It was then I committed a most grievous error. I flew from him, as might a bird through the open door of the aviary below. I fled in fear, but as I ran, I found no relief. Rather, the nearer I drew to the lights of the house, the greater those shadows grew. I thought first of Mrs Elliot and how I had failed my friend by spurning the attentions of the very patron I had promised to court. I could not think what would become of me now, of the insult I had done to Orléans, and yet I could not imagine what would have become of me had I remained. I feared La Buffon like no other.

I ran to the house, where I arrived breathless and begged to be shown to the privacy of my rooms. I wished for nothing more than to hide myself away, to cower quietly, but I had no sooner closed the door behind me than I recognized this to be an impossibility. There would be no solace for me, no refuge in the wake of this. I would not find that anywhere at La Volière, and certainly never again in Paris.

Chapter 13

I LAY AWAKE for the better part of the night, cogitating. I could not begin to fathom how I might extricate myself from this twisted web. It mattered not in which direction I turned, I believed myself dishonoured, if not damned.

At first light, I rose and with a tightly gripped pen attempted to write a letter to Mrs Elliot, laying forth all that had transpired. I crossed out so many words that I was forced to take a clean sheet and begin once more. I blotted the second also and then tore it into many pieces. I found my third endeavour no better, and for a moment bent over the paper and wept at the thought of my disgrace. I knew not how I might ever confess to her my failure, she who had vested such faith and kindness in me. Indeed, I felt my heart shrink when I imagined her downcast expression, and how I should suffer in her estimation. I could not bear to compose that letter. I resolved to undertake the task at some other time and instead commit to my journal, that book which I had begun in Brussels, a discreet record of my conversations with La Buffon and Orléans. I wrote out the details of these in the same coded hand that I had used when living beneath Madame Vanderoi’s roof, when I wished to keep my secrets guarded from her household. By the time I had completed my account, I guessed it to be mid-morning. I returned to my bed, as if taken ill, and drew the curtains about me.

I awoke some time later with Lucy standing over me.