I moved to the window and watched for her cabriolet to turn out of the arch and into the road. As it did so, I slipped an anxious hand into my pocket and felt for that secret square of paper. I did not intend for another moment to escape me.

I left my household to their tasks and made my way to Orléans’s coach below. There, I informed the porter who had accompanied me that I wished to go immediately to the Café de la Cloche. He paused for an instant as if he had misheard my instruction.

‘The Café de la Cloche, mademoiselle? Near to the puppet theatre at the back of the Palais-Royal?’

I hesitated before affirming I believed that was the very one. He rumpled his brow slightly, as if he could not conceive of my reasons for choosing such a destination. Nevertheless, he conveyed my orders to the driver, who spirited us away through the curiously quiet streets to the rue de Beaujolais. Here, beside the arch which led to the gardens and colonnades, he drew to a halt. I paused before stepping from the coach. The eerie stillness of this usually vibrant temple of diversions unnerved me. There were but a handful of chairmen and drivers standing about beside their empty chairs and cabriolets, whistling and waiting for passing trade. The well-attired bourgeois messieurs and mesdames who regularly strolled at this hour were nowhere to be seen. I took the footman’s hand and looked about me. Orléans’s porter came instantly to my side. I thanked him for his vigilance but insisted that I required no attendant.

‘I am merely to meet briefly with an acquaintance,’ I attempted to explain, but was greeted with a look of bemusement. And with that, I did not tarry.