To think that I had chosen to remain in this place of bloodshed and war in the hope that we should be reunited, that he would return to me. Why, I no more belonged here than I did in the Palace of Troy! My head raged and ranted. What a fool was I! And to consider how Mrs Elliot had attempted to alert me to my own errors, how she had sought to disabuse me of my romantic notions, and how I had struggled against her. Why, I felt blessed for such guidance. Had she and my many other friends in London not cautioned me against loving a man so entirely? For in such absolute affection the heart may be ruined. That which held true above all other things was the friendship of women, and only that. How correct they had been. I should never be so ridiculous as to ignore this truth again, and how I wept at its recognition.

It was as I laboured under the heavy weight of my depressed spirits that La Buffon at last made her appearance at my bedside. She came to me, overcome with emotion, enacting all the histrionics of the playhouse. How she sobbed at sighting me, exclaiming in horror over my wan features and dull eyes. She took both of my hands and kissed them before doing the same to my cheeks.

‘Oh, ma chère Henriette,’ she cried, ‘I prayed for you every hour! I could not bear to think of your agony, or that I could not serve you in your hour of need! Why, Monsieur Seiffert scolded me that I should have even considered it. They believed you would not survive and . . . I . . . could not endure the idea of losing you!’ she bleated with streaming eyes.

I regarded her standing before me with not an ounce of artifice about her, her cheeks streaked with tears. There was something so gentle and honest in her demeanour, in her unpainted face and plain yellow muslin gown, that I was moved greatly. Here was a true friend, I thought, and I could not begin to express how pleased I was to greet her again. It brought a smile to my cheeks for the first time in many weeks.

Madame threw herself into the chair beside my bed and eagerly took my hand into hers. She held it firmly, pressing my thin bones into her soft palm. She said nothing, but sniffled and stared across the room for a moment, before the door opened. Through it came a nurse bearing a tiny infant in a white gown. Its mother eagerly reached out her arms, beckoning for the servant to fill them with the gurgling bundle. I observed her face brighten with love. It was a sentiment I had once known well when I had cradled my own little Georgie to me.