I stared at him. Perhaps I had been too fraught with exhaustion to have understood his words entirely.

‘But, Monsieur Romain, why would she have done such a thing as that?’

Romain returned my gaze with a questioning air, as if bemused that I could not fathom the answer for myself.

‘I am afraid she has spoken with Monsieur Égalité and insisted upon your removal.’ Romain then turned his eyes from me. ‘I understand you have displeased her, mademoiselle.’

‘No,’ I breathed in disbelief. ‘How could that be, Romain? Why, she loves me like a sister. Monsieur Égalité . . . is greatly fond of me . . . How could this come to pass? There was a disagreement of a sort, but . . . that . . . but . . . I did not believe she . . .’ All at once I felt a faintness coming upon me.

‘I apologize, mademoiselle,’ replied Orléans’s intendant in a gentle tone.

‘Why . . . why, where is she? Where is Madame de Buffon? I should like to see her. Now. Take me to her, Romain. Instantly, I beg of you.’

Without waiting for Romain’s response, I set off down the corridor, past the varnished portraits of Bourbon cousins and grandmothers bedecked in the ribbons of Louis XIV’s court, past ormolu mirrors shimmering with reflected candlelight. Romain chased after me. He knew whither I went. I flew to the doors of Madame’s apartments and pushed them wide. They were silent and empty but for the embers of the fires, slowly burning out.

‘Monsieur Égalité and Madame de Buffon are at Monceau this evening. They have retired there following the vote at the Convention.’

I turned and held the servant’s gaze. I felt my eyes begin to well with tears. Of all that had occurred today, of all of my tragedies, this final calamity felled me entirely. My chin began to shake and I pressed my hand to my mouth.

‘What am I to do?’ I said. ‘Oh, Romain, what am I to do . . .?’

The old servant approached me and, as might a gentleman, offered me his handkerchief.

‘May I suggest, Mademoiselle Lightfoot, that you return to the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré, where you will find your maid, and attempt to make your amends with Madame de Buffon tomorrow.’

So overcome with grief was I that I could make no reply. Romain, in the free manner of many French servants, insisted on taking my arm and gently escorting me into the courtyard, where a cabriolet was brought and I delivered into it. No sooner had I sat upon the leather seat of the carriage, indeed the first seat I had taken since fleeing Meudon, than I found myself near insensible with grief. Upon returning to my apartments at the Hôtel Blanquefort Lucy flew to my assistance. Had she not done so I fear I might have collapsed there, at the foot of the great stair.