My throat closed, as if all my capacities for speech had abandoned me. I observed her expression grow harder, her eyes hotter.

‘I should hate to think you have betrayed me . . .’ She forced a smile which appeared so menacing that I immediately called to mind all of Mrs Elliot’s warnings. ‘You see, Henriette, I had you followed. Rosalie had confided to me that upon several occasions when I took to my bed, you seemed most eager to get away . . . On this instance, I sent a boy from the kitchens to spy upon you. He has reported everything to me.’ She moved her head forward, like a serpent. ‘Who are you, mademoiselle?’

At that moment I could not think of a single word to speak or action to take. I stood mesmerized with fear, held entirely captive by the power of my own dread.

Perhaps by that point in my young life, I had in fact managed to acquire some true sense. I can offer no other explanation for it, for how I understood that in some circumstances it is far better to present the truth than a falsehood. I suppose I had come to learn that lesson when I threw myself upon Mrs Elliot’s mercy and having had success at that, determined that I should attempt that same defence once more. So, reader, I told her. I revealed my tale to Madame de Buffon, without so much as a hint of shame.

I informed her of my parentage and of my short but happy existence with Allenham. I presented her with the story of my fall and my time in London as well as my reunion with my beloved. While I was careful to omit the details of Allenham’s role in Brussels, I recounted to her the unfortunate circumstances that had brought me to Paris. I explained about my correspondence with Monsieur Mariot. However, my wellspring of truth flowed dry when I spoke of Mrs Elliot and my obligations to her. Instead, I claimed, as I had always, that she was my relation: my mother’s cousin, my mother who had been a whore, a femme galante, a dame entretenue, just like Mrs Elliot, just like me, just like her.

She observed me in silence as I spoke. Not a hint of her thoughts was visible in her expression. Then, at the conclusion of my sorrowful song, I bowed my head. I was uncertain what she had made of it, or if it had proven the correct medicine to soothe away her sense of betrayal. I fretted as to what she would make of me: no longer the fashionable pretty English paintrix, whose reputation had been touched by scandal, but rather a foolish, reckless adventuress.

‘Henriette.’ She spoke my name softly.

I raised my eyes to hers, fearful of what I might find there. They were calm like the sea following a storm. Then there came the sunlight: a smile.