‘What did she steal?’ I asked.

‘A silver salt cellar, which belonged to my mother. She also helped herself to a small sum of money. And I’m quite sure a pair of silk stockings.’

‘How awful.’

‘She took the spoon too. The one that belonged to the salt cellar. It was lovely. The spoon part of the spoon was scalloped and inlaid with gold.’

‘I’m so sorry.’

‘Trust is foolhardy,’ she said.

I nodded.

‘Believe me.’

My job was simple. I was to help Madame dress in the mornings and fix her petit déjeuner of milky coffee and toasted bread, sometimes a plate of fruit. Madame seldom left the apartment so it was up to me to buy the food, daily. We ate simply. Omelettes, crusty bread and cheese, charcuterie, beef stews, cassoulet, lamb’s tongue on toast and fish with butter sauce. Or, what grew to be my favourite, garlic and bread soup. I cooked a little but Madame preferred food bought in shops and restaurants and carried home. She loved sweet things, pastries with cream and jam, candied fruit, tarts and confectionery. She loved cognacs and wine and sugary coffee with brandy. You could see these indulgences in her face – a soft, shiny richness to her skin, her plump jowls. More important to Madame than food, however, was the accounts book she insisted I keep. When her husband, who had been a partner in a trading firm that dealt in textiles and apparel, was still alive, she employed a cook, who, apparently, had been skimming francs off the top for years. Madame was convinced that no one but herself was above slipping a few unearned sous into their pockets. I kept a detailed tally of every centime she gave me and every centime I spent, and each evening after supper we went over these sums together. Sometimes, when I came back from buying food or medicine or newspapers, it was obvious that my dresser drawers had been inspected, the blanket pulled back on the bed and the pillows disturbed. The little drawer in the bedside table was sometimes left ajar. She was searching my room, and wanted me to know it.

Evenings, we played cards; we played dominoes. She drank a lot of wine and expected me to partake, so I partook, diluting my glass with water. She sat at the window and sometimes I wrote to Tante Huguette. I didn’t recognize this at first but came to see after a few months that my letters to her were a test, to see if she would write back, not just to acknowledge the small portion of my wages I regularly sent, but to see if I was missing from her life. She did respond, a couple of times. She wrote that she was pleased to know I was making something of myself and that now, with my contributions added to the income she was earning from my vacated room, she had been granted relief. Tremendous relief, in fact, was what she wrote.