‘I have seen in her heart great kindness and truth, much as I have beheld in yours. I have wished that you might be reconciled, for my sake as much as for yours. I have attempted to effect this, to speak favourably of you to her, and now of her to you, but I fear I am incapable of mending such a rift as this, for the Revolution and your opposing convictions render it deep. As you might imagine, I presently find myself in a position most disagreeable to my sensibilities. I can no longer bear to practise such a deceit upon a lady whom I have come to cherish as a friend. I pray that I have succeeded in assisting you, dear, dear Mrs Elliot. It has afforded me no small amount of satisfaction to learn that your friendship with Orléans has been restored and he has arranged to secure your allowance, but now that that matter is amicably concluded, I wish to bring an end to our clandestine correspondence, for it is a cause of anguish to me.’ I paused and ventured to gaze upon her.

She sat forward in her chair and wore such a curious expression that it instantly filled me with unease. The crease between her brows had grown into something resembling a scowl. It seemed a strained look, as if she had failed to hear me.

‘It is . . . it is my intention to quit my apartments at the Palais-Royal and return temporarily to my lodgings in the Hôtel Blanquefort. If you would permit me, I beg your leave to return with you to England, as soon as you wish to make your departure.’

Mrs Elliot’s face was fixed. Not even the conclusion of my discourse succeeded in shifting it. I awaited some movement, even the briefest nod of approval, but nothing came. After a moment had passed, she leaned back into her seat.

‘Henrietta’, she began, ‘while your sentiments do you credit, they are misguided.’ She then sighed. ‘I am afraid you are not at liberty to make such decisions, nor is it in my interests for you to quit the Palais-Royal.’

I could not believe that my entreaties had failed to persuade her. ‘Madam, I wish not to remonstrate with you upon this point, but I beg you to consider—’

‘I have considered a great deal, Henrietta. How much so, you cannot begin to conceive,’ she clipped me. There was not an ounce of levity in her tone, not a hint of warmth, and I could not but conclude I had displeased her in some way.

‘I am . . . afraid that I do not apprehend your meaning, madam,’ I murmured gently.