Friends, had you the opportunity to sit in any theatre in Paris in those days, your English senses would have been as assailed as were mine. I had been astonished to discover that while I lay in my sickbed, the daily rituals of life had undergone a transformation, the like of which I have never witnessed since. There was not a public space or centre of amusement untouched by expressions of patriotism and a fervent love of the Republic. The entire interior of every playhouse and opera was swathed in red, white and blue. Tricolour banners hung from each box, while the corners of the stage were decorated with vast busts representing Liberté, Égalité and Fraternité. This was, however, but the half of it. No evening of entertainment was complete without some elaborate homage enacted to the Republic. The spectacle was regularly performed in the interval between the end of the opera and the commencement of the ballet. The orchestra would swell into a rendition of the ‘Marseillaise’, while a great statue representing the nation, a beautiful Marianne with her spear in hand, sporting the bonnet rouge and bedecked in garlands, would be lowered upon the stage. Around her would gather a chorus of singers, covered in their tricolour ribbons, to sing verse upon verse of the anthem. This was a sober occasion. Salutes would be offered by the National Guard and the army, and not a single person who attended would dare remain seated or silent as the lyrics were cried out. On the first occasion I encountered this show, I found it so peculiar that I screwed up my face in bemusement. Madame de Buffon examined me from the corner of her eye like a censorious governess and, following that, I never once failed to sing as if my life depended upon it. For I soon came to understand that it did.

Upon that particular night, she was seated between me and Orléans. The chorus had just completed their final verse when she turned to me and pleaded a headache, before taking her leave. But for Biron, Beaujolais and Montpensier in front of us, this left me alone for the first occasion in several days with Orléans. I saw this opportunity for what it was and snatched at it. Discreetly, I moved to the seat nearest to him. Observing my approach, he wasted no time before leaning into my ear.

‘Are you now restored to health, mon petit oiseau?’

I was not certain what further enquiry might be couched within that question.

‘Yes, monseigneur, I believe my strength has returned.’

Orléans took that as a cue to lay his hand in my lap and stroke my thigh through my skirts.

‘I should like to come to you tonight, if you will permit it.’