‘That . . . that which had begun to grow inside of you, madam,’ she ventured, uncertain if I had ever been aware of my condition. ‘It has come away of its own. On account of the fright you had and the injury, I expect,’ she said softly.

Then I remembered. Remarkably, the urgency of that problem had all but vanished from my mind in the face of the shock and the discomfort I had undergone. I breathed a sort of sigh.

‘I have dispatched the sheets and the soiled linens, so you need not fear . . .’

Lucy was a skilled nurse, and settled herself beside me before angling me forward to feed me a restorative broth and milk and bread.

‘You are powerful hot,’ she repeated as she laid me down again, her brow rumpled with concern.

I fell into a deep sleep from which I was later roused by the appearance of Seiffert, who jabbed at my swollen arm until I groaned with pain. There was much head-shaking, and binding and rebinding of the wound. A vein upon my other arm was opened, till I felt my strength, what little of it remained, emptied ounce by ounce into the porcelain dish. Scarcely able to move, I sensed Lucy press a cup to my lips several times. I knew from its sweet taste what relief the heady opiate would bring – relief, but no cure. Indeed, I was far from recovered. What trials and suffering I had endured until that point were mere trifles by comparison to the ordeal upon which I next embarked. My limbs were taken with the most violent shaking and tremors. My extremities contracted, my fingers balled into fists, my toes cramped and bent, even my jaw constricted so that I could scarcely drink or eat. My back arched and I writhed as if the devil had strung me up and danced me as his puppet. I could do nothing about it. I could make no utterances other than moans of anguish, for the tightening and flailing and throwing myself in fits was as excruciating as it was terrifying. Lucy and Monsieur Seiffert, along with several maids, took their turn at my sickbed, holding me down as I quaked. I was lowered into warm baths and cold. Camphor was applied to my trembling arms and legs and I was doused with opium, until I lay still and pliable and water, cordial and broth could be dribbled down my throat.

I do not believe I have ever approached so near to death as I did in those weeks. My maid’s face confirmed this to me, for while I spasmed and sweated, her round eyes would fix upon me as if she were speaking her farewells. I existed only for the sound of the spoon tinkling in the glass and the respite it brought. Eventually, however, the heavy thumping of my pulse subsided and my fever burned away. I slept for what seemed months.