Monsieur Muller cleared his throat. ‘A plasterer from the Compagnons. Name is Nicolas. Count yourself lucky we got him today.’

‘Thank you, Monsieur Muller.’ I turned to the young man. ‘Can Monsieur do cabinets as well?’

He nodded.

I opened the door wide and pointed him down the hallway, and watched as he ferried his tools from the stairwell into the kitchen: a tin bucket loaded with speckled trowels and a brush, a broom, a heavy metal case and a large bundle of thick, dusty sheeting.

In a low, sour voice, close to my ear, Monsieur Muller: ‘Do not pay him until the work is complete. He looks like he can’t say no to a drink.’

‘You’re certain he’s from the Compagnons?’

‘Every institution has its rogues, non?’

‘And I suppose this was the best you could do.’

‘As I said. Count yourself lucky.’

Madame refused to leave her room. She sat on her bed, facing the window, fidgeting with her clothing – pulling at the neck of her blouse, twisting the fringe from her shawl tightly about her fingers. When I suggested we go for a walk, she baulked.

‘He’ll steal everything. We’ll come home and there won’t be a cushion to sit on.’

‘What is your solution, then?’ I asked, gently. ‘You can’t stay in your room all day, all week. We don’t even know how long this is going to take.’

‘You go out there with him. Find out how long he’ll be, and how much this is going to cost. Blast that scoundrel Muller.’

In the kitchen, Nicolas had arranged the sheeting over the counter and was laying out his tools.

‘This apartment has running water,’ he said, his eyes on my forehead. ‘Makes my job easier.’

‘Well, I’m glad of that.’

‘Mademoiselle should probably not be here.’ He picked up his crowbar from where it lay on the floor and faced the wall with it poised next to his head. ‘This work is dirty and loud.’ He glanced over his shoulder at me.

‘Please wait,’ I said. ‘We haven’t yet agreed on your fee.’

‘Didn’t the concierge already tell you?’

‘No.’

He leaned his crowbar against the wall, straightened his hat. Squared his shoulders. ‘I won’t discuss my fee with a woman,’ he said.

‘Well, we have a problem then, because it is only women who live here. You may as well pack up your things and count this as a wasted day.’

He tightened his mouth, tried to appear fierce. A boy.

I looked at him and said nothing more. If I learned one useful thing from Tante Huguette, it was the power of silence.

He lowered his face so that it was mainly hidden by the rim of his cap. ‘Four francs per day. Plus materials.’

His wage, cheaper than I expected for Paris, betrayed his low rank in the Compagnons. ‘And how many days do you predict this will take? Can you estimate the cost of materials?’

He kicked at the dusty floor before answering. ‘Five or six days, at least. Have to let this wall dry out before I plaster it again, and it will take me at least half a day to source the materials for the shelving and cupboards.’ He put his hand to his chin, stroked it where sparse, wiry hairs grew. Instead of forming a square jawline, the skin of his neck made a straight sloping run from the bottom of his chin to just above the sternum, like the sag of a crane. ‘It should be about five, six francs for wood and nails, hinges and handles. You’ll want treated wood and nails, of course.’