A week or more elapsed before I received a response, which arrived along with two additional letters from Mademoiselle Devries, an opera dancer, and the great Madame du Barry requesting that I take their likenesses. Upon first glance, this first packet appeared to me as a letter from Thérèse. The hand which wrote it seemed a poor one, and the seal was no more than a blot of wax. It was only as I read it that I recognized the genius of its disguise. In order to evade suspicion, Mrs Elliot had dictated the contents to my housemaid, who had scribbled it in her uneven script and inferior spelling. For the most part, it read as might one’s correspondence with a housekeeper. There were mentions of the purchase of candles and soap and a recitation of all the shopkeeper’s bills, amid snippets of gossip. Initially, I could make no sense of this, but then the logic of it emerged through the ink.

‘I have learned that Beaumont has closed the shop and departed for England . . .’ she wrote, and then again about our friend La Flaghac: ‘The ancient printer of news and intelligence upon the rue de Richelieu was most delighted to hear that you had gone into the country and begs many questions as to your return . . .’

Imagine how I laughed at her cunning and wit! Think how I exclaimed at her cleverness in hiding its true contents from the long nose of any of Madame de Buffon’s servants! But nothing pleased me so much as the postscript, which read simply:

Your neighbour begs me to express her pleasure at your most fortunate news and to remind you that she is most grateful for any word you may find the time to send to her. She says to me that your absence is dearly felt, and adds only that she is ever mindful of your well-being and entreats you to conduct yourself with care and consideration in all matters.

I did not hesitate to heed her warning and burned the letter almost as soon as I had consumed it.

In the days that followed, her words acted like a balm upon my heart. A certain sadness had settled there after my capitulation to the Duke, but her reassurances lessened the ache. With her sanction, my sacrifice felt an even nobler deed and my resolution to effect good was only strengthened.

But, reader, I would not have you believe that my existence at La Volière was that of an unhappy prisoner. It is true, my situation beneath Madame de Buffon’s roof would never have been of my choosing, but I would not wish to suggest that I found nothing of merit in my hostess’s company. Indeed, I was surprised if not amused to discover an affinity between us.