I did not wish to become mistress to the Duc d’Orléans. Never was I more certain of it than upon that afternoon. Yet I also understood the matter had already been determined. My indebtedness to Mrs Elliot’s kindness had decided it, long before La Buffon had ever penned her letter to me. It was this, more than any other sacrifice, which I owed her; she who had given me so much, she to whom I had pledged my assistance, she who had called me daughter. I had passed the previous night stricken with grief at my failure to honour my promises. I could not have imagined fortune would have allowed me such a reprieve as this. My dear friend had longed for such an opportunity for me, and yet I would never have desired it for myself, for in accepting this prize I was finally admitting defeat.

The remainder of the day passed without event. There was nothing in La Buffon’s manner to suggest we had spoken upon this matter and I made no further mention of it. La Volière was still and tranquil that afternoon. Flies gathered in the cool shade of the house and moved in slow circles about the rooms. The windows had been left wide open and the château swallowed and exhaled great gasps of warm evening wind.

I saw nothing of Orléans until supper when he arrived in his coach with Rotaux, his bespectacled secretary, and his valet, Mongot, from the camp at Valenciennes. With the sour-faced Madame de Laval looking on, we played several hands of whist and took some wine before retiring.

It was only upon returning to my rooms that I noticed what preparations had been made. Upon a side table sat several bowls of fruit, nuts and sweetmeats. A gold walnut cracker had been placed beside a decanter of wine and two glasses. For a moment, I puzzled over these items, as I had made no request for them. However, it was upon turning towards the bed that all was made plain to me. There, beside the alcove, had been placed two low, chair-shaped objects whose seats had been replaced by covered silver pans. One was smaller and daintier than the other. I went nearer to inspect it. It appeared to be an elaborate chamber pot, but when I lifted the lid I noted that it was full of water, heavily perfumed with some concoction of herbs. I recognized it to be a bidet and recalled that Mrs Elliot possessed one not unlike it. The French, I had been told, possessed a certain fondness for such apparatuses following the act of love.