‘They say La Buffon attempted to murder Madame Meyler when she suspected her to be with child by Orléans. They had been the most intimate of friends. Shortly after La Buffon heard of Madame Meyler’s condition, there was what some call “a mysterious accident” while they were riding in the Bois de Boulogne. Madame Meyler was thrown and the infant came away. They have not spoken since.’ Madame de Flaghac pursed her lips disapprovingly. ‘She once lived in great elegance in the place Vendôme. She now has but two rooms up four flights of stairs upon the rue d’Enfer, behind the Opera House. Disgraceful.’ My companion then turned her gaze across the playhouse. My eyes followed hers as they settled on the villainous subject of her tale.

But for the shape of the elaborate chapeau à la Tarare she wore, I could make out little of her through the shadows. She seemed of a slight build and regular in height. Her age was concealed by the darkness, but she moved with the quick spark of an excitable young woman. Occasionally she inclined her head to whisper something into Orléans’s ear. As for the Duke, his appearance did not strike me as exceptional. From what I could discern, he was tall, but stout. His head seemed round and melon-like. For a moment or so, I studied them in their box, observing as two gentlemen entered and paid their regards.

‘I shall tell you this much, girl,’ continued the grande dame at my side, ‘in spite of Orléans’s current difficulties with regard to his purse, there are few who possess his influence. So long as the King and Queen are shut away in the Tuileries, and Danton and the Assembly are at liberty to do as they please, Orléans reigns over Paris, as if . . . as if he had been appointed king in his cousin’s place. The King fears him like no other, that he feeds the rats who make this hateful Revolution—’ She then broke off abruptly, as the great Préville stomped on to the stage to loud cries of approval. ‘I should not like to speak of politics in this place,’ she muttered, as the noise died away.

It was at that moment that she turned and looked over her shoulder. Much to my surprise, I found that a young man had crept up behind Madame de Flaghac’s chair. He placed a kiss upon her hand and then another upon Mrs Elliot’s before leaning to speaking into her ear. No sooner had he done that than she turned her gaze to me.

‘Miss Lightfoot,’ said she, addressing me in English, ‘I should like to present to you Mr Drummond.’

I regarded the boyish-faced gentleman. He appeared to be not much older than me. His fawn-brown hair had been coiffed and curled and his person sewn into a plum-coloured coat and tight grey breeches.