Monsieur Muller grasped both hands at his waist, his stance suddenly formal. ‘You’re mistaken, Madame. I was not made aware of any problems in this apartment.’

She turned to me, incredulous, and back to him. ‘I told you,’ she cried. ‘I told you about the dampness creeping up the wall, about the smell of mould.’

He pursed his lips, rocked on his heels. ‘Written clearly into the lease of this apartment, I can assure you, you will find that you are responsible for any damages to the property.’

‘But you, Monsieur,’ I said, ‘are surely responsible for the upkeep of the building? This is not Madame Debord’s fault.’

‘This is a result of Madame’s neglect.’

Madame made the smallest noise then, and leaned against the door frame.

‘We’d like to see a copy of the contract,’ I said.

‘Indeed.’

‘Don’t bother,’ said Madame Debord, everything about her depleted. ‘He’s got every word of that contract engraved on the backs of his eyes.’ She stepped carefully to the mess and stooped down, reached for a quarter-moon of salad plate.

‘But he knew about this,’ I said.

She stood by the counter, next to the sink, her small back to Monsieur Muller, and drew her finger along the cracked edge of the plate. The morning light through the window cast her face in blue pearl. I moved to stand next to her and put my arm around her shoulders. To the concierge I said: ‘You’ll call on someone for us, please.’ From upstairs, I could hear footsteps. From below us, water flowing through a pipe. We’d woken the entire building.

Monsieur Muller sighed, as if this weren’t his job, as if he weren’t enjoying this just a little bit. ‘I’ll let you know,’ he said, and as he walked down the hall, unaccompanied, continued to utter something about how difficult it would be to find someone dependable.

We took our breakfast that morning in a restaurant: simple coffee, bread and cheese. I brought a pencil and notebook with us, and showed Madame how we might recoup her losses over the next few weeks by cutting certain luxuries, mainly sweets and cakes and wine. We could go without meat. It was also a good opportunity, I told her, to sell off the stacks of journals and feuilletons. Make more space.

‘The butcher won’t want all of that paper.’

‘There are butchers all over Paris,’ I said.

‘You’ll waste whatever you earn on the omnibus.’

‘I’ll walk.’

‘You do know there is money? We don’t need to do this. You know I’m mad, don’t you?’

I reached across the table and covered her small hand with mine. ‘We are all of us a little mad,’ I said.

Later that afternoon, only minutes after I’d finished sweeping the mess of plaster and glass and porcelain into a corner of the kitchen, there was a knock at the door. I opened it to Monsieur Muller and a young man waiting with bucket and crowbar and other items of construction and repair. He was about seventeen or eighteen, tall with skinny arms that dangled awkwardly from broad shoulders and a barrel chest. His nose shone with grease and he wore a dirty cap over lank, auburn curls.