‘Why yes,’ said she, ‘I cannot say how, but by some miracle or accident she escaped arrest. She was divorced shortly before Monsieur d’Orléans’s death, but then married another, a general by the name of Renouard de Bussière and bore him a child. For a time, she lived in Switzerland, I believe.’

‘For a time?’ I enquired.

‘Yes, she died, seven years past. Consumption, I heard.’

This news brought such unexpected sorrow to me. For the briefest instant I believed that I might yet see her and make amends. Then, suddenly, that hope had vanished, as if the wind had whipped it away like a slip of paper. I vowed I should never again permit such an opportunity to escape me. You see, I am of the conviction that in life, all matters should be brought to a conclusion, and in no case does this hold truer than where erstwhile friends are concerned.

It was with this particular aim in mind that I returned to Paris in the spring of 1823. It had been many years since I had ventured there. I found the city a great deal altered. It had, like a recovered invalid, regained its colour and life.

One evening, whilst in the company of my friend Monsieur Stendhal, we attended the opera. It is remarkable with what varnish time paints former remembrances. The interior of the opera house had been altered from what it was, but I could still see in the boxes the faces I recalled from those final evenings when I sat with Agnès de Buffon. As my friend and I rode in a cabriolet to dine at Le Grand Véfour, which once I had known as the Café de Chartres, I could not help but speak a name I had withheld for some time.

‘I have often wondered what became of Mrs Elliot, the Duc d’Orléans’s former mistress. I do not know if she still lives. I am not of the belief that she returned to England – or else, if she has, she exists in some deep retirement, where she cannot be found,’ I heard myself say.

Monsieur Stendhal turned to me; the shadow of his top hat was cast over his eyes.

‘I have heard the name before, but I am afraid I do not know.’

He then suggested there were some associates of his to whom he could put the enquiry. Several days later, he returned to me and, in greeting me, took from his waistcoat a folded piece of paper.

‘The lady you seek may be enquired for at this location.’