When I first experienced these sensations, I was mystified. I had been led to believe that La Buffon was possessed of not a single redeeming quality, but found this quite to the contrary. I came to admire her character, and indeed grew rather fond of her.

She was not the shrieking, long-clawed harpy of my fears, but rather a gentle, pensive soul. Unlike most ladies of my acquaintance, there seemed no artifice about her whatsoever. She spoke her mind freely upon every subject and appeared unconcerned as to whether she gave offence. As for her opinions, I shall not pretend that many of them were not objectionable. Her attachment to the principles of revolution was fierce and – dare I say? – it soon grew apparent to me how she had won so many detractors. Unfortunately, while at La Volière, her aunt seemed to show herself as being foremost among them.

Never had I witnessed a kind word or look pass between them. One vexed the other so incessantly that I fear the break which eventually occurred was inevitable. The particulars of their disagreement were never entirely made known to me, but I heard from Lucy that it concerned Madame de Laval’s refusal to wear a rosette. There were fits of tears from both and, within a few hours, the injured Laval’s coach was prepared for departure.

‘She has no understanding of me, nor I of her. She wishes to emigrate and I cannot prevent her from dashing herself upon the rocks,’ my hostess explained to me as we took our dinner. There seemed something sorrowful in her resignation, as if she had grown accustomed to such rifts and betrayals. She turned over a thin piece of trout upon her plate and sulked like a child.

There were times when I wondered if I was the only woman in France to glimpse her true character, or indeed if any person of compassion spied the loneliness in her. The tenor of her politics concerned me very little, and neither did it matter to me whom she took to her bed, revolutionary or royalist. Others would judge her for this, but I believe my affection for her took root precisely because I did not. I was an Englishwoman and regarded Madame de Buffon with the good sense of one of my nation. But one stone rattled in my shoe: the enmity she harboured for Mrs Elliot. I could not abide it, but resolved that it was in my means to correct it through our growing friendship. Once I had determined on that, I felt myself more at ease.