Anxiously, I advanced into the adjoining room, ready to pour forth my story, only to stop short. Madame stood before me, her face as hard as a blacksmith’s anvil.

Before I could so much as begin my tale, she raised her chin. ‘Madame,’ she began, ‘I shall make my point directly. Monsieur Savill has brought to my attention the true nature of your circumstances. He has made plain to me your scheme, and that you are not who you claim to be. I say to you now, madame, my establishment will not be known as a home to impostors and adventuresses who wish to make use of my rooms to perpetrate their crimes. Neither shall I tolerate the abuse of my loyal patrons, Monsieur Savill being foremost among them. I would therefore have you settle your bill and quit my hotel at once.’ She then attempted to hand to me a sheet of paper upon which a lengthy record of my expenses had been tabulated.

I did not take it. Instead, I stood fixed in place, staring at her incredulously.

‘Madame Bonet,’ I began, ‘I fear you are under a grave misapprehension. Why, I was about to recount to you the insults I have received from Monsieur Savill when you—’

‘I have heard enough of your falsehoods, madame,’ she snapped. ‘I shall instruct my housekeeper and footmen to pay close heed to every pin and jar your maid places into your boxes. The inventory will be examined and if so much as a spoon is found wanting, I shall have you dragged by your little head of curls to the section house.’ She glowered at me, her once conciliating features now creased through with anger.

‘But I have told no falsehoods . . . and I . . . I cannot think what lies Monsieur Savill has invented to suit his treachery. I tell you, madame, this is pure fabrication. It is he who is the villain and the impostor!’

Madame came a step nearer, as if to sniff me.

‘I am under no illusions as to who and what you are. You have deceived him, a good and honest gentleman. You have enticed him to Paris under false pretences. You have taken this man’s money and promised him favours from your husband . . . a husband who does not exist. You are no better than a thief, madame . . . and a common whore, and I shall not suffer you under my roof a night longer.’ She folded her arms as if to make final her resolution. ‘And these, my most costly rooms. In all the time you have occupied them I might have let them three times over!’

‘I shall pay you, madame,’ I insisted, but she shook her head and huffed and puffed. ‘Whatever lies Monsieur Savill has told you, I possess the means to make good on all my debts, but I beg of you, Madame Bonet, you must permit me to make arrangements, for I have nowhere else to repair—’