‘Henrietta,’ she continued after a spell, ‘if you mean to make your life here in Paris, you must learn to do so with a certain cunning. Gifts and annuities, my child. One must take care to feather one’s nest before all the golden geese in France are plucked. My hotel on the rue de Miromesnil, my house at Meudon and all of my furniture were from Orléans. This coach is from the Duc de Fitzjames. Biron, Condé and others have purchased for me my jewels, and many other luxuries besides. These suffice well enough, but none offer the security of an annuity. A guaranteed annuity, my dear, the promise of a regular income, a pension, like that received by any widow or housekeeper. A house and furniture may be burned and jewels stolen . . . but an income, if it is secured by law, is the very cushion which rests between comfort and destitution.’ She sharpened her look upon me. ‘You must hear me when I say, in Paris at the present time, it is most essential that one acquires friends of influence. Many of my protectors have fled; the others . . . well, I am too old to sustain their fancy for long, but you . . .’ She raised her chin. ‘You may rise to a great height.’

I attempted to return her warm, hopeful expression, but I suspect she may have spied my reservations through my limp smile. I had begun to fear that this lecture had been but the prelude to some well-intentioned mischief awaiting me at the Comédie-Française.

As we entered the theatre and progressed through the throng up the great stair, I eyed each person who approached Mrs Elliot. Those who flew to her side were not the modish young bucks who tripped in my wake, but rather the portly, sunken-eyed roués of great wealth. They sported gems upon their fat fingers as glittering as that which sat at her breast. My friend deftly pushed me before them, offering me up to their wet lips like a sweet morsel. Some stood near enough to me to inhale the eau de orange blossom from behind my ears.