I was most relieved to be removed from this milieu by a liveried servant, who promptly delivered us to our box. He led us into a dim narrow corridor. All along the passageway observing eyes crawled over us like insects. My skirts brushed those of countesses and whores alike. We passed door upon embellished door, each heavy with golden scallop shells and fat-faced putti. When at last we arrived at ours, it was opened like the lid of a jewel box. At the centre of it, upon a velvet seat, resided a rare and curious treasure. She sat with her back to us, a small, thin creature enveloped within the voluminous folds of a cherry-coloured gown. Her hair, which she wore atop her head in the fashion of thirty years gone, was entirely grey and looked as if it had been spun from the finest silver thread. As for her face . . . well, as she turned to greet us, I might have sworn she was made of porcelain. It appeared entirely white but for her lips which were painted the gaudy hue of her skirts.

‘Ah, ma chère petite,’ she exclaimed, holding out her arms to Mrs Elliot, who towered like a heron above her. They exchanged kisses as affectionately as might a mother and daughter.

‘Madame de Flaghac, may I present to you Mademoiselle Lightfoot, who is my relation from London.’

There was an exchange of curtseys, before the old woman squinted at me.

‘Come into the light, my child.’ She beckoned me with her closed black fan. ‘Here, sit beside me, mademoiselle.’ I followed her instruction. Then, quite without warning, she took my face into her hand. ‘La, such pure, fresh beauty. Eyes like bluebells . . . and the cream of your neat skin . . .’ she marvelled, her eyes but inches from mine. Her breath smelled of sweet liquorice-root lozenges. ‘You must have many admirers, Mademoiselle Lightfoot.’

I wished to say I had no need for such things, but held my tongue.

‘I was once as beautiful as you . . . when I danced upon the stage. It fades quickly, my child. One minute you are as radiant as summer, and then, alas, it is autumn.’

‘Madame is too modest, Miss Lightfoot,’ interjected Mrs Elliot from the opposite side of her matronly companion. ‘Her summer was a long one. She was celebrated in her day, mistress to Louis XV and painted by Monsieur Boucher.’

‘Ah, but now winter has come upon me and I am as decrepit as a felled oak.’

‘But most fortunate in widowhood. A countess,’ Mrs Elliot teased her. ‘Pay no heed to the silly goose. She has been like a mother to me, a tutoress when I found myself in Paris.’

‘You were in no need of a tutoress when we met, ma chère,’ rejoined the old dame.