Almost as soon as I arrived at the Petits Appartements, I understood absolutely La Buffon’s sense of isolation and why she had begged me to remain with her. As she had made plain to me, she was not permitted to receive callers of her own in the Duchess’s former home. Orléans did away with most conventions, but he understood that to flout this final stricture would be to add insult to his wife’s injury and to render all the worse his relations with his furious father-in-law, the erstwhile Duc de Penthièvre. Madame had no female society of which to speak. True, she made occasional visits to her house upon the rue Bleue and called on one or two ladies of her acquaintance, but she was never received warmly, nor encouraged to remain for long. It was me upon whom she relied for diversion, for consolation, for assistance and, most of all, for companionship. I soon found myself almost never out of her company, which was precisely as both she and Mrs Elliot would have had it, but I fear it did not suit my schemes at all.

No one but Lucy knew of the letter I had received from Monsieur Mariot, nor of the secret hopes I concealed. As Madame and I took our slow perambulations about the gardens and colonnades, I looked longingly in the direction of the sign of the bell, wondering all the while if a note awaited me there. On several occasions I dispatched Lucy to enquire after any correspondence but, much to my dismay, she never failed to return empty-handed. It was not merely a reply for which I longed, but to be permitted the liberty of attending the café and studying its patrons. I hungered not only to put my questions directly to Monsieur DuLac, but to apply my own eyes to the figure of this mysterious gentleman. There were but a scant handful of opportunities to engage in such a clandestine activity and when they presented themselves, I did not delay in grabbing at them.