Just as she had at La Volière, Madame often grew weary after dinner and took to her bed for an hour or so of rest. The very instant she took her leave of me I pretended to return to my rooms, but instead stole away like a mischievous maid, down the stairs leading to the passage de Valois and then across the gardens. I never failed to arrive at the Café de la Cloche breathless, my hand atop my hat to steady it in place. I cannot think what that mean-mouthed waiter made of me. Upon each instance he would wag his head, ruefully announcing the absence of a reply and, I suppose, mocking me. After making a slow examination of each of the patrons, I would then take my leave. Only one sort of woman would have lingered in such a place, and I had no wish to be mistaken for a common man’s whore.

The days ticked past and this trick was repeated for just over a week, during which Lucy and I took our turn calling in at the Café de la Cloche unbeknownst to Madame de Buffon. Then, at last, upon the eighth day, Lucy returned to me with a wide-faced grin. She slipped the note into my hand and I tore at it.

Monsieur Mariot gave a brief response and stated that he and Monsieur DuLac could be met with upon Thursday afternoon when they would eagerly await my appearance. A smile swelled between my cheeks and then just as hastily dropped. How was I to keep such an appointment with La Buffon ever at my side? Our afternoons were filled with all manner of distraction: with drives through the Jardins du Luxembourg and visits to listen to the debates at the Legislative Assembly. What excuse could I possibly invent without arousing her suspicions? I soon began to fret, to nibble my nails, to gaze aimlessly out of my window, until a plan presented itself to me. It was as if Mercury had reached down from the ceiling and touched my head with his staff.

Upon the following day, Madame insisted that we attend the Hôtel de Ville, where the Commune sat.