Once I had tied all of my knots and fixed my tale, I examined it. This was a work of ugliness, to be sure. I knew I should loathe to feel it come out of my mouth. My hope was for a swift conclusion to our interview; that she would simply take the lie from me and embrace it. I prayed that she would not question it or remonstrate with me, for it was certain to prove excruciating. As the night was much advanced, I determined that I would put it to her the following morning, shortly before I took my leave.

I awoke to darkness. What morning light presented itself was screened by the frozen, dull mist of January. Not wishing to draw attention to my person, I determined that I would attire myself as modestly as possible for my journey. Lucy assisted me into a plain brown riding habit adorned with a tricolour rosette the size of a sunflower. I chose to sport nothing more upon my head than a plain dark blue hat, ornamented only with a silk band of red, white and blue. My maid dressed me in silence. I trembled, though the touch of her hands, tugging upon my sleeves and adjusting my skirts, offered me comfort. In truth, it was not the journey that caused me such agitation, but the knowledge that I must pass through La Buffon’s gates before I took my leave. I informed Lucy that she might expect me that evening, or the following morning, if the weather turned. Then I steadied myself and made for Madame de Buffon’s apartments.

As it was still early, I was uncertain if La Buffon had arisen. I approached her dressing room on light toes and then rapped upon the door so faintly that I feared I would not be heard. Within an instant, Rosalie opened it to me and revealed Madame standing at the centre of the room in her stays and underskirts. No sooner had I stepped inside than she pounced upon me.

‘Orléans will cast his vote,’ she announced with what appeared to be a triumphant, if not relieved smile.

I was taken aback by this.

‘He laid bare to me the contents of his head last night and deliberated for many hours. His situation is a terrible one, to be sure, for all eyes will be upon him.’

‘And what determination has he made? Pray, will he vote for his cousin’s deliverance?’ I ventured.

La Buffon lowered her head and shook it ruefully.

‘Henriette, he cannot. The King is guilty of conspiring against his own nation, of inviting the Austrians and Prussians to do battle against his own subjects. If the King is sent into exile, he will gather further armies about him. Should these forces succeed, Orléans, his sons and all who have been friends to him will perish.’

‘But certainly were he to abstain—’