Biron was not a little surprised to discover me there. Upon catching sight of me at that table with La Buffon, he gave an anxious laugh and greeted me with an awkwardness that spoke of a secret revealed. There was no contrition upon his face, nor upon that of his friend, who did not so much as tip her head in my direction. Her arm was entwined with his and she rested her cheek coyly upon his shoulder.

‘Madame de Morency wishes to rest before supper,’ he explained, avoiding my gaze. ‘The others are not far behind.’

Madame de Buffon’s sharp eyes followed them across the room, her expression hardening into that of a Medusa. Indeed, had she possessed the power of that mythic monster she might well have turned the unfortunate Morency to stone.

‘It was not I who invited that woman here,’ she muttered in the wake of their departure. ‘Biron insisted, and Orléans denies his friend nothing.’ She then turned to me with a scandalized look. ‘Madame de Morency rode from Lille to Valenciennes to seduce him. I hear she paid Biron’s servant to show her directly to his bed, though I would wager it was Orléans’s she sought to warm. I dare say he is a bit envious of Biron’s good fortune.’ She let out an angry laugh, a sound which seemed to rouse Fantouche and Moustache into a frenzy of barks. ‘Hush!’ their mistress commanded them, but to no avail. The dogs scuttled excitedly towards the glass doors that led into the garden.

We heard the noise of the party’s approach before catching sight of them. Their boisterous laughter blew through the windows upon a gust of early-evening breeze. They wound their path slowly through the row of trees, taking care to tread only in the shade. In their heavy boots they appeared weary from the heat; many carried their dark blue plumed hats beneath their arms.

Even at a distance, I recognized Orléans amidst his party of officers: bulky but possessed of a certain grace in his gait. He resembled very much the likeness La Buffon had sent me. His mouse-brown hair had begun to recede, which made his nose appear a bulbous shape, and his head seem somewhat wider than average. As they came through the doors, it struck me that had he been anything other than a Prince of the Blood, not a soul would have remarked upon his features. His visage was neither handsome nor entirely without merit. Nature had spared him from ugliness by bestowing upon him a truly fine pair of sleepy aquamarine eyes.

‘The celebrated Mademoiselle Lightfoot,’ he exclaimed as he crossed the salon to greet us.

I dropped into a deep, sober curtsey, but Orléans merely laughed at this formal display and took my hand to his lips.