Reader, lest you judge me to be cold of heart, I would beg you to consider the enormity of the blow I had suffered. You believe I grieved simply for the loss of my necklaces and baubles? That I now feared for the plainness of my unadorned ears and fingers? How mistaken you are. No, it was not the diamond brooches, circles of brilliants and aigrettes that I had lost. Nor was it the rubies and emeralds and sapphires and pearls set into buckles and eardrops and pendants and pairs of bracelets. That for which I mourned would not be the jewel-handled fans, the gold and amber and ivory patch boxes or even the silver purse which contained most of the sum I had acquired in selling my town coach. No. That which had been taken from me upon that day was far more precious than any of these trifles. It was my very liberty that had been spirited away. The box that had disappeared from my collection held the only means I possessed to forge an existence of my own design. The sacrifices I had made to acquire those sparkling gems and gleaming trinkets; the gentlemen with whom I had lain without love or honour; the falsehoods I had told; the tricks I had played: all now seemed for naught.

If any one person understood the grave consequences of this tragedy it was Mrs Elliot. As my incomprehension gave way to grief she took me into her arms. I wept against her willowy frame as if my entire life were at its end. She held me and hushed me, but I could not be calmed. I hiccoughed and gasped and wailed and quaked, as I have rarely done.

‘Poor dear, dear lamb,’ she repeated as she rocked me, as if she were consoling her little Georgiana. ‘I shall make it well again. I vow it. I shall go with Langlois immediately to the commissaire de police in the Section des Quatre-Nations and make an accusation of theft against Madame Bonet and Andrew Savill. I shall not permit this to stand. We shall endeavour to retrieve your jewels from the villains . . . Oh my dear, dear girl, this is too much for you to bear . . .’

But no matter how gentle her words, I could not fathom how this might be accomplished, by her or by anyone. I was inconsolable.

A great fuss was made of laying me to rest upon a couch, for I had all but given in to a fit of misery. A glass containing a concoction of wild lettuce and poppy was produced, and soon my weeping fell away into a drowsy haze.