However, my heart was as much a-gallop as it had been that entire day. I had prepared a great number of questions I wished to put to this Monsieur DuLac: what was this man’s height? Was his hair dark like mahogany? Were his eyes bright as aquamarine? Was he exceptionally handsome? What distinguishing marks did he bear, if any? What was the mode of his conversation? Of what did he speak? I rehearsed these in my head again and again as we hurried to the café.

Upon entering, the waiter who had so vexed me in the past greeted me in an entirely different manner. He gave me a conciliatory nod of his head and gestured for me to follow him. This I did and he escorted me to a back table between two slightly blackened mirrors where sat a pair of elderly gentlemen, one thin and the other quite portly. They immediately rose to their feet and bowed in the old courtly manner.

‘I am Monsieur Mariot, Milady Allenham,’ said the slighter of the two in perfect English. He wore a short close wig, which I supposed he had possessed for the better part of thirty years. He then introduced his florid, puff-cheeked companion as Monsieur DuLac.

‘Please, my lady, will you not join us?’ Mariot smiled, rather abashedly. ‘It . . . it is not common for . . . English ladies to visit a café so . . .’

‘. . . humble,’ added Monsieur DuLac.

‘I care not so much for the formalities of old, messieurs,’ I replied as if La Buffon had fed me the very words.

‘Indeed.’ Mariot cleared his throat and then glanced briefly down, as if to ensure his rosette was visible.

A small glass was brought to the table, along with a bottle of brandy, which was poured before me. The meeting in such an environment was an awkward one to be sure, and we sat for a moment shifting in silence before I saw fit to speak.

‘Monsieur Mariot,’ I began, ‘I am so much obliged to you for replying to my letter. However trifling you believed your anecdote, I can assure you that it was not trifling to me.’

Here I launched upon a fanciful tale which I sprinkled with some true details of Allenham’s disappearance and many false ones with regard to my invented marriage and my name, for Mariot believed me to be my departed half-sister, Lady Catherine. They listened and tutted and hung their heads. They apologized for my terrible misfortune and expressed their true and earnest concern for his lordship’s well-being, ‘especially in the wake of these atrocities . . .’ lamented Monsieur DuLac. Mariot hushed him and glanced about anxiously.

‘As you might imagine, Monsieur DuLac, I wished to interrogate you upon the subject of the stranger you saw here, whom you believed to be the image of my husband.’

DuLac took a hearty swallow of his brandy.

‘The truth, madame . . . the truth is . . . it was dark, and my eyesight is not as it once was.’