‘Do sit beside me, do!’ she commanded. ‘Are you in need of refreshment? You must be quite famished, quite parched from the road. How hot it has been. Intolerably so. Romain! Romain!’ she called out.

The tall intendant reappeared at the door.

‘Bring some wine and fruit and sweetmeats for Mademoiselle Lightfoot.’

He nodded.

‘So here is the pretty little paintrix about whom Monsieur de Biron speaks,’ she sighed while examining me from top to toe. ‘It was upon the request of Monsieur d’Orléans that I wrote to you. He admired your self-portrait, the one which you had sent to Monsieur de Biron.’

I moved to correct her that it was Mrs Elliot, not I, who had placed the miniature into Biron’s possession, but thought better of it. To raise my friend’s name so soon would have been imprudent, though I now saw quite plainly how this introduction had been engineered.

‘Ah, but when I saw the portrait for myself and learned of you, I thought any English lady so accomplished and so fair I must have to entertain me at La Volière. You must know, mademoiselle, that Monsieur d’Orléans is a great admirer of your nation,’ she said to me in perfect, though heavily accented English. ‘I have visited it with him. Your native land is a most diverting place, though London has not the amusements of Paris. We formed many connections there and were regularly entertained by the Prince of Wales and Mrs Fitzherbert. Are you acquainted with the Prince and his lady, mademoiselle?’

‘Yes, madame, I have had the honour of making their—’

‘And Mr Fox entertained us, and Mrs Armistead, who are kind and genteel and très droll . . . but the English ladies, they are so formal, no? Everything is so . . . correct in England. It is as if they fear the displeasure of every person who gazes upon them. The English ladies, they say they are as cold as nuns’ knees!’ She laughed. ‘Ah, but you are not. Why, you are far too beautiful and warm of heart and . . .’ La Buffon’s words were suddenly clipped by a violent eruption of growls and snaps. ‘Fantouche! Moustache!’ she scolded the twin Papillons. The pair had playfully launched themselves at her elderly companion’s ankles.

‘Alors!’ cried the woman, gently kicking the dogs from her. ‘Agnès, will you not command them?’

My hostess huffed, though whether her exasperation lay with her spaniels or her companion, I could not say.

‘Madame, you know I can no more command them than I can you,’ she answered haughtily.

The two women locked eyes with disdain before the elder of the two rose silently and removed herself from the room. Madame de Buffon observed each of her retreating footsteps as she crossed to the far side of the salon and passed through the door.

I sat awkwardly, too cowed by this scene to make any noise at all.