‘I do not think it impossible that he may come to some harm by her hand . . . and I should die if that fate befell him, or anyone whom I held dear. Why, are you a counter-revolutionary, Henriette?’ She stared hard at me for a moment, so hard that it felt as if she levelled an accusation at me. I started, for I wondered if she had known about my visit with Mrs Elliot not a fortnight earlier. She then burst into laughter. ‘I know you are not. You are an Englishwoman, a lover of Rousseau, a reader of Condorcet; your heart and mind are guided by the principles of a new world.’

And yet, at that moment, as I was receiving her compliments and trust, I was contemplating how I might betray it.

I pretended at a smile and lowered my eyes.

‘Agnès,’ I began timidly, altering the subject of our conversation. ‘You know that I have refused three commissions to paint likenesses on account of my sojourn at La Volière – why, one from Madame du Barry . . .’

She rolled her eyes at the mention of that aged former mistress of Louis XV.

‘But . . . but . . . I have had another request: a letter . . . from Madame Talma—’

‘Madame Talma?’ Her face suddenly illuminated. She sat up as well as she could support herself against the coach bench.

All at once I feared I had fabricated the wrong patroness, for surely if La Buffon admired this actress so much, she would demand to accompany me. I hesitated.

‘Yes.’

‘And you wish to paint her?’

‘Yes.’

‘When?’

‘Thursday . . . afternoon.’

‘Well then. You must!’

I could scarcely believe it had been so simple to deceive her.

It rendered me quite sick.

And so I had set the wheels in motion and prepared to embark upon my secret excursion. On Thursday, shortly after dinner, I made my excuses and set out. In order to lend credence to my tale, Lucy accompanied me with my box of paints and implements, as well as my folio of paper. Anxiety rattled my nerves all that day and grew worse with every step I took from the Petits Appartements. I could not prevent myself from glancing back at those rows of windows as I turned, not into the courtyard where Madame had arranged for a coach to convey me, but between the columns of the galerie de Valois. I lingered in the shade as Lucy ran to dismiss the coachman before rejoining me. I know not why, but I could not dispel the sense that La Buffon had her eye upon me. As we carefully proceeded down the colonnade and out of view, I frequently looked up until I was convinced that there was no figure watching from her window.