Over the weeks I had accustomed myself to learning the signals of Orléans’s impending visits to me. In my bedchamber there would appear wine and other refreshments laid out, along with two bidets arranged near to the bed. One of these, an elaborate cabinet inlaid with ivory and bearing a bowl of gold, had been his gift to me. I learned there was a great tradition of such things in France. That night, as I approached this lavish commode and lifted its lid in order to prepare myself, my eyes were greeted by the winking facets of diamonds. There, submerged beneath the vinegar water, lay a brooch. It was as wide as my palm and fashioned into the shape of a basket cascading forth with flowers. Atop it, a cluster of emeralds had been fashioned into the form of a bird. It was an extraordinary thing, with so many squares and pears and circles as to confound the eye, and – as if the bearer did not believe this mere bauble sufficient – on either side of it was arranged a pair of brilliant earrings: two hanging baskets of sparkling blossoms. I could not begin to fathom the worth of these treasures and stood gaping at them.