As I held the plump man in my gaze, I contemplated what measures I might employ to cause him to recall this one critical detail. Perhaps a show of tears might shake his brain enough, I thought, before deciding better of it. I exchanged looks with Monsieur Mariot, whose wispy eyebrows were raised in what seemed to me an expression of apology.

DuLac squinted and balled up his features, as if he were attempting to produce an egg. At last he sighed and shook his head.

‘It . . . it will come to me, madame,’ he assured me. ‘I shall write it in a letter if it does . . . but to where might I address . . .?’

‘Here,’ I shot back with scarcely a moment’s pause. ‘My lodgings are not far and I send my maid into the colonnades near every day on some errand or another.’

Indeed, my answer was so suspect that I cannot but wonder what portion of my story Messieurs DuLac and Mariot had swallowed, if any of it. However, I did not like to dwell upon such uncertainties and thought it better that I take my leave at that very moment rather than risk subjecting myself to any awkward enquiries. I thanked them cordially for their assistance and impressed upon them the urgency of my situation: that I hoped to receive word from Monsieur DuLac soon; then I bid them farewell and flounced from the Café de la Cloche.

Following that interview my spirits were not high. I sighed and repeated my conversation with the gentlemen to Lucy.

She regarded me through sympathetic eyes. ‘All is not yet lost, madam,’ she offered to me. She was ever kind and encouraging, my maid.

As I did not wish to reappear at the Petits Appartements too soon, we wended our way slowly back along the passage de Montpensier. We stopped to gawp at the paste brooches and horn sewing boxes, lengths of silk and fustian, and were assailed by a colourfully adorned fortune teller who waved a card bearing a picture of a pregnant empress at me. I spoke very little and lost myself amidst the fog of my thoughts and doubts.

I made my way up the stairs and had no sooner entered my rooms than Rosalie appeared before me. She indicated that her mistress wished to speak with me.

‘Is she well, Rosalie?’ I enquired, but Madame’s servant made no reply. I followed her through the doors and to La Buffon’s airy drawing room. There she sat upon a wide gilt chair, her hands resting atop her maternal form, her face like a slab of stone. At the sight of this, I stopped.

‘You have not been to paint Madame Talma, have you, Henriette?’ she asked flatly.

I opened my mouth and grasped for words.

‘Is your name Henriette?’ She cocked her head. ‘Or is it Lady Allenham?’