So they danced, fifty or more, crushed together in the heat and the smoke. Lâszlô found himself nose to nose, hip to hip, with a woman of Middle Eastern looks, a real beauty with a thrillingly stern expression on her face. Karol swayed with the queenly Angela, while Kurt, moving with that sweet, politely sexy style of his, was much in demand with both sexes and all persuasions. There were two accordionists installed now, a pair László had seen before playing on the Métro; children of Ceaucescu or Hoxa, who spent their days scurrying from carriage to carriage with one eye open for the patrols, one ear cocked for a cry of ‘Papers!’. They played some Piaf numbers – ‘Johnny’, ‘La Foule’, ‘Sous le ciel de Paris’ – then gypsy music. Tzigane! They knew what was wanted, and on a night like this any musician could sway a crowd to tears or to frenzy. It was exhausting, but no one wanted it to end. Why stop when there was still beer and wine and cane-liquor to drink? Why stop before the music stopped?

At five o’clock, Angela had had enough. She cleared the bar without much ceremony, though an inner circle of favourites was allowed to linger, drink coffee and regain their senses. László, Kurt and Karol were among the last to go, leaving only a serenely drunken Englishman who apparently lived in the bar, and clearly hoped the party might somehow be made to start again.

Outside, the three friends gathered under the trees that lined the central walkway of the boulevard, and breathed in air cool as tap water. László tilted back his head, sore eyes looking into the great scooped pearl of the morning sky.

‘The floating happiness?’ asked Karol.

‘The floating happiness,’ agreed László, feeling foolish at having to wipe the tears from his cheeks.

‘Once upon a time,’ said Karol, ‘I could simply miss out a night’s sleep. A “white night” hardly troubled me at all, but now...’

They made their slow goodbyes. The shutter at Le Robinet rattled down. Kurt and László seemed like the last people abroad.

‘Home?’ asked Kurt. Then seeing László’s hesitation, he said: ‘Let’s go back, have something to eat, relax a little, and phone them in a few hours. If they were out last night they won’t want us calling on them now.’

The Citroën – László’s prized maroon-and-silver DS23 ‘Pallas’ – was parked outside a charcuterie on boulevard Voltaire, and with László at the wheel they headed south, passing the July column and crossing the river where the last of the night lingered in bruise-coloured shadows under the bridges.