‘You cannot imagine the pain,’ she said, her dark, nocturnal eyes looking somewhere I couldn’t fathom. ‘A day or two after Ambrose was gone, my breasts became inflamed with milk and something else much worse. I wanted so badly for this to kill me.’

I gently pulled her hands down to her lap.

‘I was kept alive to furnish two more miscarriages and to watch my husband die.’ She stopped talking, pulled at her pearl earring. After a few moments, she raised her chin, clasped her hands together in her lap. ‘I suppose we should carry on,’ she said, and lifted her hand to me so I could help her from the bench.

Not long after we started walking down the river path, a woman several paces away called out to Madame. She was coming quickly towards us, the hem of her lilac skirt damp with rainwater. Frantically, she waved a rolled newspaper in the air, trying to get our attention. She was very tall, several years younger than Madame, and moved as if there were a wooden board fastened along her back and neck. She approached us, smelling strongly of rosewater perfume. Madame Debord stiffened against my side as this woman placed both hands on Madame’s shoulders and kissed the air beside each of her cheeks. The woman glanced at me, waiting to be introduced. When no introduction came, she spoke, breathless. ‘So this is your new girl, then?’

Madame Debord nodded. Her expression was vacant, half formed, like a drawing that had been scribbled in charcoal by a toddler.

I was about to make an excuse, to get us away from this woman, whoever she was.

And then.

A girl, my age, appeared at the woman’s shoulder. A little bit taller than me, a face broad and open, cheeks flushed. She wore a lime-green, checked blouse and a tie at her neck, and a simple, pearl-grey skirt, appropriate for walking. Her clothes were understated and respectful, but everything about her physical self was plush, exaggerated. Her eyes bigger than eyes should be and they were silty, liquid brown. Full lips, thick, dark hair pulled back into a chignon, but curly, difficult to keep under rule. She had the countenance of someone used to getting her way.

This. This was her. This was the moment we met.

The woman pivoted to the side and nudged the girl forward, towards Madame. ‘May I introduce you to my niece, Axelle Paquet. Axelle has come from Provence to live with us. She’s working in the perfumery department in La Samaritaine. Isn’t that exciting? You enjoy it so much, don’t you, Axelle?’ The woman turned to me. ‘Have you seen their window displays? La Samaritaine? They’re extraordinary.’

I had. Impossible to miss. A lot of shine and glitter. Vacant busts displaying hairpieces – fountains of hair. Headless, hourglass torsos tied up to the point of suffocation in expensive corsets. Rows of brass-buckled boots, feathered hats, embroidered linens and sprays of silverware. I’d seen the displays of all the grands magasins and learned that their effect was to leave me feeling empty, regarding articles I would never possess, articles I hadn’t even known I’d wanted to begin with. I looked at Axelle Paquet but her gaze was downwards, bored.