I have often been grateful for my short stint upon the stage while in London. The performance of love upon which Mrs Elliot advised my future was best secured was greatly enhanced by the lessons I acquired there. I learned how to shape myself into the guise of another, how to make the appropriate expressions and gestures, how to pretend at anything. In my private hours with Orléans, it had grown plain that he wished me to play the role of besotted inamorata; one who regarded him with such affection that he might believe her soul would melt at his merest glance. This pleased him mightily and in return he played the part of the gallant lover who preferred no other embrace but mine. Both he and I understood well enough what was the truth. Once he had completed his caressing and unlacing and pushing me upon my back, once he had grunted his final pleasure and I made my soft mews of false reciprocation, we resumed our association as friends. Then there came the ritual of cleansing and taking of refreshment and making of frivolous conversation.

‘It pleases me to make such gifts to you, ma chère Henriette,’ he stated as he moved to pour two glasses of wine. He wore nothing but his soiled chemise which rose over his belly and scarcely covered his hanging manhood. ‘For what is a Prince of the Blood if he does not still have some ability to grant favours to those deserving of them, hey?’

I was very startled to hear him name himself as such. In those days one did not make such references to the conventions of the former era, and especially not one who supped with half the Paris Commune. I examined his features for some hint of humour, but found none.