‘That is not to be questioned . . . it is true. There is none I love so much as him and his love for me is absolute, but what he requires – what I require, chère Henriette, dear sister – is . . . respite.’ She moved her hands along her belly and shut her eyes. ‘From the day I discovered myself with his child, I have not permitted him to lie with me. It has been near four months since then . . . and he is near distracted with desire.’ Her lips attempted a faint, fleeting smile. ‘Henriette, this infant inside me . . . this child . . . he . . . It is possible he may be ruler of France . . .’ She opened her eyes and gazed deeply into mine. I returned her look, unable to formulate my response, for what she claimed seemed to me nonsensical.

‘But how, madame – if you will forgive me – I cannot understand . . .’

‘At present, the Church has made divorce an impossibility. We are at liberty to separate, but are eternally joined. Orléans, although separated from his wife, remains locked in matrimony to her still, as do I with Monsieur de Buffon. But this soon will change, Henriette.’ Her eyes began to glint as she spoke. ‘It is proposed that the law be altered and divorce permitted, and with that comes the ability to marry. Orléans and I shall be married’ – she smiled – ‘and this child will be our first-born.’

‘But what of Monsieur d’Orléans’s other children? His heir, Monsieur de Chartres . . . or Messieurs de Montpensier and de Beaujolais?’

She waved her wrist in a dismissive manner.

‘Orléans would never permit his children to suffer.’

I wished to smile, to share in her hopefulness, but somehow I simply could not. Perhaps I was too much of an Englishwoman in my sensibilities, or perhaps my rational mind could not conceive how such a conceit could come to pass so readily.