All of this was most irregular. Orléans usually demanded that we did not squander our time engaged in the discussion of political matters. In the past, when I attempted to raise such subjects he would instantly dismiss my attempts with a wave of his hand.

‘Oh, that my ears could be free of such noise for but an hour!’ he would protest. Why he should now choose to spread his troubles before his mistress perplexed me. Nevertheless, I spied before me an opportunity, and if I did not grasp it, I might never see the like of it again.

‘Monseigneur,’ I began, ‘I would beg you to spare a thought for a much-loved acquaintance of yours who would not hesitate to offer you friendship at such a time as this.’

He raised his eyes to me.

‘You know of whom I speak.’

He gave a small snort.

‘Madame Elliot cares for you a great deal, monseigneur. She is quite alone and . . . without the resources she requires to ensure that her future is a comfortable one. That you will not see her is the cause of much of her unhappiness. I beg of you, monseigneur, she has assured me that she merely wishes to continue on a footing of friendship with you. She bears no ill will towards you or Madame de Buffon. Her heart is breaking, monseigneur, and you would do well to reconcile with her . . . for none of us know what the future is to bring . . .’

He sat himself on the edge of the bed and regarded me for a moment. His expression was fixed and still and full of thought.

‘Argh! I am worn down by the demands of women!’ he then groaned, before swooping me into his arms and placing me upon his knee. ‘How happy you make me, petit oiseau, the little bird I snared at La Volière. You are a friend to everyone.’ He kissed my neck. ‘This is why you have jewels and gifts, just like that long-necked heron who took you into her nest.’ He jiggled me about and laughed to himself. After a moment, he moved his hands about my belly and my bubbies, and began to knead and squeeze the flesh. Having thoroughly satisfied himself, he gave my neck a final few kisses. He then rose, placed me upon the mattress and wrapped himself in his Turkish robe.

‘You are breeding, Henriette,’ he said with a playful wag of his finger.

I stared at him, aghast.

‘Yes, ma petite, you are. Do not pretend to ignorance. I would wager this is not the first occasion in your life that you have found yourself in such a condition. Why, I have felt enough women in fruit to know all the signs.’ He smirked. ‘In these six weeks I have not once been inconvenienced by your bleeding. One need not have received the education of a physician to understand such things, you know.’