Which he did. Back in the classroom while he handed out pin badges supplied by the woman from St John Ambulance. The badges were white, with red hearts on them.

Later, at home, Anouk added the badge to her time capsule.

16

L’Inconnue

Paris, 1898

I quickly learned that Madame’s mood was much improved if she spent time outdoors, so I encouraged her to accompany me one Saturday, the week after my wrists were oiled and perfumed at La Samaritaine, to have lunch with Axelle. It took some convincing. Madame was not at first enamoured with the idea of spending her Saturday with a member of her late husband’s family, no matter how distant a cousin Axelle may have been. I suggested that, if Madame behaved herself, Axelle would bring a good report back to the family. Madame would shine.

‘What do you mean: if I behave myself?’ Madame asked.

‘If Madame will pardon my saying.’

‘Please, speak.’

Worried I may have ventured too far, but too late to turn back: ‘Vous ne prenez pas de gants.’

For a moment she was silent, then said, to my relief, ‘You’ve got me all wrong. I’m very careful in how I conduct myself with others; the problem lies with those who are so sensitive they need to be handled with kid gloves.’ She tried to hide her smile with a face of stone, but I could see that she was pleased.

Having arranged to meet Axelle by the fountain in the Jardin du Luxembourg, Madame and I left the flat early and boarded an omnibus. We crossed the river at the Pont de Sully, under a sky that was low and heavy and somewhat threatening. Passing through La Sorbonne, we watched the students wandering the streets, gesticulating importantly and smoking their clay pipes. We disembarked on the Boulevard Saint-Michel, not far from the university, a five-minute walk from the entrance to the garden.

In a note delivered to me earlier in the week, Axelle had directed me to wait at the head of the fountain, where a statue of a man depicted in bronze spied over a pair of marble lovers, and Madame and I waited there now, the air balmy and still. Close to where we sat, a cheapjack set up his table of novelties under the shade of the plane trees that lined the grotto. He spoke his trade quickly, one dark eye roving for the gendarme. Among other oddities, he was selling men’s ties which, he guaranteed, would not ride up.

The cloud broke and the facade of the Palais du Luxembourg was momentarily a brilliant cream-white, its windows flashing, dramatic against the slate sky. After a few seconds, the sun retreated and the stone faded again to a soft, ashy grey.

Axelle arrived several minutes late and, as we were all hungry, we went directly to a restaurant she and Madame both recommended, with a view of the gardens. Although rain was a possibility, we convinced Madame to sit outside because the air was fine and warm and there was the lovely aroma of late roses. We ordered omelettes with fresh herbs and cheese, a basket of bread and a small carafe of red wine. Our waiter suggested a bowl of fresh fruit and as I nodded yes, Madame grabbed my knee sharply under the table.