Her gaze fastened itself to mine so tightly that I found myself scarcely able to draw breath. As she held me there, the black circles within her eyes seemed to widen. It was as if I stared into the very barrel of a rifle. I awaited the first volley, stiffening with dread. But that hail of words which I expected to batter me did not come. Instead, she sat, her lips pressed together, her expression firm until quite unexpectedly her eyes began to flood. Large, wet pearls soon tumbled down her cheeks and then hung upon her trembling chin. I was so taken by surprise at this display that, for a moment, I knew not how I might comfort her.

‘Oh, madame,’ I said. ‘Oh, forgive me. Forgive me, madame.’

With that, a sob broke free and La Buffon hastily clapped her hands to her mouth.

‘I swear to you, upon my life, upon my honour—’

‘You have no honour, mademoiselle!’ she burst forth in what seemed a laugh within a sob. ‘You are a dame entretenue! A gentleman’s whore! That is what we are . . .’

‘I swear to you I tell the truth when I say that I fled. I fled, madame . . . I would not permit him . . .’

‘What manner of femme galante refuses Monsieur d’Orléans, a Prince of the Blood, a Bourbon?’ she exclaimed in an almost horrified disbelief.

I set my jaw.

‘A woman of honour, madame, who would not wish to risk offence to her hostess.’

Madame de Buffon’s tears ceased. She stared hard at me and then, quite without warning, she began to laugh. She wiped her tears against her white muslin sleeve in a most artless, girlish fashion.

‘Ma chère Henriette, that is the very reason why I should wish it to be you.’

I regarded her uncomprehendingly.

‘I had hoped he would try with you. I knew you were to his taste, his precise taste, mademoiselle, but I could not imagine you would refuse him.’ She rubbed her eyes again and sniffed, before folding her hands over her belly. ‘I had heard Biron speak of you and seen the miniature. I had heard the stories: that you were Madame Elliot’s relation eloped with a lover who jilted you – an officer in the army; and that you were kept for some time by an Irish gentleman—’

‘An officer? Is that what is said?’ I echoed, most astonished to learn of this fabrication.

‘A captain or some such.’ She sighed and shrugged. ‘I knew that Orléans was likely to be captivated by your charms and your beauty. Had you not refused him . . . it would have lessened my burden, Henriette,’ she complained as if heartbroken.

I studied her, still entirely befuddled.

‘But . . . he is your lover. You love him tenderly. He is devoted to you. I . . . I have seen proofs of it.’

She shook her head.