal clipped garden, shaded by a veil of willows, had passed unnoticed by me. Its three triangular black and red roofs poked through the greenery, the dragons which adorned its top curling their tongues ferociously at those who dared approach it. Even the latticework of the aviary had been decorated with oriental scenes: blue lakes surrounded by forests and snow-tipped peaks; while the golden door handles were the shape of two pheasants in full flight. Had I not dreaded my encounter with that which lay within this cage, I might have stood gazing at it, entirely enchanted.

The door squealed ominously upon its hinges, causing many of its feathered inhabitants to scream and flutter. My breath came hard and fast as I was led above stairs and into the very room where the crime had been attempted. There Madame de Buffon rested upon a golden chair, like an empress. Fantouche and Moustache slumbered at her feet as might two imperial lions. She appeared curiously quiet and contained. A book lay open upon her mound, while the black-lacquered tripod beside her held a Chinese porcelain teapot and the dish from which she had been sipping. She smiled at me weakly and invited me to sit. I studied her cautiously and obeyed.

Her demeanour seemed entirely altered from the day before. That volatile spark, which had glowed and jumped and animated her, appeared absent. Instead, she sat with a pensive, almost melancholy air.

‘You have passed the entire morning in your rooms, chère mademoiselle. Were you taken ill?’ She spoke quietly and poured me a dish of tea, though without enquiring if I would take one.

I was uncertain if this were some trick.

‘I felt myself for a spell . . . perhaps unwell but . . .’

‘If you require him, I shall summon Monsieur Seiffert, Orléans’s physician, from Valenciennes . . . They have all returned there, quite early this morning.’ She held me in her gaze for a beat. I shifted anxiously.

‘Oh no,’ I demurred. ‘I am quite recovered. It was merely a . . . passing complaint.’

La Buffon tilted her head and smiled at me. ‘Henriette,’ said she, ‘may I address you by your Christian name?’

I swallowed.

‘Yes.’

‘You may call me Agnès, if you wish. Orléans calls me Fanny. I was christened Françoise Marguerite Agnès, you see . . . He began to call me Fanny when we were in England. Like an English lady.’ She handed me my dish of tea, though she avoided meeting my eye. ‘Henriette, do you know how my introduction to Monsieur d’Orléans came about?’

Once more, my heart began to gallop. ‘I am afraid I do not, madame.’

‘You have heard no gossip about me, Henriette?’

I shook my head, and without warning she burst into a hard, forced laugh.