‘He is certain to be amongst them. We will discover him here, if not today then tomorrow . . .’ Madame assured me as we strode purposefully to the sign of the bell. We would then wait at a respectable distance beside the door and dispatch Lucy or Rosalie to enquire within for Monsieur DuLac’s much anticipated reply. La Buffon would take my gloved hand in hers and squeeze it impatiently as we waited. On the reappearance of a maid she would never fail to give a slight start and a mild gasp before sighting that their hands were empty.

‘Oh, ma petite,’ she would sigh, a moue upon her face, and touch my cheek. ‘Tomorrow, yes, tomorrow. We shall call again.’

After a spell, she would take my arm in hers and convey her now vast girth to a position in the shade. We would sit in some bower beneath the cherry trees, or at a modish establishment which afforded us a view of the Café de la Cloche, so we might observe discreetly those who passed through its doors.

‘It is not so inconceivable that he should return to the very place where your friends discovered him, Henriette. Why, you have said so yourself,’ she would attempt to encourage me between sips from her beaker of ass’s milk or some other such tonic prescribed for the maternal condition. However well intentioned her words, they never succeeded in raising my spirits.

‘Henriette, you appear so low, ma chère.’ She squinted at me through the afternoon sun. ‘It seems to me as if your heart has been so injured that it no longer possesses the capacity for hope. You must permit me to do so on your account, will you not?’

I regarded her gently and with a look of appreciation. But I found myself greatly distracted. At the time, I could not fathom why this might be. I could not give a name to what it was that I felt, beyond a sense of apprehension. I could not discern whether it was on account of the constant warnings we received that the conspirators would rise and murder us in our beds, that soon Paris would fall to the enemy and all would be lost. I could not tell whether the guarded glances of everyone we met, or the silent hôtels particuliers and vacant theatre boxes were responsible for my unease. I could not determine if it was because I fretted for Mrs Elliot and her safety or for myself, scrawling my letters in the early hours of the morning, engaged in this constant dance of deception. All about me were the signs of change: Madame’s growing belly; the dappling of brown and yellow upon the leaves of the chestnut trees. The season was approaching its turning. The world, my world, would not remain as it was for long. Somehow, I understood this.