‘You may make use of it,’ he said to me. ‘You do not need my leave.’ He laughed.

I removed myself from where we had pressed the feathered mattress flat, and crept to the stand beside the bed. With my soiled chemise still hanging from my shoulders, I mounted it. It required some feat of imagination as to how I might best employ it. I soaked the sponge in the scented water and as I applied it to that hidden place, I noted Orléans’s eyes observing this performance with an amused smile. Without thinking what I did, and perhaps even to spite myself, I raised the short hem of my linen shift and exposed my temple of delight. Noting that his eyes had fixed upon it, I reached within myself and, contorting my face, retrieved the lime. This caused Orléans to roar with laughter.

‘You are not at all of her blood!’ he exclaimed, shaking his head.

I could not help but look at him with amusement.

‘I have heard it said that she is your mother. A monstrous falsehood! I knew from the instant I looked upon you that you were no relation to Madame Elliot. Why, there is not so much as a hair upon your person which is like hers. Your temperaments are as dissimilar as those of a peacock and a goldfinch. Come . . .’ He raised his arms to me, offering me a warm smile. He then tapped the spot beside him on the edge of the bed and began to peel his orange. ‘For sharing with me your sweetness, Henriette,’ said he, pulling apart the sections of the fruit and handing me a portion of it. He placed one slice into his mouth and smiled as he observed me do the same. He then touched my cheek with a certain tender fondness. ‘You have raised my spirits immensely, ma petite Anglaise.’

‘I am pleased for that, monseigneur.’ My reply brought another orange-flavoured kiss.

‘In my present circumstances, such moments as this, when I can enjoy simple pleasures, prove most restorative to me. In that regard, I suppose you are not so unlike Madame Elliot, who was most accomplished at distracting me from my cares.’ His brow creased slightly. ‘There are many more of them now than before.’

I nodded slightly. I wished to demonstrate sympathy, but I also recognized that an opportunity had presented itself.

‘She . . . Madame Elliot, she fears you forget her—’

‘Bah!’ Orléans dismissed me. He continued to gaze at me with a playful look. This was not the response I had anticipated.

‘She fears that your friends persuade you against her, that Madame de Buffon does not care for her . . .’ I continued, though anxious not to provoke him or say more than I ought.