‘That is what they all said, but I know for certain it was not Orléans’s, rather, it was Monsieur de Lauzan’s. They were much in love and I was privy to all their confidences. Jealousy played no role in it whatsoever. No, Henriette, the reason I ended my association with her was because she was a spy. She was dishonest, unfaithful and mendacious. No one had been dearer to me than her. I trusted her with my secrets and she betrayed me. This is what comes of too great a fondness for cards, eh?’

I did not follow her tale.

‘Cards?’ I enquired. This I had never heard mentioned before.

‘Yes. She was grievously in debt,’ La Buffon affirmed with vehemence. ‘The former Duc de Penthièvre, Madame d’Orléans’s father, wished to know the intimacies of my relations with his son-in-law and so offered Madame Meyler a considerable sum to purloin my correspondence. It was then circulated and all the beau monde, the court, all of Paris, they have made good sport from reading it and ridiculing me for years. All that I wrote in confidence has been devoured by those ladies and gentlemen I derided – for who does not write their opinions of others freely in their private letters?’ she exclaimed, mildly outraged. ‘I lost half my acquaintance when Monsieur de Buffon procured a separation from me, and the other half by this cruel trick. All that is said of me is unjust. They call me viperous, a cold-hearted snake, a murderess! Imagine!’ La Buffon snorted. ‘But Madame Meyler has suffered too, for which I am pleased. She has gambled away all that she received for her foul deeds and now lives in penury. She is no more tolerated or received than am I.’

When Madame concluded her tale, she sat with her arms folded. I could not take my eyes from her. I was in a state of astonishment. To be sure, it all made perfect sense. Of course I had never once questioned the gossip I had consumed. I had never considered that the stories Madame de Flaghac, Madame Laurent and Mrs Elliot had repeated were anything but the truth. But therein lies the true danger of listening to scandal, my friends. There is always another telling of the tale, and that is the version which most often goes unheard.

Madame de Buffon’s account of events made more sense to me than any of the others. I had come to know her well enough to understand her true nature. The vicious creature I failed to glimpse in her never appeared because, quite simply, she did not exist. It caused me no end of shame to count the days I had spent in dread of her violence, fearing that I should be struck down by her lightning bolts of wrath. How cruel the world had been to her, and to believe I had played some role in that saddened me.