‘She is most disagreeable, my aunt Laval. Full of vinegar,’ La Buffon snorted after a spell. ‘I have had quite enough of her, and I dare say she has had enough of me. She has acted as my dame de compagnie, to assist me in my condition while I am here. You know, that feather-head would emigrate if she had the means . . . but she is dependent upon me, which is to say she is here upon the sufferance of Monsieur d’Orléans, a circumstance which she can scarcely tolerate.’ My hostess rolled her eyes in disgust. ‘She will sit alone in her rooms now. She will not even return to greet the gentlemen for supper.’ La Buffon fell quiet, her mouth pursed with displeasure.

‘The . . . gentlemen?’ I ventured to enquire, attempting to alter her temper.

‘Yes, they have gone to race Monsieur d’Orléans’s chargers.’

It was at that moment a footman arrived bearing wine and dishes of oranges and peaches and grapes, as well as nuts and chocolates and candied fruits. Much to the irritation of the gentleman who had been sitting at the table, La Buffon ordered the feast to be spread upon it.

‘Monsieur Rotaux, you must join us,’ she called to him, but the uniformed man declined, claiming that Monsieur d’Orléans’s correspondence could not wait, before he graciously removed himself to another room.

La Buffon appeared quietly delighted at the secretary’s departure and turned to me with wide eyes and a tight-lipped smile.

‘Oh, mademoiselle, how pleased I am that you are arrived. How I have longed for the companionship of one of my sex. Someone clever and accomplished, who is not such a dullard as my aunt. Do take my likeness, Mademoiselle Lightfoot. Yes, do paint me before the gentlemen return. I grow weary so easily. I fear I may drift into sleep as I sit here.’ She giggled and rubbed her belly.

I had scarcely taken more than a handful of grapes and a sip of wine. There had been no suggestion of dressing for the evening or taking some rest from the road. I sat before her in my redingote, cloaked in dust as if I languished in a taproom at an inn. Hesitantly, I called for Lucy to bring my implements and paper.

Far from wearying, Madame did not cease her chatter. With great curiosity she asked to inspect my brushes, my charcoals, my pencils, my watercolours. Every piece within my box she studied with a keen eye. Where did I acquire such skills? she begged. Who had been my tutors? La Buffon absorbed each word before contributing opinions of her own. Did I know that Madame de Condorcet painted too?