‘Madame awaits you in the salon,’ said he, making no mention of my absence at her dinner table. As he led me through to the house, the hour upon the large white-faced clock above the entry read ten minutes past four. My belly instantly tightened. With a jumping heart, I followed him over the black and white flagstones of the hall and through the doors to a grand room where I was announced.

At first I saw no one in this space but a bespectacled gentleman in a blue army uniform. He raised his head from the letter he had been writing and regarded me briefly, before returning to his correspondence.

‘Mademoiselle Lightfoot!’ called out a soft, beguiling voice from behind me.

I turned and spied, in the corner, my hostess.

In my youth, the French were not in the habit of rising to greet visitors. Indeed, at times one was fortunate to be granted so much as a formal introduction. It was possible to pass an entire evening without ever knowing the name of the person with whom one conversed.

Madame de Buffon received me in such a fashion. She beheld me from where she reclined upon a sofa, her red-shod feet elevated upon a stool. In a chair beside her sat an older woman with a book, who I guessed to be near fifty. At her hem snuffled and yapped a pair of black and white Papillon spaniels, which the matron eyed with annoyance.

It was not the simple yet affected domesticity of this scene which surprised me, nor was I entirely taken aback by the absence of polite conduct. Rather I was struck by the unexpected appearance of Madame de Buffon.

She was as fair as I had imagined, and perhaps no more than five and twenty. Her pretty visage was a perfect heart shape with a pointed chin, around which fell her brown-gold tresses. Her lips were rather bee-stung, while her wide-set eyes conferred upon her a slightly feline look. But it was not this which captured my notice, so much as the mound which lay upon her middle. From its size, I reckoned her to be at least six months gone. Not so much as a word had been whispered to me of this, by any of my acquaintance. Indeed, I could not fathom how it had escaped the knowledge of Madame de Flaghac. La Buffon had succeeded in maintaining a perfect secret which was certain to scandalize society as soon as it was known.

‘Oh, ma chère Mademoiselle Lightfoot, how delighted I am to see you.’ She beamed at me; then she held out her arms and implored me to approach her. I did so uneasily. She leaned in to kiss me, leaving a trail of something like sandalwood and jasmine across my cheeks.