I clutched the purse to me as I forced my way into the crowd. All over the grounds tables were spread with picnics and wine, and families sat around them, laughing, talking, eating. They seemed to be mainly working-class people, dressed in their Sunday best: women in big hats, children in white lace, men in straw boaters. But among them were also young men and women dressed in the latest fashion who had chosen to escape to this environment where class didn’t matter. Those not lucky enough to secure a table stood together with glasses of wine or beer in their hands. And in the middle was the dance floor, also packed with couples dancing a suggestive dance I had never seen before. I started to thread my way between groups, looking carefully for any sign of Maxim. I remembered also the young waiter at the café who had invited Ellie to join him. I wondered if she’d be daring enough to come to something like this alone or whether her fiancé had arrived in Paris yet. But as I made painfully slow progress I saw nobody that I recognized.

“Hello, ma belle. Come and dance.” A hand came around my waist and I was propelled to the dance floor.

I turned to see a young student, his breath already reeking of wine, giving me a cheeky smile.

“No, monsieur. I do not wish to dance,” I said.

“Of course you do. A pretty demoiselle like you should not be alone. Especially one with dangerous red hair.”

“But I’m married, monsieur,” I said. “My husband would not approve.”

He laughed. “If you come here alone, that is his fault, no?” The hand on my waist pressed more forcefully.

“I am here with friends,” I said. “I’m looking for them. Have you perhaps seen an inspector from the Sùreté?”

“An inspector? Here? My god, I hope not. That would really spoil our fun. You are friends with an inspector?”

“I am. And I’m married to one.”

“My apologies, madame. It was only a jest.” He let me go, hastily.

I decided not to push my luck again. I had done my best and it appeared that Maxim and his friends were not here. I would have to wait until they returned to their weekday routine at the Nouvelle Athènes.

When Celeste let me in to Mary’s house I detected a faint odor of paint and turpentine. Mary appeared at the top of the stairs.

“Oh, you are painting?” I asked her.

“Not me, Augusta,” she said. “She decided to try and capture the rooftops and chimney pots from my attic window. So how was your quest?”

“Impossible,” I said. “There was nobody in Le Bateau-Lavoir and someone suggested they were all at the ball at the Moulin de la Galette.”